Page 52 of The Wish List
“Absolutely.”
She nodded, watching as I helped Rosie on with her coat. It was different from the coat I’d seen her wear the first day. Shorter. Newer and fancier, but thinner. I frowned at the feel of it, but I didn’t say anything, not wanting to embarrass her. Mrs. Watson beamed at her. “That looks lovely, dear.”
“Thank you for the loan,” Rosie replied.
“You have a good time. Don’t rush to come back. I have my knitting, and I can sleep on the sofa. You enjoy yourselves.” She winked at me.
“Thank you.”
AJ got lots of hugs and kisses from his momma. He held up his arms, and I picked him up, getting a hard hug and a kiss on the cheek. His show of affection warmed my heart, and I felt that tug toward him, the same way I felt toward Rosie.
I turned up the heater in the car and put on the seat warmers. Rosie thanked me. “She insisted I borrow her coat. Mine is old, and I didn’t want…” She trailed off. “This one looked nicer.” She glanced down. “My dress isn’t new either, but—”
I leaned across the console and cupped her face, kissing her until I felt her relax. “You look beautiful. I don’t care if the dress is new, if the coat is borrowed. I want to spend the evening with you. That’s all that matters.”
“I don’t want to embarrass you.”
“You could never embarrass me,” I replied firmly. “Ever. I’m proud to have you on my arm. Please forget about the dress, the coat, everything—just for a little while. Please?”
“Okay.”
I winked at her. “Good. Because if you don’t, I’ll open up Zoles only for you and make you pick out a new coat and dress. Boots too.”
“You wouldn’t,” she gasped. “You can’t do that!”
I laughed as I guided the car into traffic. “I can, Rosie. The store belongs to me. I can do whatever I want, so…” I trailed off, glancing her way.
“I wouldn’t allow it,” she said primly.
I chuckled and took her hand. Little did she know I had plans to shower her with gifts, both the useful and frivolous varieties. And I was going to enjoy it. I had no doubt she was going to fight me on it, but I was looking forward to the scuffles as well.
I was looking forward to anything that had to do with her.
* * *
The restaurant was small, quaint, and homey. We walked in, and the owner stepped forward. “Asher!” he said, shaking my hand. “And who is this lovely lady?”
“Rosie, meet Franco. Best Italian food in the city.”
He beamed, lifting her hand and kissing it. She smiled, and he looked at me. “What a beauty. Come. I have the best table, and I will cook for you myself.”
We slipped into a circular booth, and without asking, a bottle of my favorite red appeared with two glasses. A plate of warm focaccia and a bowl of the most beautiful olive oil was added for dipping. The bread was studded with sun-dried tomatoes, rosemary, and pink salt. A bowl of mixed olives and thinly shaved slices of parmesan accompanied it.
Rosie looked around in curiosity. The wood walls and beams gave the place an exceptional ambiance. Candles and low lighting made it feel warm. The seats were comfortable and the place not overly crowded. Our spot in the corner was intimate, the small booth set back, giving us privacy.
“I love this place,” Rosie said quietly.
“It was my mother’s favorite spot. We came often. It’s been family-run since the day it opened.”
“And it’s still here,” she marveled.
“Great food. An amazing wine cellar.” I picked up a piece of focaccia and dipped it in the olive oil, the subtle flavor of the oil bursting on my tongue. I pressed another piece to Rosie’s lips. “You have to try this.”
She took a bite and chewed, closing her eyes and humming at the taste. “That’s incredible.”
“I know.”
She picked up her own piece, dipping it as I had, then added a sliver of the cheese. “Oh my God,” she hummed.
