Page 30 of The Woman in the Warehouse

“So, do you just call and ask for a meeting?” I asked.

“Figure we shouldn’t just show up at the deli.”

“Deli?” I asked, lips twitching.

“Yeah, they own a deli.”

“That is almost as funny as them owning a pizza place.” To that, a smile tugged at his lips. “Does your Family own a pizza joint?”

“Not mine. But a Family we know in Jersey. In Navesink Bank.”

“Wait. No way. I might have eaten there,” I admitted. “I totally thought that the guy behind the register in a suit looked a little bit like a mobster, but I figured my imagination had run away with me.”

“You probably met Lucky Grassi,” Anthony told me, shrugging.

“A mob pizza joint, a mafia deli… I feel like this has potential to be a bus trip for tourists,” I said.

“If the tourists only knew what was going on right under their noses…” Anthony said, placing his menu down as I still hemmed and hawed three dishes.

Anthony bought me some time to think, though, by ordering three appetizers.

Within half an hour, I had shoved fried mozzarella, bruschetta, and caprese salad in my mouth and was steadily plowing through chicken parm, gnocchi, and carbonara while Anthony ate baked ziti and bet me that I wouldn’t even finish half my food.

Which, of course, meant I had to practically lick the plates, even if the button on my jeans was starting to dig into my skin.

“I take it back,” he said as I exhaled hard, trying to convince myself to eat the last bit of chicken on one of my plates. He reached across the table, stabbing it with his fork, and bringing it to his mouth.

Did I need anything to bring attention to his lips? No, no I did not. And did I watch as the fork went in, came back out, and he started to chew? Yep. I did that.

“I can finish it,” I insisted when he reached out again, ready to swirl up the tiny little circle of pasta I had left.

“I’m sure you can, but you’re starting to look green, and you made your point,” he said, starting to twirl it.

“Jesus,” I said, shoving his arm to the side, watching confusion etch on his gorgeous face. “You had your sleeve over the candle,” I told him, gesturing toward it. “I’m pretty sure your Family wouldn’t love it if you got set on fire while out with me.”

“Good catch,” he said, sighing a little as he brought the pasta to his mouth. I probably should have been focusing more on the way he seemed defeated about his seemingly endless accidents and near-misses. But a bit of carbonara sauce was on his lower lip. And his fucking tongue slid out to lick it away. Which obviously stole all of my focus.

“So, ah, what time tomorrow?” I asked, shifting in my chair, hoping it came off as restless and not horny.

Anthony reached for his phone, shooting off a text as the server removed our plates.

“Do you want dessert?” he asked, smirking as I placed a hand on my too-full belly.

“Yes. But I want gummy worms. And I want them in bed.”

Did his eyes flash at the mention of my bed? Or was that just wishful thinking on my part?

With that, he passed the server his card, and this time, I didn’t even argue with him about it.

He was slipping a hefty tip into the checkbook when his phone buzzed on the table.

“How about ten tomorrow?” he asked, reading a message from, I assumed, one of the Morelli brothers.

“That works for me,” I agreed.

“Do you want me to pick you up at home, or at the warehouse?”

“Warehouse. I want to take the dog on a long walk if we’re going to be gone for a while.”

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