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Brandon grinned back, his dimples showing in a way that made my stomach flip despite its full contents.
“We’ll see. Two ricotta cannoli, a coffee, and a tea, please,” he called to a server and released my waist to find his wallet.
“No, let me,” I protested, yanking my wallet from my purse as quickly as I could. “You got dinner.”
“Absolutely not.” Brandon pulled out a twenty.
Obviously he couldn’t completely get rid of his need to impress. I understood more now about why he was that way, but it didn’t convince me to put away my wallet.
“Nope,” I said, plucking the twenty from Brandon’s hand and shoving it into his jacket pocket.
Before he could object, I handed a ten to the bored teenage server, who shuffled away to make change and retrieve our desserts.
“Come on, Red. I thought I was taking you out,” Brandon grumbled, trying not to make a scene in the middle of the café.
I twisted around with a playfully raised eyebrow and touched him on the nose with my index finger. “You’re pretty cute for an Eisenhower-era chauvinist, did you know that?”
The small crease between Brandon’s eyebrows deepened, but he couldn’t hide the amusement cracking his fierce expression. “I guess I’ll have to be faster than you, then. You’re going to keep this old man young; I can see that.”
I grinned and turned back toward the counter, grabbing the cannoli and my tea from the server with quick thanks.
“Let’s walk and eat, old man,” I called to him, wanting to get out of the congested shop.
I wove through the throngs of people and was out the door before I turned around for my date. Brandon’s blue eyes glowed through the crowd, clearly up for the chase.
* * *
“Favorite movie.”
It was a common game that had emerged spontaneously as we meandered around the North End and down toward the harbor, enjoying our cannoli and drinks as we zigged through one of the oldest parts of Boston. So far, I had discovered that Brandon’s favorite drink was a craft IPA (although he also enjoyed good scotch or brandy), his favorite song was “The River,” and his favorite color was red. From his obvious leer during the last answer, I had to wonder about the truth of the last one. I, in turn, had informed him of my similar love of excellent scotch or Irish whiskey, my longtime love affair with Chopin, and that, like every other stereotypical New Yorker, I favored black.
I gave him a playful side-eyed look. “What do you think, boss man?”
Brandon wrinkled his nose with an expression so adorable that I wanted to kiss him.
“Please tell me it’s not that movie about the blonde chick at Harvard,” he said finally.
“Well, I’m not a complete cliché,” I said. “No, althoughLegally Blondeis objectively hilarious. Don’t even try to argue the point. You’ll lose. Guess again.”
Brandon pursed his lips before venturing another guess. “I got it.A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Since you’re from Brooklyn and all.”
“Isn’t that sort of akin to me guessingGood Will Huntingsince you’re also a prodigy out of Southie?”
He smirked. “Dorchester, not Southie. One neighborhood away. Okay then, Ms. Unpredictable, answer the question.”
I gave him my best wide-eyed gaze. “To Kill a Mockingbird, of course.”
“You’re kidding. Really? How is that less clichéd thanLegallyBlonde?”
“BecauseMockingbirdis a legitimate classic,” I said. “Come on, what lawyer wasn’t partly inspired by Atticus Finch?”
“Hmm. Okay, I’ll give you that. So, you like old movies?”
I nodded after finishing my cannoli. “I grew up in a house that appreciated fine arts and cinema,” I said through a mouthful of ricotta and pastry shell, which I washed down with the last bit of my tea. “Plus, our TV reception was terrible, so all I ever watched were Bubbe’s old VHS tapes. Gregory Peck was a fox.”
“Figures,” Brandon said. “You are definitely a save-the-world type. It’s a good thing I didn’t hire you after all. I think you just earned yourself another nickname, Scout.”
I blanched. “Another nickname?”
