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Scrolling a thumb over his phone’s screen, I wait impatiently with crossed fingers hoping that the restaurateur in question has decided to focus on another culinary specialty. Maybe he traded in his sushi rolling mat for a pizza oven.
“No luck.” He pockets his phone and glances down the block. “I’m hungry. Are you okay with us eating something other than sushi tonight?”
“I’m totally okay with that,” I say a little too enthusiastically.
He eyes me. “Why am I getting the feeling that you’re not a fan of sushi?”
Drake once told me that Case values honesty more than anything else, so I travel that path. “Fish is my last resort meal.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he lifts a brow. “Your last resort meal?”
“If there was nothing other than fish to eat and I was starving…” I stress the last word with a pat of my hand on my stomach. “I’d eat fish.”
“But you were willing to eat sushi tonight?”
“For you, I would,” I blurt out without thinking.
His gaze lingers on my face. “What are you in the mood for, Emma?”
Sticking with the honesty policy, I point at a restaurant across the street. “Pizza.”
His hands drop to his hips. “I’m in. Pizza and a bottle of red wine sounds like the perfect meal to me.”
***
“If this pizza existed before I left Manhattan seven years ago, I was seriously missing out.” Case swallows the last bite of food on the table.
After sharing a salad, we opted for a large simple pie with red sauce, shredded basil, and fresh mozzarella.
“It was delicious.” I slip my coat off and rest it against the chair back. “I think I ate too much today.”
Case’s gaze flits over the front of my blouse. “You look flushed.”
I always look that way when I drink wine.
The evidence of that is on my face now. It’s probably there when I drink a martini too, but I feel it now. I push my hair back over my shoulder to try to cool down.
“I’ve been eating Italian all day.” I laugh. “And cupcakes.”
He takes a sip from his wine glass. “I need more details. Let’s start with breakfast.”
“That’s a complicated subject.” I avoid eye contact as I go on, “I’m a very picky eater when it comes to breakfast.”
Studying me, he runs his index finger over his bottom lip. “Picky in what sense?”
In the sense that I eat the same thing for breakfast almost every morning.
My life changed when I stumbled on Bright Bagels. The Bright brothers run a food truck in Seattle. One Saturday morning when I was out for a walk, I spotted the truck and ordered a plain bagel. It was utter perfection.
“I eat a certain type of bagel with cream cheese, a side of fresh berries, and a coffee with one cream and one sugar.”
“What type of bagel?” he asks with a curious lift of his brow. “Poppy seed?”
I make a face. “No.”
He taps his index finger on his forehead. “Note taken that Emma Owens finds poppy seed bagels disgusting.”
“My go-to is a plain bagel from the Bright Bagels food truck back home.” I cross my arms over my chest. “They’re next level.”
“New York is full of great bagel shops,” he says. “You’ll find something close here.”
“I haven’t yet.” I shake my head. “Drake and I did a bagel hunt during my last visit. We tried four different shops. Nothing compared to Bright Bagels.”
His finger hits the center of his forehead again. “Emma Owens is a hard ass when it comes to breakfast.”
I laugh. “Call it what you will.”
“I always call it as I see it.” A smile plays on his lips. “Tell me about lunch.”
I lean back in my chair. “I had lunch at Calvetti’s. Your cousin was right. It is the best pasta.”
He slides his wine glass half of an inch to the left on the worn wooden table. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? Did you meet Marti?”
I stare at his hand. As delicately as he’s cradling the stem of the glass, I can tell that his hands are strong. The skin is sun-kissed just like his chest. I wonder if all of him is.
Drawing in a breath, I smile. “I did meet Marti and her granddaughter.”
“You got the full family treatment.” He nods. “When you walk into Calvetti’s, it’s like walking into your grandma’s kitchen.”
That’s exactly how I felt. It’s a jewel nestled in the middle of a bustling city. It’s much like the restaurant we’re sitting in now.
“Bella, Marti’s granddaughter, took me to a bakery for dessert after lunch.”
“That’s where the cupcakes happened?” He glances at an older man and woman being seated at the table next to us. “What was the name of the place?”
“Sweet Bluebells.” I sigh. “The red velvet cupcake I had was incredible. I met the pastry chef. She’s a master of her craft.”
