Page 72 of Bonus Daddy
“Enzo, Delia’s fiancé, swore that it is. He’s a Boston guy. Knows his stuff.”
He held the door open for me, then guided me past the small seating area with checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles, straight to the takeout window.
The smell hit me hard, followed by a wave of nostalgia. I loved pizza, but no New York pizza shop smelled like this.
A tiny woman with gray curls tied back in a bandana popped her head up over the counter. “Whatcha want?” she asked, her Boston accent thick.
Brian looked at me, and I nodded. After all these years, my order hadn’t changed.
“A slice of mushroom and a slice of pepperoni,” he replied.
Paper plates in hand, we stepped outside again. The slices were as big as they’d been twenty years ago, hanging off the plate at each point. The crust was so thin I had to use both hands to keep it from falling as we walked across the street to North Square Park.
“It’s nicer than it used to be,” Brian said as we found a bench. Between bites, he surveyed the sculpture garden and impeccable landscaping.
Since my hands were both occupied, I nodded toward the small gray clapboard house. “That’s the Paul Revere House. I’m glad thislittle spot is getting some love. We learned on our Freedom Trail tour that this was a public gathering place back as far as the sixteen hundreds. There used to be a meeting house here too. It’s where several important parts of the Revolution were planned.”
He smiled at me. Around us, tourists chatted and took photos, and the cool night air smelled of delicious food and possibility.
“You have room for cannoli?” he asked. We were wedged on a small stone bench, our knees touching as he munched on the crust of his pizza. Nothing had changed. He could still inhale a slice, no matter how large, and have room for more.
I straightened, nodding. “Mike’s or Modern?” I asked.
He stood, taking my paper plate from my hands. “Obviously Modern. I know a lot has changed since we were last here together, but you can’t actually think I’d abandon all my cannoli principles.”
“Wasn’t sure if you’d switched allegiances,” I quipped.
He reeled back, a hand on his chest. “Never.”
His beard almost hid the speck of pizza sauce on the corner of his lip. If I hadn’t been studying him so intently, I probably would have missed it. But now that I’d seen it, I couldn’t stop myself from wiping it away with the pad of my thumb.
We touched frequently, but never intimately, unless one counted the hand-holding at the concert. I blamed my lack of judgment on the nostalgia clouding my brain.
The minute my thumb touched the corner of his lip, I knew it was a mistake. So, breath held, I drew my hand back quickly.
But he caught me by the wrist, his golden eyes molten as they locked with mine. Holding me firmly, he angled in close, though not too close. In his proximity, all I could think about was his lips and how desperately I needed to kiss him.
My lack of self-control was ridiculous. I was a forty-one-year-old single mother, not a lovesick college student.
But none of that mattered.
So I closed the gap.
The moment our lips met, fireworks exploded behind my eyes. And rather than sweet nostalgia, I was hit with a wave of pure heat.
He pulled me closer and cupped my chin, his soft lips intent.
As if my body had a mind of its own, I found myself pushing toward him, almost landing on his lap.
The kiss wasn’t indecent. We were in public, after all. But it was intentional. His lips were firm and focused, teasing my mouth open as I melted into him. It was new and old and invigorating.
But then it stopped.
“I’m sorry.” He heaved a breath as he pulled away and stood. Silently, and without meeting my eye, he gathered our paper plates and deposited them in a nearby trash can.
My heart fell into my shoes. Had I done something wrong? Did I have horrific pepperoni breath? I touched my tingling lips, trying to make my brain process what was happening.
I stood, brushing the crumbs from my lap, avoiding looking at him. God, leave it to me to completely misread the situation.
