“You’re a writer?” For the first time, Adrian sounded honestly interested.
It always felt funny to call myself an author. I hadn’t even found an agent or sold a short story yet. Calling myself an author felt presumptuous. “Yes, I’m trying to find an agent with my new book…” I trailed off, not wanting to admit that I’d already received more than a dozen rejections on my manuscript. “I’m writing mysteries and urban fantasy.”
“Impressive. I wouldn’t even know what to write about. Where do you get ideas for your books?”
I relaxed, my fingers tracing the rim of my wineglass. “Everywhere. I meet a lot of strange people at my job. And New York is pretty much the epicenter of crazy.” I forced myself to stop. I could ramble about writing for hours, but I didn’t want to bore Adrian to death. “So what are you doing?”
“I’m a lawyer.”
“What kind of lawyer?” I could imagine him only too well in court or negotiating a contract. I bet he was impressive.
“Business, mergers and acquisitions.” He smirked. My eyes lingered on his lips, remembering our almost kiss in the elevator. All I wanted to do was lean over the table to find out if his lips were as soft as they looked. “But I don’t want to bore you with the details. It’s not even close to being as interesting as writing a book.”
It was obvious that he didn’t want to reveal much of himself. I doubted his job was that boring. After all, it got him enough money to afford a nice car and an even nicer apartment. Giovanne walked up to our table, the other waiter and our main course in tow. When he set my plate with the truffle tagliattelle down in front of me, the delicious smell wafted into my nose. “Mmmh,” I said. “That smells wonderful.”
Giovanne tipped his head. “It’ll taste even better. Enjoy.” He and the waiter disappeared again.
I took a bite of the tagliatelle. He was right. The food was heaven. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything as good.”
“It’s the best Italian restaurant in the States,” Adrian said. “The only time I had ossobucco that came close was in Florence.”
“You visited Florence?” I’d been wanting to visit Europe, and especially Italy for years. But I could barely afford a new shower curtain, so a trip abroad was out of the question.
“Three times.” He poured us the rest of the wine and gestured for the waiter to bring us another bottle. I should probably have stopped him, since I was already tipsy, but the food and wine were too good to stop. “The first time I was in Rome on business. Just a couple of nights. I barely had time for sightseeing, but I fell in love with the food and the country, and returned the next summer.” The waiter arrived with a new bottle of wine and he paused until the waiter was gone again before he continued. “That time I toured the Tuscany.”
“I hear it’s beautiful.”
“It is. Especially the small towns towering on hills with their stone walls and old churches.” I propped my chin up on my palm, my fingers twirling the wineglass around. His voice had become even smoother as he talked about the Tuscany, about his favorite restaurant in Siena, the icecream in Florence, the old town of San Gimignano, his expression more relaxed and unguarded than I’d ever seen it. I wished I could have seen him stroll the streets of Florence. Or better yet, I wished I could visit all the places he loved with him at my side.
When we were done with our entrees and the waiter came to pick up our plates, I wasn't even sure how much time had passed. His voice had transported me to Italy, had made me forget everything around us. “I probably bored you to death with my vacation stories,” Adrian said.
“Oh no,” I said. “I loved listening to your stories. It makes me want to visit Italy even more.”
He smiled, but the mask that had slipped during his recount of his travels was back in place. Giovanne strolled toward our table with two menus in his hands. “So how about dessert?”
Adrian glanced at me. “I think we’ll share the best chocolate cake in the world.”
“Perfect choice,” Giovanne said, then disappeared.
“It has a molten chocolate core,” Adrian said. I could feel a flush spreading in my cheeks when he said the word core and from the twitching of his lips, he knew exactly what I was thinking about. That’s probably why he’d said it in the first place. I downed the last of my wine. Our second bottle was already half empty. The waiter arrived with our dessert and set it down in the middle of our table. The cake was dark brown and small, surrounded by an arrangement of raspberries, strawberries and mango slices as well as swirls made from fruit sauces. Adrian picked up the fork and cut off a piece of the cake. At once, molten chocolate pooled out and the smell of warm chocolate flooded my nose. Adrian dipped the piece of cake in the liquid and lifted it with a suggestive smile. “Open your mouth.”