Carmen must have seen the words on her face. “You promised.”
“I did.”
“It’s the perfect compromise. Your dad is only a couple of hours away from where he’s lived his whole life, not that it matters since he’ll be in an assisted living home. You are in a city you have instantly fallen in love with. You can take care of him and not hate every day in a city you loathe.”
The waiter returned with their drinks. “Have you decided on lunch?”
“We haven’t even looked at the menu,” Carmen told him.
“Flag me down when you’re ready. No rush.” He walked off to another table.
Brooke lifted her drink. “Your idea is tempting.”
“My idea is brilliant.”
“Gio!” the bartender yelled at their waiter and started in a rapid fire of Italian.
They went back and forth a couple of times, and for whatever reason, Brooke found herself smiling. “Crazy.”
“Maybe we should figure out what we’re going to eat.”
An hour later they’d destroyed two appetizers and were on a second drink and had both ordered a main course.
Carmen was searching the internet for assisted living facilities in the general area, and Brooke left her to it in search of a bathroom.
One of the employees pointed her to the back of the restaurant.
There she found a vast space where she could see into the open kitchen, not like in a diner you’d see at any stop along an interstate, but like in a five-star restaurant that wasn’t afraid of the patrons seeing the inner workings of where their food was being prepared.
Lunch was in full swing, and everyone in the kitchen was hopping.
And not surprisingly, like many of the employees in the front of the house, those back here were speaking Italian.
Loudly.
It made Brooke feel good about her choice in lunch spots. At least she knew her meal would be authentic.
She made her way to the restroom and then back out.
This time, as she passed by the kitchen, she heard a male voice yell out a name. “Francesca!”
Then, as if in slow motion, two things happened. A blur of a little girl, not more than eight years old, came darting around the corner at the same time a server turned with their hands filled with plates of steaming hot pasta.
Brooke saw the imminent collision, swooped down, and lifted the girl before she could knee-tackle the employee.
The waitress stopped short but didn’t lose her balance. “Franny!”
“Sorry,” the little girl said.
Big dark brown eyes looked up at Brooke as she set the girl on her feet. “You need to be careful. Those plates are hot.”
“Francesca Mari!” The deep baritone of what could only be a ticked-off parent came from behind them.
They both looked up.
Brooke felt a little like the air in the room started to still . . . or maybe the man carried the heat from the kitchen with him when he’d walked out. Obviously, he was one of the cooks, from the uniform he wore. He was glaring at the little girl.
He said something to her in Italian, and she replied with something that made him frown even more.
When he grunted, Francesca turned to Brooke and tried to smile. “Thanks for keeping me from getting hurt.”
Brooke tried not to laugh. “You’re welcome.”
The girl started to run again.
“Walk!” the father yelled.
They watched Francesca as she inched her steps to exaggerated slowness as if mocking her father.
Francesca turned back around.
Dad wasn’t nearly as amused.
“I’m sorry,” the man said.
“It’s okay. I’m glad she wasn’t hurt.”
He looked beyond Brooke, at his daughter . . . a flicker of annoyance.
“She’s adorable, by the way.”
That, at least, brought a smile to the man’s face. And the oxygen that was in the room had a hard time finding Brooke’s lungs. Her guess was this man could use that smile and his chiseled jaw and dark skin to get just about anything he wanted from a woman. Toss in a little amore this and amore that . . .
What was she thinking? He was probably married.
Hello . . . he had a daughter.
Family restaurant with a little girl running around that the employees called Franny.
“Thank you. I appreciate your intervention.”
His voice melted her insides like heat to chocolate.
Brooke stared at the man and found herself thinking about all the works of art scattered throughout Italy. No wonder so many men were etched in marble and stone. If all Italians looked like this man . . .
He cleared his throat.
She closed her eyes, felt heat in her cheeks. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
He nodded. “Probably a good idea.”
Only his feet didn’t move.
His smile softened when she dared another look in his eyes.
“Right. Uhm . . .”
Did he just laugh?
Brooke shook her head as she walked away. The heat on her back suggested the man watched her retreat.
She and Carmen spent two hours with their meal, and when the check came it had a zero written on it and the word Grazie.
They argued, but the waiter wouldn’t hear it. Brooke had kept Franny from unknown injury, and that was worth a free meal for this restaurant.
With nothing to do but say thank you, that was exactly what they did.
“Are you ready to start looking for apartments?” Carmen asked.
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Am I?”
Brooke looked over her shoulder at the establishment they’d just left. Was she?
CHAPTER FIVE
“Today was better. Finally, things are looking up.”
Luca glanced at his mother from the other side of the table. It wasn’t often they shared a meal with receipts of the day between them, but business had been in a tailspin for what felt like forever. Between restrictions that were implemented off and on for years, and employee shortages, it was only recently that things were getting consistently normal.
“What’s this?” Mari held a receipt in her hand.
Luca narrowed his gaze, saw his signature for the comped meal.
He thought of the kind eyes behind her smile.
Silence stretched for a moment too long, he caught it, cleared his throat. “Your granddaughter thought it best to run through the kitchen during the height of lunch. This patron intercepted and kept everyone from unnecessary trips to an urgent care.”
“Hmm.” His mother stared over the receipt as if reading his mind. “Was she pretty, this patron?”
Luca turned his attention back to the inventory sheet to avoid his mother’s eyes. “I don’t believe I said it was a woman.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Mama. Stop.”
She put the paper to the side. “What? A mother can’t ask her handsome single son about a pretty girl?”
“Why don’t you put that energy into schooling your granddaughter to not use the kitchen as a playground?”
Mari clicked her tongue as she did anytime she was dismissing someone’s suggestion. “Poor child needs siblings. Her playmates are the employees. It’s wrong.”
Much as Luca wanted to disagree, he couldn’t. But he wasn’t about to give Franny a brother or a sister without the required mother to go with it. And that was too much effort.