Page 17 of Healing You
With a sigh, she lowered her menu, closing it. “Look, I'm not the wicked witch of the west—”
“Certainly not,” Steve snorted. “You're the wicked witch of the northeast.”
“As I was saying... your adorable cafés and bakeries and restaurants will be totally safe. In fact, very little will change for them. It'll be the retail businesses that will see the change.”
“What about my practice?” he asked.
She responded with an indignant sigh. “No. Your practice won't be affected.”
Damn. This was going to be a long dinner.
“Okay.” Sophy jumped to her feet, sending Steve a look that could wilt flowers. “Those are my clients. Please, just let me do my job. Then we can discuss this more later.” She extended her hand and presented that beautiful smile of hers that Steve had first seen in Latte Da. “There you are!” she exclaimed. “It's so great to see you again!”
Steve felt suddenly exhausted and the night hadn't even begun yet. Even still, there was no need to cause a scene. He'd just eat his spaghetti, tell Sophy goodnight and go home to cuddle with Molly. He stood up to greet Sophy's clients, nearly knocking into a man in a three piece suit, perfectly trimmed stubble—the kind where you know he spent twenty minutes perfecting it in the mirror before he left for dinner—and wavy, dark hair that was slicked back. Steve already hated the guy.
The man took his hand, giving it a firm shake before leaning down and kissing Sophy on each cheek as though they were dining in Europe. “Jonah, this is Steve Tripp. A friend of mine in town.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jonah said.
“Likewise,” he answered. When he looked up at the arched entrance, goosebumps lifted on the back of Steve's neck. He'd been so busy staring at the man, Jonah, he hadn't even noticed the Sarzackis enter behind him.
Lingering far behind the rest was a tense Yvonne.
“Did you have a chance to look at our wine list yet, sir?” the waiter asked.
Steve could tell he was gonna need something a lot harder than wine tonight.
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“S orry, sorry, sorry!” Yvonne whined as she ran into Greico's and found her parents sipping martinis at the bar. “I know, I know I'm late. One of the dogs from last night's rescue was throwing up, and I needed to get him set up in the bathroom fir—”
She halted in her tracks as Jonah turned, also sipping a martini. Tanqueray. Dry. Two olives. She knew it well because she'd spent many nights learning how to fix it perfectly just for him, like any good trophy wife. She swallowed hard and clamped her eyes shut.
Snapping her eyes back open, she glared at her parents. “What is he doing here?” Though her voice was quiet, she feared that if she raised it louder than a whisper she would end up screaming at the top of her lungs. Jonah was a nice guy. She had nothing against him. Except that it was over between them. And both Jonah and her parents needed to accept that and move on.
Jonah moved closer, placing a hand on her shoulder. Gritting her teeth, she resisted the childish urge to jerk away from his touch. “Babe, I've missed you so much.” His nose landed at the edge of her hair and he inhaled deeply, sending a wave of chills skittering down her spine. Yvonne shrugged away from him.
“You made that perfectly clear with the flowers. And the chocolates. And then with the photo album you made of our years together.” She turned to face him, unease twisting low in her belly. These dinners were always hard enough with just her parents. “But I'm happy, Jonah. We need to both move on.”
“Yvonne, honey, just sit down. Please.” her mother said. “Have a drink. It will calm your nerves.”
Jonah lifted a hand, capturing the attention of the bartender. “Another martini, please.”
Yvonne snapped a glare at him. “Make it a dirty vodka, please. Extra olives.” She hated gin. Jonah knew she hated gin.
His mouth curved at her order. “Then it's not a martini,” he chuckled.
Her parents chortled right along with him.
“I don't care. I don't like gin.”
“It's an acquired taste,” he continued. “You just have to get used to it.”
“I don't have to ‘get used’ to anything. I know I don't like it.”
“Yvonne, please,” her mother chimed in, rubbing her temples, careful not to smudge that perfectly placed eyeliner and false lashes. “You are giving me a headache.”
“I'm giving you the headache? Jesus, Mother. You ambush me with my ex-fiancé and then expect me—”
