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“Did Izzy leave?” Daniel was quiet and very young and had only been around a month or two longer than Izzy, who Marco had just lost in the sixth month of her employment here at Nonna’s.

He needed to stop losing pastry chefs.

Especially tothis.

“Yes, she’s gone. I need you to?—”

Daniel’s back straightened. “I got it, Chef. The special cake for tonight, I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll see if I can send one of the assistants in to help you during service.” Marco stopped at the doorway, next to Daniel. Normally, he’d have put a hand on his shoulder, reassuring him with a touch that he’d take care of him, but maybe that was where things had gone so wrong with Izzy—and what felt like so many men and women before her.

Why he could never convince any of them that hewasn’tinterested.

So he didn’t. Marco kept his hands to himself, just gave Daniel a reassuring nod and walked off to take care of filling Izzy’s job, hopefully sooner rather than later. Daniel might be able to pinch hit, but he didn’t have the experience.

Marcella was in the front of the house, reviewing the night’s reservations with one of the hostesses. Bea was younger even than Daniel, and Marco realized, as he shoved his hand through his unruly curly dark hair and waited for Marcella to finish her thought, he was beginning to feel old.

Marcella looked over in his direction finally. “What happened to you?” she asked, eyeing the stains on his white coat. “And what was that yelling I heard?”

“Izzy quit.”

“You make a pass at her?”

Marco shot his twin sister a glare. “I did not. And youknowI did not.”

“Ah, so she quit because youdidn’tmake a pass at her,” Marcella said knowingly.

Marco sighed. “Doesn’t anybody just want towork?”

But Marcella only laughed—the calm, certain laugh of someone who was happily married with two kids. “We just need to find someone who’s completely uninterested in you.”

“Or, maybe, someone who’s got the requisite skills and experience.”

Marcella shot him an amused look. “You’ve got a reputation, brother mine.”

“I donot,” Marco said, though she was probably more right than he wanted to admit. Maybe he had cut a swath through Napa during his youth—but Morettis loved hard and often, and nobody could blame them, orhim, for that. But he’d never really touched anyone at the restaurant—not since he was in his early twenties and that had seemed like a great idea.

But those blowups made Izzy’s rage-quit today seem minor in comparison, so he’d learned to keep his hands off anyone he worked with, years ago. Even if he was tempted.

Maybe he should have led with that.

Or maybe Izzy’s heart eyes would’ve guaranteed he’d have ended up with a girlfriend he didn’t really want and still no pastry chef.

“I didn’t say you’d earned it necessarily, but it’s there all the same,” Marcella said gently, leaning against the wood-paneled entryway. “You’re not cold, like Luca was. You’re available. You’re passionate about what you do and your family and you’re good-looking?—”

Marco opened his mouth to interrupt her.

But Marcella was too quick. Or knew him too well. “Do not even argue with me about this. You’re a catch. Thirty-seven and unmarried.”

“I’m not the problem,” Marco said sulkily. “And what am I supposed to do? I can’t just become different.”

“No, I know, darling,” Marcella said, patting him affectionately. “We just need to find someone immune.” She hesitated. “Did you hear that Andrew is back in town?”

“Andrew?” The name sounded familiar, but Marco couldn’t place it off the top of his head.

“Andrew. My best friend from high school,” Marcella said, looking amused. “He went to Paris, to pastry school. Remember now?”

“Oh. Yes.” He’d been tall and skinny and had always followed Marcella around like a gangly duckling.