Page 24 of His to Hold

Antonio

Letting Isabella decide where we would have lunch was a mistake. Even before we get out of the car, I know I’m going to hate this place. There must be a dozen decent bistros to choose from in town, but my wife chose a red barn that’s been converted into a casual eatery. I should have put my foot down the moment she uttered the words ‘rustic charm’ as if that was supposed to be a selling point. She seems keen to eat here, though, and I guess I have to learn the art of compromise if I want our marriage to work. In important matters, Isabella will have to defer to me. The least I can do is eat at the restaurants she’s picked. It’ll make her feel less like she’s living in a dictatorship if I let her have her way once in a while.

“How did you hear about this place?” I ask as I help her out of the car.

“We drove past it the last time we were here. I thought it looked like a cute place to eat.”

Cute is not high on my list of considerations when choosing where to have a meal. The quality of the food, the availability of superb wine, a guarantee of discretion—those are the things I care about.

As we walk through the wide-open barn doors, my worst fears are realized. There’s stripped pine everywhere, from the exposed beams on the ceiling to the paneling on the walls. The center of the room is dominated by long wooden tables for family-style dining. The seats running along their length are hay bales draped with red-and-white-checked clothes. Wagon wheels, loops of rope, and rusting spurs from cowboy boots decorate the walls. I want to turn around and leave, but when I glance at Isabella, who is beaming in delight, I don’t have the heart to insist we go elsewhere.

“Isn’t this place incredible,” my wife enthuses.

I’m saved from answering when a young server rushes over. With rosy cheeks and plaited blonde pigtails, she gives off a wholesome vibe that’s in keeping with our surroundings. Her uniform is a long plaid skirt and white short-sleeved sweater with a bow at the neck. She’s wearing white sneakers and ankle socks. I’m getting mixed messages about this place. Is it a cowboy theme or are they trying to evoke the nineteen fifties? Perhaps it’s a bit of both.

“Welcome to Red’s. Table for… two?” The server looks over my shoulder to where David and Rich are hovering by the entrance.

“Yes,” I reply. “They won’t be joining us.”

“Oh, okay.” She worries her bottom lip with pearly white teeth. “Will they just be standing there because that might scare our customers away.”

Isabella gives me a beseeching look. She doesn’t like guards trailing. I turn to dismiss my men. “You can wait in the car.”

They’re close enough to help out if there’s trouble and I’ve got my favorite Heckler and Koch tucked into my waistband. The server leads us to a booth at the side of the room. She obviously guessed correctly that it would be a mistake to seat us next to the diners at the communal table. I help Isabella to sit before sliding into the seat opposite her. The grimace on her face as she gets comfortable amuses me. She’s obviously very aware of the plug in her ass.

“Our specials are on the board,” the server tells us as she hands menus to Isabella and me. “I’ll give you a moment to decide what you’d like.”

As she walks off, Isabella grins. “This place is great.” She glances at the menu. “Want to share a giant pretzel?”

“No.”

I scan the menu and try not to let my distaste show. The food isn’t what I’d typically eat. Pizza and sandwiches are fine at home but when I’m dining out, I want a more interesting culinary experience. I’m still scowling at the menu when the server returns. Stalling for time while I try to decide which is the least offensive dish on the menu, I wave a hand at Isabella, indicating she should order first.

“I’ll have the wings to start and then the Philly cheesesteak,” Isabella says. “My husband will have calamari and then the lobster club sandwich, no celery.”

I arch an eyebrow as my wife confidently takes charge of ordering our food. Normally, I wouldn’t allow it, but I have to admit there is something sexy about Isabella assuming control of the situation.

“And to drink?” the server asks.

“A bottle of the Malbec.” Isabella snatches my menu and passes it back to the server as if she’s afraid I’ll overrule her choices.

“Coming right up.”

As the server walks away, Isabella calls out.

“Wait. I’d also like you to take some wings, nachos, and a couple of pepperoni pizzas out to the guys in the two SUVs in the parking lot. Bring them sodas too.”

“Want to get them some ice cream while you’re at it?” I ask.

“No.” Isabella scowls, then lets her expression slip into a smile. “But send out a few slices of apple pie as well.”

The young woman nods and hurries away to do my wife’s bidding. I lean against the back of the booth and study the newly confident woman before me. She’s acting as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders after she told me about Joey Gallo but I’m not sure I got the entire story from her. Perhaps if I can get her to relax around me, she’ll tell me the rest.

“You know if my men want food, they can get it themselves.”

Isabella shrugs. “I thought it was a nice gesture.”

“Trying to win hearts and minds?”

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