Page 30 of Salvatore

My eyes open wide. Is this really happening? His knuckles drift over my side in a slow and lazy caress, sending another course of shudders along my spine. Oh my God . . .

“Do you know what you want?” he asks.

“No,” I reply, wishing I didn’t sound so breathless. “Will you help me decide?”

His free hand reaches for my hair, allowing the pieces to glide through his fingers. “What do you like?”

“Everything,” I whisper, unable to rip my stare from his. “You pick,” I add, hoping we’re still talking about food.

“All right, then,” he murmurs.

The waiter returns with a bottle of red wine. He shows it to Salvatore, who nods in approval. I expect him to give me space, now that we’re not alone. Yet he keeps his hold on me and resumes his gentle strokes to my hair. He’s sweet, endearing, and not afraid to demonstrate affection, despite who’s near.

He passes me the glass of wine the waiter places in front of me, clinking my glass with his as he lifts it. “Salud,” he says.

“Salud,” I repeat, taking a careful sip. A bold blend of grapes reaches my tongue, its richness enveloping every taste bud. “Mmm. Good choice,” I say.

I’m hoping I don’t sound as unsophisticated as I feel, especially with how suave he is.

“Tell me something about yourself,” he says.

I grin. “What would you like to know?”

“I don’t know. Anything. Tell me what it was like growing up in Kansas.”

I laugh, almost spilling my wine. “You mean North Carolina?”

“Same thing,” he says, smirking.

I laugh again. “To begin with, I grew up on a farm.”

He frowns. “People still do that shit?”

“Believe it or not, yes. My parents had a working farm of almost six-hundred acres passed down to them by my grandparents, and my great-grandparents before them. We didn’t have a lot money growing up, but with the population in the area growing like it is, they sold the land to a lucrative builder. In doing so, they were able to put me through school and set aside a nice retirement for themselves.”

“They got rid of the farm,” he acknowledges.

“The original farm, yes. But they’re farmers at heart, so they bought another twenty acres outside of town and are now raising dairy cows.”

I laugh when he regards me like I’m crazy. “That sounds like a messed-up way to retire.” He pauses as the waiter approaches.

“Are you ready to order, signore?”

He lifts his brows at me. “You trust me, right?” At my nod he places our order. “We’ll start with the sautéed calamari. The beef and gorgonzola pasta for me and the quattro formaggi for the lady. Also, the pesto olive cheese bread with our meal.”

“Si, signore.”

“Sounds perfect,” I say, smiling back at him.

And it was.

Hours later, Sal pulls into my neighborhood. I’m tired, well fed, and happy, but I also can’t help feeling confused. The dinner was among the best I ever had and the service exceptional. The staff fell all over themselves to please not only us, but everyone present. I don’t understand why their business is failing.

What I also found odd was how the maître d seemed to fear displeasing Salvatore, and how skittish he appeared. Sal was quiet and polite and never once did he criticize or complain. He even left an exorbitant amount of cash for a tip.

I dismiss it as the stress of a failing business, and while I feel terrible on their behalf, Salvatore’s kindness and continued affections lure me away from our meal and into the present.

He rolls to a stop in front of my building and places his SUV in park. “Thank you for such a wonderful evening. I had a really nice time.”

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