Page 18 of A Winter in New York

An immaculately made-up woman leans across the counter and kisses Gio’s cheek, lingering for a second longer than a socially acceptable peck.

“Gio! It’s been a while since we last saw you in here,” she says. “What’ll it be?” She glides her hands gracefully across the top of the glass and smiles. She somehow reminds me of a snake charmer.

“Vanilla,” he says. “As it comes, no toppings, thanks.”

She looks disappointed. “The blackberry is the best today.”

He doesn’t say anything, and she sighs as she reaches for a cup. “One of these days,” she says, heaping it full of vanilla. I can’t imagine she puts that much in everyone’s serving, she’d be out of business in a week.

“Iris?” He turns to me. “For you?”

I look at the array of flavors and colors laid out before me, impressed. For the chef in me, this is better than a jeweler’s shop window. And then I look at Gio watching me and I know what I’m going to choose.

“Same again, please. Vanilla.” I look at the mountain of gelato in the cup on the counter for Gio. “Or, actually, can I just have a second spoon?”

He looks pleased, which is more than I can say for the woman behind the counter as she jabs another spoon into the cup, wobbling the precarious gelato tower. I’m not sure, but I think she might have imagined poking it in my eye.

“On the house,” she says, when Gio reaches for his wallet. “I’ll come by yours soon and you can return the favor.”

We take a seat at one of the booths, the gelato on the table between us.

“Research?” I say.

He pushes it toward me. “Ladies first.”

I pull out a neon green plastic spoon and swirl it in the gelato. “It’s more yellow than Belotti’s,” I say, raising the spoon up to eye level to study it.

He doesn’t touch his spoon, just watches me as I taste it. I find myself looking away from him as the cold gelato slides down my throat.

“It’s heavier, I think?”

He reaches for the other spoon and tests it, one spoonful and then another.

“More cream, less milk,” I say.

He nods. “This has a stronger vanilla flavor too.”

He’s right. There’s a delicacy to Belotti’s gelato compared to the intensity of this one.

“It’s kind of custardy,” I say.

“Yes,” he says, pointing his spoon at me.

“There’s no way I could eat this much of it,” I say, waving my spoon over the piled-high cup.

Gio’s gaze flickers toward the counter. “I think Priscilla was trying to make a point.”

“I think she was blatantly coming on to you,” I say, sliding my spoon back into gelato-mountain.

His eyebrows shoot up and he flushes as he looks away. “She thinks we would be a good partnership,” he says after a pause. “In business.”

I laugh under my breath. “Among other things. Maybe your sisters should be glancing across the street if they’re trying to fix you up.”

He sighs and lays his spoon down. “I don’t need fixing up.”

“From what I saw of them today, they probably just want to see you happy.”

“I’m happy enough,” he says, but his frown says something different.

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