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“Elysa,” she whisperedloudly. “Dante…Giordano is here.”
I froze, my pen hovering mid-note. “Excuse me?”
“Table seven.” She gestured subtly toward the back of the room.
“Is he with someone?”With Lucia, maybe?
“Alone, said he wants a table for one. And he looks... um...”—she flushed—“reallyhot.”
Against my better judgment, I turned to look, and Sophia was right; he washot.
He was also an asshole.
For a year, I’d worked here, and he’d never bothered to show up, but now he was sitting at a table like it was the most natural thing in the world. He was dressed casually—no three-piece suit, no tie choking the life out of him—just a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans that hugged him a little too well.
I marched over, my pulse thrumming in my ears. When I reached his table, he looked up at me with a smile so easy and charming that it stopped me in my tracks.
“Mi leoncina, how are you?”
Since I barked every time he called mecara, he’d started calling me his little lioness. A part of me loved it, and another bristled like I was indeed a big cat who was being stroked the wrong way.
I put my hands on his table. “What are you doing here?” I spoke in a quiet, controlled tone.
“You look beautiful.” He seemed entirely at ease. “I’m here to eat.”
I stared at him, suspicious. “Why?”
His grin widened. “I’m very excited to try Basilicata cuisine with a Roman twist.”
This was ridiculous. “Dante, if you’re here to make a point, just go ahead and make it.”
He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “Can’t a man come to support his wife’s business without being interrogated?”
“She’s not your wife anymore,” I snapped, then immediately regretted it because his grin only deepened.
“Legally,bella mia, you’re stillverymuch my wife.” His words dropped just enough to feel more intimate than they had any right to be.
I narrowed my eyes. “Fine. You want to eat?Eat. Sofia will take care of you.”
I turned to leave, but he stopped me by saying, “I’ll take the special. Can you tell me more about it?”
I gritted my teeth. “It’s pasta.”
“Ah, come on, Elysa, it’s more than pasta.” He turned to the table next to him. “Signor, did you get the special?”
I closed my eyes. The man was going to make a scene. He just didn’t care that this was my place of work.
“Si, it’s excellent,” the guest exclaimed.
Dante turned back and grinned at me. “So…pasta? And?”
I sighed. “Pasta con Peperoni Cruschi e Mollica ishand-rolled cavatelli tossed with crispypeperonicruschiand golden breadcrumbs toasted in olive oil.”
“Sounds delicious. Can you suggest a wine pairing? I’ve heard that the wine program here is excellent.”
The couple at the table he’d just disturbed, who were listening to us unabashedly, intervened. “Amazing wine. The sommelier,” the guest tilted his head toward me, “suggested a wine we’d never heard of. I want a case of it.”
“The sommelier,” Dante looked at me as he spoke, his eyes bright with challenge, “is my wife. Isn’t she lovely?”