I fidget with my charm bracelet while I wait for Preston. I’m early. Normally, I like being early. However, tonight, I’m not thrilled with my punctuality. What if he thinks I’m so eager to go to dinner with him that I’ve been standing here waiting for hours for him to arrive?
Nope. Can’t have that happen. The only solution is to sneak outside and hide behind the bushes by the entrance. Once I see him go inside, I’ll wait for ten minutes, then casually stroll into the reception room as though I’ve completely lost track of time.
I grin. This is a good plan. I scurry out of the room and into the hallway. Darn. I forgot my purse. I scurry back, grab my cute little clutch, then scurry back into the hallway.
I look down at what I’m holding. Wait a minute. This isn’t my cute little clutch. This isn’t cute at all. Unless you happen to think that having a purse bedazzled with a likeness of Elvis on it is cute, then this is just the ticket.
I’m pretty sure it belongs to Mabel—the reigning queen of bedazzling among the Silver Foxes. Scared that she might whack me with her cane because she’ll be convinced that I stole it, I scurry back to the lounge.
As I look around the room for my purse, I think about the word “scurry.” Did you ever find that the more times you say a word to yourself, the less it makes sense? Maybe it’s the wrong word? Maybe the word I’m looking for is “scurvy” or “surly” or possibly “scurrly”? Is “scurrly” even a word?
Whatever it is I’m doing, I pick up the pace. I need to switch purses and get behind those bushes pronto. After finding my clutch and switching it out with Mabel’s, I scurrly—let’s pretend it’s a real word—back into the hall and straight into Preston. I startle, dropping my purse on the floor, then look up.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he says before bending down to pick up my purse. He starts to hand it to me, then takes a step back. His gaze slowly travels from my face down to my toes, then back up again. After a beat, he locks eyes with me. “Wow. You look amazing.”
I bite my lip, then return the compliment. “You’re wearing a bow tie.”
Okay, I’m not sure if that was a compliment or more of an observation, but the grin on his face seems to suggest that he’s taken it as a form of praise.
He moves closer to me. “I am.”
“It has polka dots on it,” I say, tossing out more of my keen observations.
His smile fades a little. “Don’t you like polka dots?”
“Who doesn’t like polka dots?” I say in a reassuring tone.
“And you’re wearing a dress,” he says, a full grin back on display.
“I am.”
“It has straps.”
I bite back a smile. “Don’t you like straps?”
“Straps are good.”
Neither of us says a word. He looks at my straps, and I look at his bow tie.
Then the silence is broken.
“Where are you two off to?” Loretta asks as she walks toward us.
“Wait up,” Mabel calls, her cane tapping on the marble floor as she scurries—see, there’s that word again—down the hall.
Preston hands me my purse. “We’re going to dinner at that restaurant that Maria recommended.”
“The place that serves the ravioli with spinach and artichokes?” Loretta asks.
“That’s the one.”
Mabel’s eyes light up. “Ooh. I love artichokes. We should join you.”
“You don’t like artichokes,” Loretta says.
Mabel scowls. “Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I most certainly do.”
Loretta takes a deep breath. “No, you like arugula, not artichokes.”
“They’re the same thing.”
“No, they’re not.”
“Yes, they are.”
Preston and I exchange glances while the two ladies continue to bicker. I’m actually torn. On one hand, I’m not sure I can handle listening to them argue about whether arugula and artichokes are the same thing during the entire meal. On the other hand, they might be a good distraction from Preston.
Not that I need to be distracted from Preston. Or that Preston is distracting. Sure, the color of his eyes match the blue polka dots on his bow tie, and that nerdy smile of his makes my stomach do flips, but he isn’t distracting.
Not one bit.
Not distracting at all.
Seriously. Not distracting.
“Earth to Ginny,” Loretta says.
“Weren’t you listening?” Mabel purses her lips. “You seem distracted.”
“Sorry,” I say, stepping back a safe distance from Mabel’s cane. “What did you say?”
“Preston doesn’t think we’ll be able to get seats at the restaurant,” Mabel says. “He only booked a table for two. But I can’t see how they can turn two old ladies away, can you?”
A horn sounds outside.
“I think that’s our taxi.” Preston smiles as he grabs my hand. “Tell you what, ladies,” he says to Mabel and Loretta. “Why don’t I take the two of you there next weekend instead of tonight so that I can give you my undivided attention?”
“Good idea,” I say. “That will also give the two of you time to figure out if Mabel likes artichokes or not.”
Then we scurry to the door and make our escape.
The restaurant is everything that Maria promised—a small, family-run establishment tucked away in a non-touristy part of town. The kind of place you’d only find if a local told you about it.
As Preston holds the door open for me, his hand brushes my shoulder. I’ve never been more conscious of the fact that I’m wearing a dress with straps until tonight. I glance back at him. I have to restrain myself from turning around and untying that polka-dot bow tie of his.
“Buona sera,” an older woman says as we enter. She’s wearing a floral dress with a lace collar, her silver hair is pulled back into a neat bun, and her hazel eyes sparkle in the candlelight. When Preston tells her that Maria sent us, she pulls us into a warm embrace. “Ah, that makes you family.”
She taps her chest. “You must call me Mama Leoni.” She grabs our hands and pulls us toward the kitchen. She pushes the door open and points at the three men inside. “That is Papa Leoni and those are our two sons—Luigi and Pepe.” Papa Leoni nods as he drains some pasta. Luigi smiles as he stirs a pot on the stove, while Pepe gives us a cheerful wave before turning back to chop vegetables.
“They will make you the most delicious ravioli,” Mama Leoni says as she leads us to a table in the back of the restaurant. After we’re seated, she furrows her brow. “You do like artichokes, don’t you?” After we reassure her that we do, she says, “Good, good. Some people don’t.”
“I’ve heard some people even confuse it with arugula,” I say.
“Very odd. They’re nothing alike,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “Ah, never mind. People who can’t tell the difference between arugula and artichokes generally don’t come here.”
As she bustles off to seat another couple, I admire our rustic surroundings. Tables are covered in white tablecloths, red candles are set in old wine bottles with wax dripping down their sides, classical music is playing in the background, and dark-paneled walls add to the ambiance.
Mama Leoni returns with a bottle of the local Lambrusco and a plate of bruschetta. “We grow the tomatoes and basil ourselves,” she says pointing at the bread, which has been grilled, then rubbed with garlic and drizzled with olive oil. “Enjoy,” she says, beaming at us before returning to the kitchen.
Preston and I raise our glasses. “Here’s to ravioli,” he says.
“And tiramisu,” I add. “Did you see it in the kitchen? Is there any better dessert in the world?”
“I’ll drink to that,” he says, then takes a sip of wine.
For some reason, the way he’s looking at me makes me flustered. I feel all those first date anxieties—is anything stuck in my teeth, do we have anything in common, does he think I’m interesting, is he interesting—you know, the types of things you worry about when you’re out to dinner with a stranger.
But Preston isn’t a stranger. We’ve spent two weeks side by side in cooking class. And this isn’t a date. So why am I nervous? Or is it a date? Is that why I’m nervous?
“This is awkward, isn’t it?” he says after a long pause.
“So, it isn’t just me,” I say, leaning forward.
He cocks his head to one side. “Should we pretend we just met?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, I’ll go first.” He adjusts his bow tie. “So, miss, is this your first time in Italy?”
“No, I’ve been here several times. But this is my first time in Ravenna.”
“Really?” he asks. “You’ve been to Italy before?”
“Can’t you tell from my flawless Italian?” I grab a piece of bruschetta. The juicy homegrown tomato is bursting with flavor. I push the plate toward Preston. “You have to try this.”
He takes a bite, smiles appreciatively, then quickly devours the rest of his slice. “You know, I could always teach you Italian,” he says as he picks up another piece of the grilled bread. “I’m a good teacher. My students always give me great evaluations.”
I roll my eyes. “You realize they’re just sucking up to you, right?”
He smiles. “I guess I don’t have to worry about that with you, do I?”
“Never,” I say. “I’ll always tell you the truth.”
We’re silent for a few minutes as we finish the rest of the bruschetta. Preston refills my wineglass, then asks me where I’ve traveled in Italy.
“All the usual spots—Rome, Florence, Milan, and Pisa.”
“Did you get a selfie with the Leaning Tower of Pisa?”
“Of course,” I say. “What self-respecting tourist doesn’t? I’ve also spent a bit of time in Sicily.”
“Sicily? That’s off the beaten track for most tourists. What made you go there?”
“Oh, it was for my father’s work. We spent a few summers there.”
“What did he do?”
“Oh, uh…” I stare at the flickering candle and try to figure out how to respond. I can’t tell Preston that my father was a professor. That would lead to too many follow-up questions. Finally, I blurt out, “He was an animal trainer.”
“He trained animals? Like for the circus?”
“Uh, no, cats. He trained house cats.”
“Is that even possible?” He picks up a stray piece of tomato from the plate and pops it in his mouth. “I thought cats were untrainable.”
I avert my eyes. “Only if you don’t know the secret.”
“Does it have something to do with treats?”
“Not exactly.” I focus on rearranging my silverware, continuing to avoid eye contact. “But I can’t tell what it is because it’s a…you know…secret.”
“So let me see if I get this straight,” Preston says, leaning back in his chair. “Your father took you and your family to Sicily in the summers to train cats.”
“Yeah, that about sums it up.”
“Are there a lot of cats in Sicily that need training?”
Fortunately, Mama Leoni appears, causing Preston to forget about his line of questioning. Which is a good thing, because my knowledge of the Sicilian feline population is a bit lacking.
“Passatelli del noni,” she says proudly, setting bowls down. “Bread and parmigiano reggiano cheese soup. It’s a secret family recipe.”
After sampling the soup, we both agree that it’s delicious.
“It’s a shame that the recipe is a secret,” I say.
“Another family secret,” Preston says. “There seems to be a lot of secrets tonight—how to train cats and how to make this wonderful soup.”
“Surely, you have a secret or two.”
He doesn’t respond until he finishes his soup. After he sets his spoon down, he says, “Don’t we all?”
“Tell me one of your secrets,” I say playfully.
“No, I can’t. It’s too embarrassing.”
“Go on, you can trust me.”
“Do you promise you won’t tell anyone?”
“Pinky promise.”
“Frogs freak me out. I break out into a cold sweat whenever I see one.”
“Just frogs or all amphibians?”
“Frogs are the worse, but salamanders come a close second.”
“Sounds like batrachophobia. Fear of amphibians.”
Preston rubs his hand across his forehead. “See? Cold sweat. Just talking about it does it to me.”
“Well, let’s change the subject then.” I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. “What would you like to talk about?”
“Tell me more about how your dad wrangled cats. I bet you have some funny stories.”
I bite my lip and stare down at the table. There are funny stories about my father that I could share, but none of them have to do with cats. But it’s not just that. There’s another reason that I don’t want to talk about him, especially not today. Today of all days.
“Ginny, are you okay? You haven’t said a word for five minutes.”
I look up at Preston.
He frowns when he sees my expression. “What is it?”
“I shouldn’t have come tonight,” I say. “I thought this would be a good distraction, but…”
“A distraction from what?”
“Remember how I told you that my father passed away?” He nods, staring at me intently with those blue eyes of his. “Well, today is the one-year anniversary of his death.”
“Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
I smile faintly. “It’s not your fault. I thought I could pretend today was a day just like any other, but it isn’t.”
“Do you want me to take you back to the retreat center?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t think I could stand being alone right now.”
“Well, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thanks,” I say, looking off into the distance. My body feels cold. I take a sip of wine, hoping it will warm me up, but it doesn’t. “He died in a plane crash. I was at school when my mom called to tell me.”
His eyes widen. “Wow, a plane crash. No wonder you’re afraid to fly.”
“Yeah, I’ll never set foot on a plane ever again.” I straighten my shoulders and look directly at Preston. “Ever.”
Bless Mama Leoni’s timing. She always seems to come by with a new course at the exact moment when we need an interruption. She sets a shallow bowl down in front of each of us with a flourish. “Our famous ravioli with spinach and artichokes.” After grating some parmigiano reggiano cheese on top of our pasta, she gives a slight bow and retreats back to the kitchen.
“I hope no salivating burros were involved in the making of this,” Preston jokes.
I grin. “No, you only find them in tortellini dishes, not ravioli.”
I appreciate Preston’s efforts to keep the conversation light-hearted, and we continue to banter back and forth as we polish off our pasta. After two more courses—piccata di pollo and a generous slice of tiramisu—I lean back in my chair.
“I’m stuffed.”
“Me too,” Preston says, scraping the last bit of sweetened marscapone cheese off his plate.
My phone beeps. “Sorry, I need to check this. It might be my mom.” I feel my eyes start to water. “It’s been a tough day for her.”
“And you too,” he says softly, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand.
I squeeze his hand back, then pull my phone out of my purse.
“Was it your mom?” Preston asks. “You’re smiling.”
“No. It’s just a silly text from Mia and Isabelle.”
“What’d they say?”
“Um…they want to know how the food was.” I feel my face grow warm as another lie escapes my lips. Of course they didn’t want to know if we enjoyed our meal. They want to know if Preston is a good kisser. I quickly type a reply—For the millionth time, it’s not a date—then tuck the phone back in my purse.
When I look up, he cocks his head to one side. “Why don’t I believe you?”
“It’s true. I’d show you the text to prove it to you, but I accidentally deleted it.” My face is burning by this point as the lies tumble out.
“Uh-huh.”
I look around for Mama Leoni. “It’s getting late. Maybe we should get the check.”
“You know what I think?” he says, leaning back in his chair with his arms behind his head. “I think your friends were texting about how you’re smitten with me.”
“Smitten? With you? Arrogant much?” I say with a smirk. “I think you have yourself confused with the ravioli. If I’m smitten with anything, I’m smitten with those little babies. What has you so smitten with the word ‘smitten’ anyway? It’s kind of an old-fashioned word.”
“I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy.”
I grab the last piece of bread and tear off a piece. “How so?” I ask before I pop it in my mouth.
“Well, I respect my elders, I try not to swear, and I wear bow ties occasionally.” Preston pauses as Mama Leoni places the check on the table, then pulls it toward him. “I also pay for dinner when I take a lady out on a date.”
“When did this become a date?”
“The minute I saw you in that dress.”
My mouth goes dry. I push back my chair from the table and mumble something about going to the ladies’ room. After checking my make-up, I make a few origami birds out of paper towels while I wait for my heart to stop beating so fast. Why did he have to say that about my dress? It’s not like I wore it for him.
My face grows warm again. Now, I’m even fibbing to myself. Of course, I was thinking about him when I chose my outfit. I wanted him to see me in something other than jeans and t-shirts.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Time to nip this flirtation in the bud.
When I return to the table, Preston stands. “Ready to go?”
“Did you pay the check?”
He nods.
I reach for my purse. “How much do I owe?”
He smiles that nerdy smile of his, and my heart melts. “Nothing. Remember, I’m old-fashioned.”
I place my purse back on the table. “This isn’t a date,” I say firmly.
“Yes, it is,” he says, taking a step toward me.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is.”
I take a step toward him, closing the rest of the gap between us before jabbing a finger in his muscular chest. “No, it isn’t”
He grabs my hand and pulls me toward him. “You always have to be right, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.” Then he laughs. “Look at us. We’re bickering just like Loretta and Mabel.”
I smile. “No, we’re not.”
“Yes, we are,” he says.
I tilt my head up and say softly, “No, we aren’t”
“Yes, we…” His voice trails off as he locks eyes with me. “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”
I start to contradict him, but as his face nears mine, I whisper, “Yes, you are.”
He lightly kisses each side of my mouth before softly pressing his lips to mine. I moan as his gentle kiss turns more urgent. Running my fingers through his hair, I draw him closer to me and press my body against his. The rational part of my brain tries to remind me that we’re in public, but the other side of my brain tells it to be quiet. It wants these kisses to keep coming. It wants this tingling sensation coursing throughout my body to continue. It wants this sharp stabbing pain in my right calf to…
Hang on, what’s going on? Stabbing pain? Why does my leg hurt?
“I told you it’s them,” I hear a familiar voice say behind me. Then I feel a sharp stabbing pain in my other calf.
Preston pulls back, the glazed look in his eyes turning sheepish. He raises his head to look at the person behind me. “Good evening, ladies.”
I spin around, put my hands on my hips and glare at the silver-haired woman in front of me. “Mabel, would you mind not jabbing me with your cane?”