by Robena Grant
He looked amazing, towering over Mama, black hair shining under the light, white shirt open at the collar, crisp creases in gray slacks, and a navy blazer with two buttons fastened.
“Dia Sophia.” He strode across the room holding a dozen pink roses wrapped in a flute of pale green florist’s paper. “I chose these to match your toenail polish.”
He’d noticed her pedicure yesterday? Of course he would. Any gay guy worth his salt would have. She took the flowers and buried her nose in their scent. “Thank you, these are lovely.”
Carlo turned to Mama. “Sweets for you, Mrs. Romani.” He handed her a small gold box wrapped with a burgundy ribbon.
The deep rich tones of his voice sent another shiver up Dia’s spine. If this guy ever decided to go straight, she’d be all over him. He’d called her Dia Sophia. How come he could use both of her given names and make her want to hear them again, and again? When Mama used them, the words made her cringe.
And bringing gifts? A bit old fashioned, yet sweet. Talk about scoring points with old ladies. Well, young ones, too. She stood, and smiled at both of them.
“Wow. You look gorgeous.” Carlo grinned as he gave her a head to toe once over. He made a twirling motion with his pointer finger.
Dia gave him a quick twirl, her black flirty skirt fluttering. “Thank you. Excuse me for a minute.”
In the kitchen she filled a vase with water, put the roses in, patted at her cheeks with her damp hands and returned to the living room. Mama and Carlo were seated on the sofa side by side. He didn’t look at all uncomfortable.
Dia put the vase on the coffee table. “Do you remember my mother?”
“Of course. We spoke of that when you were in the kitchen. She made the best amaretto cookies I’ve ever tasted—”
“I will make. For next time.” Mama patted Carlo’s arm and looked up at him like he was manna from heaven that had somehow fallen into her lap. People often said Mama resembled Anjelica Huston in height and facial features, but next to Carlo, even she had to look up. “You are good friends with Tony, no?”
“Yes.” Carlo nodded.
“You go out together a lot?”
Dia looked at her wristwatch. She didn’t think Mama knew about Tony, but the way things had been happening lately, she was unsure. The last thing she wanted was for Carlo to be questioned, or to feel uncomfortable.
“Oh, goodness, look at the time.” Dia grabbed her purse and jacket.
“Yes, my apologies, Mrs. Romani. We have a reservation.” Carlo stood and offered a hand to Mama, helping her up.
“Of course. Of course. You young ones have a lovely time.”
“Don’t wait up.” Dia kissed Mama on both cheeks.
Carlo raised Mama’s hand and kissed the back. Mama giggled like a teenager and followed them to the front door. Score two to Carlo.
It had been years since Dia had been on a first date. She was a tiny bit nervous. What will we have in common to talk about? Maybe theater and books? Those were generally safe topics. Carlo slipped an arm around her waist and hurried her outside, calling multiple goodbyes to Mama.
Dia felt a little pressure to the side of her waist, and she almost fell down the steps. He sure knew how to put on a good show—yeah, a great actor. She’d bet he loved theater.
****
Bijou was one of the finest restaurants in town, romantic in its setting with a fabulous view across the bay. Carlo waited for the valet to open the doors. As soon as he met Dia he knew he wanted to see her again, and to make this first date perfect. He’d been overly polite and even a bit pompous, and yet he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to impress her. He’d done a complete one-eighty.
His original intention had been to date a woman his mother would believe was beneath their family. With her recent inheritance, his mother had turned into a snob. Tired of the daughters of his mother’s new friends being foisted on him, he’d asked Tony if he knew any unattached women from Little Italy, preferably plump. His face burned with shame at the thought. He grimaced, feeling his gut tighten.
“Are you okay?” Dia asked.
“Sure. Absolutely.”
He gestured that she walk ahead of him along the narrow path, beneath an arch of trees lit by twinkling lights, admiring her lush curves. The soft scent of her skin, like vanilla and almonds, made him want to reach out, draw her close and nuzzle her neck. He thought his heart might implode. Tony had said she was perfect in every way to piss off his mother, right down to being of a lower income Italian background, and that he’d be doing the Romani family a favor. Mama Rosetta was having a hard time with her stubborn daughter.
Peasants, his mother called the old families who still lived in Little Italy. Carlo swallowed hard. She would hate Dia’s curvy figure and wild tangle of black curly hair, and then he’d be off the hook about not introducing his parents to the women he dated. He took another quick glance Dia’s way. He felt so freakin’ guilty.
“These are fabulous.” Dia stopped in front of the huge frosted glass doors.
“They’re crystal. It’s said they came from a famous ocean liner.”
Dia looked up in awe. “You’re kidding?”
“What? Oh, the doors. No, not kidding.” Carlo shook his head. “The restaurant, Mr. Chow, in NYC has the same thing. I know for sure they’re Lalique crystal.”
“Lalique doors?” she asked, her voice hushed. He held them open for her. “They must be worth a fortune. I’ve never been to New York. I’ve been to Washington D.C. but—”
“We’ll have—” He heard a soft gasp, and Dia’s fingers touched her lips.
He followed her gaze. The room was cast in soft golden lights, each table widely spaced for privacy and covered with a crisp white tablecloth. Silverware sparkled, and blossoms floated in low bowls of water. A candle set in a holder with strings of crystal beads falling from the top, gave the appearance of a small chandelier. Mozart tinkled from the fingers of the pianist seated at a grand piano in the far corner.
“Welcome to Bijou, Mr. Antonelli.” The hostess smiled at Dia. “Please, follow me.” She picked up two elegant leather bound menus. “Your special table is waiting.”
Dia walked slightly ahead. Carlo shook his head. He’d almost made a total ass of himself and said we’ll have to go to New York. He’d bitten off the words in the nick of time. Dia might mistake him for a wealthy, freewheeling mobster, or playboy. He vowed he’d cool it for the rest of the night.
“Would you prefer a black table napkin?” the hostess asked as she held the chair for Dia.
“Yes, please.” Dia leaned forward. “How elegant,” she said, when the woman left. “I hate wearing black clothing and then getting white stuff on my skirt from the usual white cloth napkins.”
“Yes. It’s the little things that count.”
Dia put her hand over the top of his. The warmth, the softness of her skin, caused a pulse in his neck to jump.
“The view from here is spectacular.” She gazed out the window.
Carlo nodded. The view of the bay was fabulous. He felt unbelievably nervous in her company. He wasn’t a ladies’ man, but he considered himself adept at dating, and conversation, yet she had him tongue-tied.
“I’m glad you think so.”
The hostess came back and spread the napkin in Dia’s lap, causing her to sit back a bit and remove her hand from his. He missed her touch. A busboy filled water glasses, and left a plate containing breadsticks. They perused their menus. There were no prices on Dia’s menu. He knew that. Her hand snaked across the table, touching his again. He smiled.
“There are no prices,” she whispered. “It must be horribly expensive.”
“Order whatever you like, and don’t worry about a thing.”
Her eyes widened, and then narrowed. Would she demand to know what everything cost? He liked that about her, but this was his invitation. He’d only been here once before, not being one to throw money around. But he’d known exactly where to take her. Ev
er since they’d spoken yesterday, his mind had been playing tricks on him. He looked into her questioning eyes.
“Make it up to me sometime with a home-cooked meal. I never get enough of those.” Darn it, the words were out before he realized he’d assumed too much.
A moment passed, and neither one spoke.
“Okay, then,” she said, her mouth twitching into a smile. She glanced at the menu again. “I’m having veal piccata and a field greens salad with warm goat cheese on toast points.”
“Excellent choice. I’m having the same salad, but with the ossobuco.”
“About dinner at my place,” Dia said. “That would be great. I do like to cook and to entertain. I can have you and Tony over for dinner when I move into my new apartment. But it won’t be until the end of the month.”
He frowned. Why Tony? Well, he wasn’t about to screw things up again. Maybe she’d put the brakes on; wise of her, because somebody had to slow him down. “Sounds great.”
The sommelier arrived. “The wine list, sir. Let me know if I can be of any assistance.”
“Thank you.” Carlo managed to take the wine list without disturbing the warmth from Dia’s hand. And that was a very good thing.
“Nothing too expensive,” she whispered.
“What is your preference? Red or white?”
“Pinot noir.”
Ah, a girl after my own heart. Carlo closed his eyes tight for a second and then widened them. He had to keep his heart out of this. It was too easy being with her. He should have known. He should have taken her somewhere ordinary, noisy, not quiet and romantic.
He had the distinct feeling that he was heading into deep water. If he didn’t stay alert, he’d end up way in over his head.
Chapter Three
Two hours later, lulled into a wonderful state by Carlo’s deep voice, the ambience of the restaurant, and one glass of wine too many, Dia smiled across the table.
After all that wine, she had to be alert. No throwing herself at Carlo. That would be embarrassing. And if she relaxed too much, she might let slip about Tony. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass him. If he wanted to mention it, fine. If not, that was fine too. After the wedding they’d probably never see each other again. A wave of sadness washed over her. Carlo loved most of the books that she did, the same internet games, same sports teams, and they both loved to bicycle along the beach paths.
“Do you like the theater?” She took a sip of coffee.
“I like the summer Shakespearian plays. Have you seen any?”
“Not this season.” She glanced away. “I haven’t socialized much.”
He was perfection. Since Jason and their failed romance, she hadn’t done much of anything. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d gone to a movie theater. What were the odds she would meet someone so perfect and find out he was unavailable? Life could be such a bitch.
As if sensing her discomfort, Carlo changed the subject. “That’s a great bookstore in Little Italy. I don’t get up that way too often. Do you buy from there?”
“It’s my favorite place. My saving grace after Jason and I broke up.”
He nodded. “That must have been hard on you.”
“A bit. But let’s not talk about that tonight. I love the small independent bookstores. The owner puts things aside for you knowing the days you venture in, and your taste. They seem to read everything. I’ve had more literary discussions in that shop than I ever had in college.” She laughed. “Where is your favorite bookstore?”
“Close by my office. I confess, I order a lot of reading material for my Kindle, but there’s nothing like browsing a physical store.”
Dia nodded and took another sip of coffee. She tilted her head to one side and appraised him. “Don’t take this as an insult, but I don’t see you as an accountant sitting at a desk all day and running numbers.”
He laughed. “It wasn’t my original plan. I had a gift for mathematics and a friend of my dad’s had an accounting firm. I interned. When Grandfather passed away, he left an inheritance.”
“Ah, a rich kid?” She felt a shiver of apprehension. She didn’t want one of those in her life again. But this wasn’t a real date. “You probably don’t need to work at all.”
“Yes, I do.” He laughed. “Most of the money went to my folks, as it should. My mother’s father was the wealthy one, but he’d cut her off when she married Dad. We didn’t have much to do with him when I was growing up.”
“Mmmm. Families can be weird.”
“Tell me about it. Anyway, I took the plunge and started my own business. It feels good to hire others. Put people back into the workforce. I work as much or as little as I want.”
“So…how little?” she asked, her voice teasing. “All work and no play, or the other way around?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m not a player. It turns out I’m really a workaholic.”
“Oh?” She tilted her head. That was interesting.
“I like seeing my business grow. Tax season is my busiest time, and then again toward the end of the year. I get a chunk of the summer off.”
“Sounds like me with teaching.”
“Yeah, in some ways, it is. Where do you work?”
“Crossroads Academy. It’s a small, private, special education school. They hired me full time for this next school year.” A burst of pride caused her cheeks to flush.
“Teaching what?”
“History.”
“Interesting. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to see the dessert menu?”
“I’m positive. I have a dress I have to fit into this weekend. It’s kind of revealing.”
Carlo wriggled his eyebrows and gave her a sexy grin. “Sounds great.” His eyes dropped to her chest, lingering for a moment, and then he signaled for the waiter.
“Well, it won’t be if I go stuffing myself with carbs.” She looked away, reminding herself this was not a date, and that gay guys liked boobs too.
“Tony wants me to go with him tomorrow to rent tuxedos.” He patted his stomach region. “And most likely for lunch at some fancy place later.”
She nodded, more certain than before that Carlo belonged to Tony.
When the waiter arrived, he ordered two profiteroles to go and the check.
A few minutes later, back in the car, Dia balanced the Styrofoam container on her thigh. She loved profiterole about as much as she loved cannoli, and she began to change her mind about dessert. Were these for her or him and Tony?
“A slight detour.” Carlo turned off the freeway toward the ocean.
He stopped the car in a parking lot facing the sea and put down the windows. The smell of the salt water, the fresh breeze, filled the inside of the car. The high beams cast a path over the parking lot and across the sand. Soft music played from the CD. The waxing moon shot the waves with silver.
Dia pulled in a shuddery breath. “It’s breathtaking,” she said softly. He grinned, white teeth flashing, and her heartbeat bumped up a notch.
“Time for dessert.” He casually slung an arm across the top of her seat, fingers brushing her shoulder.
“Absolutely.”
Her heart beat even faster. Was this an invitation to a kiss? It couldn’t be. Dessert on a deserted beach for a straight guy would be about as original as “come up and see my etchings.” Parking at the beach for a little make-out session—because you knew the nosy Italian Mama would be at the window when you got the girl back home—it kind of went with the territory. Oh yeah, she knew all about that.
Maybe Carlo was bisexual and feeling a little chemistry. But she sure as hell wouldn’t find out if he was bi. That would be all she needed to further complicate her life, a bisexual Italian man. Nope, better not to go there. Besides, he really did have dessert; there were two profiteroles. She dropped her gaze to her lap, opened the lid, and then offered him the box.
He cleared his throat. “Ah, thanks. Yes, thanks.” He removed his arm from the back of the seat, and switched off
the headlights.
She peered at him through the darkness. He sounded odd. She thought she’d read him right. He turned off the car’s engine, and then reached over and took a pastry.
“Umm, we don’t have napkins. But I’ve got tissues.” She felt nervous and clammy, and fumbled in her purse, finally pulling out a small pack of tissues. She gave him a couple of the flimsy things, and took a couple for herself. “This is an excellent idea, dessert at the beach.”
He bit into the profiterole and chewed, then shoved the rest of it into his mouth. He wiped his fingers on the tissues, balled them up and dropped them into the container.
“Heaven,” Dia murmured, licking each sticky fingertip. She realized his gaze was fixed on her. Oops. Okay. She knew what sucking on fingers led to, at least with most guys. “I used to hum when I liked eating something yummy,” she said, to break the awkward moment. She rested her head against the seat, casting him a sideways look. “When I was a kid, of course, and Marco would always say, ‘No humming at the table,’ and then we’d all laugh.”
“Was the profiterole worth humming about?”
“Absolute perfection. Did you do anything dumb like that when you were young?”
He shook his head, leaned both hands on the steering wheel, and stared out at the Pacific. Then he sat up straighter and laughed. “Marco used to say I talked to myself.”
“Well, how could he know that?”
Carlo laughed again. “My lips moved.”
“Oh.” Dia laughed too. “I’ve had a wonderful time tonight, but we should head home. It’s a busy week with the wedding. I don’t want Mama staying up late, or worrying.”
“You’re right. But before we go, what do you think? Will you be able to stand my company for the entire wedding service and celebration?” He nudged her arm with his elbow. “You can be honest.”
“Yes. We’ll have a really good time. We’re more compatible than I’d imagined.”
“Oh?” he said, turning sharply to face her.
Not able to see a smile, she figured there must be a frown. “That came out wrong. I’m surprised, and delighted.”
