Page 8 of Feel the Heat

Tears stinging her eyelids, Lili twisted away and focused on the great cathedrals of Italy calendar on the bulletin board, pinned next to the clipboard detailing last night’s miserable numbers. Sometimes her sister displayed all the sensitivity of a grizzly on crack.

Lili fought for neutral. Take deep breaths. Think of a calm place. Better yet, think of her mother’s shrimp linguine with lemon caper sauce followed by a slice—no, two—of ricotta cheesecake. Self-pity did not coordinate in any way with the amazing boots she was rocking.

“Maybe I'd spend more time clubbing if I didn't have to look after Mom every day and then come here to work every night.”

Cara rested her chin on Lili’s shoulder and rubbed her arms, surprising Lili out of her ill humor. The DeLuca sisters weren’t touchy-feely Italians, no cheek-pinching or bosom-clasping for them. Six months of air-kissing with D-listers had turned Cara soft.

“I'm sorry. I know you've been a trouper, looking after Mom this last year and a half. But she's been in remission for almost three months.”

True, but fear, Lili’s overriding emotion these days, still clenched her heart like a fist. If it wasn't dread that her mother's illness might return, it was needling anxiety at how rudderless Lili felt with her life stuck in a buffering pause. Neither did it help that her father disapproved of everything his youngest daughter did, from how she managed the restaurant to her impractical dream to make photography her life.

Cara carried on, oblivious. “I just think Jack might be good for you. A sexy rut to get you out of your sorry rut.”

Lili faced her sister, every fiber pissy because she might be right.

Traces of pity were etched on Cara’s beautiful, fine-boned face. “Now that Mom's better, you can get your life on track. Come to New York, go to graduate school, quit being Il Duce’s lackey.” She brightened. “I can get you a job at my company. We always need talented photographers for our publicity materials.”

Lili managed a watery smile. Graduate school seemed as fuzzy as a Monet landscape now that all her savings had gone to her mother’s medical care, or that was what she had taken to telling herself lately. Of course, if she really wanted it to happen…Leave that rock alone.

Turning it over would only reveal those creepy crawlies of self-doubt she went to considerable lengths not to acknowledge.

Cara was making the effort so Lili tried to front it out. “I don't think I’m a good match for that kind of work. Shooting plates of coq au vin and crème brûlée...” She shuddered.

Her sister laughed, a naughty, girly giggle that sounded so good on her. “Well, maybe not. But I think you’re a good match for someone I know. Nothing serious, just a hot and sweaty one-night stand.” One eyelid dipped in a lascivious wink. “And I’m sure Jack would love if you snapped a photo of his coq—”

“Cara!” Lili had missed her sister’s filthy-minded take on everything. Truth be told, she had missed her sister.

The idea of a hot and sweaty one-night stand with Jack Kilroy made her... well, hot and sweaty. What would Wonder Woman do? She’d take charge and kick some ass, that’s what.

And given half a chance, she’d rip off Batman’s cape and ride him senseless.

Five

It didn’t escape Jack’s notice that, at nine p.m., DeLuca's Ristorante in the usually hipster-sodden Wicker Park wasn’t exactly packed to the gills. More like a third full, if even. So far, the clientele consisted of an older Italian crowd, most of whom looked like they’d caught a group ride in from central casting. Special occasion diners or once-a-monthers, judging by how they were all dressed up in their Sunday best on a Saturday, complete with heirloom bling. That customer base might be good enough to keep things ticking over in a smaller place, but couldn’t possibly sustain an establishment this size in an area where overhead was high and competition was higher. Hard to fathom the night ending with seventy-five covers, never mind the one hundred and fifty Cara’s sister had boasted.

Still, the nostalgia he felt earlier about the well-worn countertops and equipment had stayed with him now that he was front of house. A snob to the toes of her designer shoes, Cara had implied her family’s business was some sort of down-market, red sauce emporium with plastic, checkered tablecloths, but nothing could be further from the truth. It was a fairly stereotypical design as far as neighborhood eateries went—two dining rooms separated by a large arch, cherry wood tables covered with pristine white linens, chocolate leather banquettes, a fifty-foot long bar, and the ubiquitous frescoed ceiling. A touch stodgy, reminiscent of a bygone era. Or maybe it was Dean Martin crooning in the background that left Jack feeling like he was stuck in a Rat Pack movie. Music for Italian-Americans to conceive by.

The gallery-style photos dotting the walls might have kicked the old world ambiance into modern if the subject matter had been a tad less run-of-the-mill. There was something arresting about the picture compositions, though. Off-kilter with strange angles of Italian types doing Italian things. Overhead shots of old men playing something like boules. Children having fun with wooden hoops and roller-skates where only glimpses of legs and arms could be seen. Jack didn’t know much about art except what he liked and while the portraits whispered comfort and familiarity, he recognized a quantum of quirky yearning to break free of the frames. Cara had told him her sister was an amateur photographer, but this work didn’t really fit the image he had formed. Following that fiery display this morning, he would have expected something with more edge.

Speaking of edge, he looked up at the fidgeting server with the big eyes and even bigger hair who appeared to be perched on it. Either she was pleased to see him or she needed to pee.

“All right, sweetheart?”

Jack’s drawl sent Italian Smurfette into a frenzy of hair twirling. A quick scan of the room confirmed half of the other servers went to the same salon. And they all looked alike. It was as if he’d been drop-shipped into the nickel slots aisle at Caesar’s in Atlantic City.

“I just wanted to say how excited we are you're here, doing the show and everything,” she gushed. “We're all big fans. Everyone's dying to meet you.”

Jack found it hard to believe there was anyone left he hadn’t already met. For the last twenty minutes, his table had been inundated with DeLuca cousins who were dying to meet him.

Looking into the lively face of the girl before him, he doled out one of his dazzling smiles, the ones he’d been told made his female fans horny. “I'm thrilled to be here. Really, I am.”

Laurent shook his head and mouthed, “Score.”

Jack grinned and turned back to his fan girl. “What was your name again?”

“Gina. Gina DeLuca. I'm Cara's cousin.” She motioned to Cara who stood at the bar talking to her sister. The lovely Lili had covered up her shapely legs and stellar behind in black trousers, but the tradeoff was a fitted shirt hugging that figure he’d been fantasizing about all afternoon. Jack would never have considered himself a hair man—was that even a thing?—but there was something about those riotous waves that heated his body like a furnace. She’d made an attempt to tame its nuttiness. While it was still on the big side, it appeared to have gone through some sort of anger management regimen since this morning.

Before the night was out, he would apologize to her about slagging off her father's cooking and all Italian cuisine. Yes, she had goaded him, but his response had been rude. And off-base. Eighteen months in Umbria had taught him plenty about the beautiful complexities of la cucina Italiana. Nevertheless, there was something both touching and exhilarating about her loyalty to her family. A hundred and fifty covers, his arse. That little braggart.

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