by Shirley Jump
Be sure your apology is as sweet as your dessert and everything will be all right with your lover's world again.
Chapter Thirty-Three
"Your sweetheart is here. And she has a gift for you." Franco practically sang the words.
"Maria? She's here?"
The smirk on Franco's face was akin to a parent with a Power Wheels behind their back on Christmas Day.
"To see me?"
Franco nodded.
Dante stood, his desk chair rocketing across the tiled floor and sliding into the wall with a clang. He was out the door and into the main part of the restaurant in an instant.
Until he saw her. Then all movements ceased.
She was, as always, gorgeous. She stood there, holding a big cardboard box, wearing a pink T-shirt, dark snug jeans and black boots with little heels. Her hair was back in a clippie thing again, the tendrils determinedly slipping out of the sides, tickling down her neck.
He shouldn't care she was here. His heart shouldn't thud at the sight of her. But apparently his brain hadn't had time to lecture the rest of him since that night in the restaurant.
Either way, he wasn't going to let her see how he felt. He was done pursuing a woman who had chosen another.
"Hi," he said.
"Here's your—" Maria's mind went blank. On the trip over, she'd planned out a big speech. Twenty reasons why they shouldn't let their personal differences interfere with business. But then—
But then she'd seen Dante. And everything she'd thought about today, all the words she'd heard from Rebecca, Candace and Monica, came tumbling back.
Every word of her argument stopped making sense.
"I brought your—" she tried again. What the hell did she have in her hands, anyway?
"Cookies?" Dante supplied.
"Oh, yeah. Cookies."
"Thank you." He took the box from her. No smile. No expression. A man conducting business, nothing more. "I thought you weren't dealing with my account."
"Rebecca was a little under the weather so I offered to make the delivery."
"Well." He cleared his throat. "If you need payment now—"
"There's an invoice in the box. Standard thirty-day terms."
"Good." He shifted the box into one arm, as if it weighed no more than a paper clip. "Do you need anything else?"
"No. Nothing." She bit back the question on the tip of her tongue. "Nothing at all."
His face hardened. "That's what I thought."
Maria pivoted and turned to go, disappointment weighing as heavy as a ten-pound block of provolone in her gut. What had she expected? That he'd be friendly and happy to see her? That he'd go on chasing after her indefinitely?
She'd been the one to ignore him after their night together, as if pretending it hadn't happened would make it go away.
She'd been the one who had invited Antonio to pick her up at Vita.
She'd been the one to turn dating into an S&M ritual where everyone got hurt.
Two months ago, she'd had a plan. Lose twenty-five pounds, astound her old boyfriend and then go on with business as usual. Staying single. And happy.
But now, her life was as twisted and sticky as a pot of overcooked spaghetti. And she wasn't happy at all.
The pangs in her stomach intensified with every step toward the door. She must be hungry. And yet... never had she felt this kind of want for a food.
As she neared the exit, Maria realized the pain in her gut wasn't from hunger. It was misery. Loneliness. Maybe even... a bit of love... all jumbled into one. Before she could do something really stupid—like leave—she circled back toward him.
Dante hadn't moved. He stood in the same place, still holding the box, watching her.
His eyes held no expression, no clue to how he was feeling. Or if he still felt anything at all for her.
She'd screwed up. A lot worse than when she'd eaten all the Twinkies and an entire margherita pie in one sitting. She'd chosen Door Number Two and gotten the jackass.
When the real hero—with the heart of gold—was right there all the time, waiting for her to wake up. She had, finally, but...
Maybe too late.
"I was wrong," she said.
"If you can wait a second, I'll grab the checkbook and—"
"Not about the payment." She took a step closer. The dark intimacy of Vita surrounded them like a blanket. Beside her, a wall sconce flickered. "I was wrong about us."
He took in a breath. "Wrong how?"
"I was afraid. Hell, I still am. Afraid of commitment of being hurt. Afraid of love." She smiled at him, a tentative smile, searching for a response. Something flickered in his eyes and she plunged forward. "And most of all, afraid of you."
This time, he moved closer to her. "Afraid of me? Why?"
"I told you. You smell too good."
"Always the diet huh?"
"My mission in life is to get out of the double digits of dress sizes."
"Why are you so unhappy with the way you look?"
She shrugged, as if the answer was a small thing, but he could see it mattered more than that. "I don't look like other women."
"You aren’t other women, that's the point. You're already perfect the way you are."
Maria shook her head, a refusal forming on her lips.
"Don't say it. Because I'll just disagree. And I have a lot of disagreements ready." Dante put out his hand, ticking off the reasons. "You're funny. You're smart. You're strong." He raised his hand, pressed it lightly to her heart. "In here, where it counts. When you love, you love with everything in you. I've seen it with your family. And when you hurt, you hurt deeply. Everything about you, Maria, is real and true."
She caught his hand with her own. "I've never met a man who noticed those kinds of things about me."
He reached up, catching a tendril of that misbehaving hair between his fingers. "That's because I've been treading water in the deep end for a long damned time, waiting for you."
The smile on her face wavered, her eyes now misty as a foggy day. "Dante, I—"
"Don't say it. Just say, 'Okay.'" He cupped her chin and tipped her face towards his.
"Okay." She smiled, then sighed. "This is too much right now. I..." She took in a breath, let it go. "I don't know where I want to go from here yet. Where we should go."
"Simple answer." He grinned. "The kitchen."
"The kitchen?"
"It's lunchtime. Stay and eat with me."
"I thought you weren't open for lunch."
"I am for very special customers." He touched the twin peaks of her upper lip. "You're the most special customer I have."
"But aren't you usually busy right now, getting ready for dinner?"
They hadn't been busy all week. If he told her Whitman's latest review had sent the customers in the opposite direction from Vita, she'd leave now and he wouldn't get a chance to say what he wanted to say. He didn't really need the cookies from Gift Baskets anymore.
But he sure as hell needed her.
"Right this minute the only thing I'm busy with is convincing you to try my tortellini."
"I’m not hungry."
He reached up and trailed a finger along her cheek. She didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just held the gaze, her eyes wide and luminous in the half light of Vita. "Liar."
"I have a shop to get back to."
"Stay, Maria. Not because I'm asking you to, but because you want to." He rubbed his thumb against her mouth. "Because you want me."
"I do want you. All the time." She shook her head. "And everything you touch. That's the problem."
"A little of a good thing isn't bad, you know. You never tasted the tortellini that Whitman raved about. How did you describe it?"
"Heaven on a plate." The words came out soft, almost reverent.
"Seems a shame to have such passion for a food you've never tasted." He lowered his hand to take hers. "Come, have just a bite."
"Time..." she murmured vaguely, as if she couldn't quite
get her mind around the excuse.
He took two steps forward, her hand in his. His heart leapt when she moved with him. "It's already made. An early supper for the staff."
"Just a few bites, no more."
"If that's all you want." He kept moving. And she kept following. When they reached the swinging door to the kitchen, he lowered his mouth to her ear, inhaling the warm, fresh fragrance of her. "But if you want seconds, it will be my pleasure."
Franco was the first to step forward, arms wide, welcoming her into the kitchen like an old friend. "Miss Maria, how nice to see you again. You return for my Dante, no?"
"This is Maria?" said the skinny guy who had peeked through the window that first night. "No wonder you stare so hard at her, boss.
"Shut up, Vinny," Dante said. He turned toward the rest of the kitchen staff. "You all need to get back to work." Vinny made a halfhearted attempt at returning to kitchen chores, but it was clear his attention was more on Maria and Dante than chopping onions and marinating beef.
Dante went to the stove, filled two plates with the tortellini. He returned to the small table in the corner of the kitchen and placed both plates before them on the table.
Maria already knew how good it would be. She'd made the sales job herself. Read the review. Knew it had sold the harshest critic in town. The aroma rose from the pasta and teased at her senses.
"Try it."
It was a normal serving of tortellini. Nothing over the top. No bingeing involved. Thousands of people ate like this every day and didn't turn into Goodyear blimps. Surely she could find a way to balance her favorite foods—her traditions, really—with her figure. "All right," she said, and dipped her fork into the meal before her.
"Do you know the legend about tortellini?" he asked.
She shook her head.
Dante folded his arms. A contented smile filled his face. "When Venus was sleeping naked near the sea of Bologna, a chef saw her and fell in love."
"That's why she was the goddess of love and beauty," Maria pointed out. "Makes it hard for us mortal women to compete."
He grinned. "You have nothing to worry about. Anyway, the chef's favorite part of Venus was her..."
"Oh, let me guess." Maria held up a circular tortellini. "Belly button?"
Dante nodded. "He was easily pleased."
"He didn't get far with Venus, did he?"
"Not all the way to the strawberries and mascarpone."
Maria swallowed the bite on her fork. Those words brought up a memory a lot steamier than the ancient tale. "So what'd he do?"
"He went back to his kitchen and created this pasta as a way to always remember her."
Maria took another bite. Delicious. "There are definitely worse ways to be immortalized."
"Then I'll have to get out my pasta machine and set to work creating a memorial to you."
She thrust her chest forward, knowing exactly which part of her he'd choose to pasta-size. "I don't think your creation would be bite-size."
He chuckled. "My father must have told me that tortellini story a hundred times when I was growing up. He said when he met my mother, she reminded him of Venus and every time he went to work, he thought of her." Dante toyed with the edge of his plate. "They grew apart after he opened Vita, but my father always loved her in his own way. He was a romantic. She ... is not."
Maria noticed Dante had yet to reach for his fork. He'd been watching her eat, a small smile on his face.
"You aren't having any?" she asked, the fork halfway to her mouth.
"I'd much rather watch you. I never really get to see anyone eat my food."
"Pity. After all that hard work, too." She smiled and put the bite into her mouth.
Her description hadn't done the dish justice. Dante's tortellini was a food fit for a goddess. "This is"—she dipped the fork into the dish again, scooping up another bite, eating it and swallowing before she could formulate words—"amazing."
"You sure it isn't too salty? I have a tendency to be a little heavy on the salt sometimes."
She shook her head. "No, it's perfect."
"And the noodles? Al dente?"
She looked at him. "What's this I detect? A little cooking insecurity?"
"Hey, I'm not perfect."
She laughed. "That's a relief. I was beginning to think you were." She forked up a third bite, gave it a moment to connect with her palate before allowing it to make its sweet descent into her stomach.
"You really like it?"
"Dante, I love it. Honest." She laid a hand over his. "I never lie about food."
Excitement lit up his eyes and he scrambled to his feet. "Do you mind trying something else I made today?"
"Are you crazy? Sure I would. I'd eat anything you cook." She leaned forward, lowered her voice to a whisper. "Don't tell Mamma, but your cooking rivals hers. May even be better."
He grinned. "I'll never say a word." Then he turned and hurried to the stove. On a second plate, he served up a slice of lasagna. He paused to grate a little bit of fresh cheese over the dish, then brought it back to her. "Try this."
"What is it?"
"An experiment."
She picked up the first bite. When it settled against her tongue, an explosion of flavor—chicken, spinach, cheeses—ran through her senses. "Oh, God, this is incredible, too," she said after she swallowed, but not before she had another bite at the ready.
"Good." He let out a sigh of relief. "I wasn't sure you'd find it as tasty as the tortellini."
"You have no worries there." She sent a second bite of paradise into her mouth. Around them, the kitchen staff had gone back to work, apparently no longer interested in their conversation. Vinny was preparing food; Franco had gone out front, probably to supervise the readying of the tables.
"At least one thing in Vita is going well." Dante leaned back in the chair and rubbed at his neck.
She paused in eating, caught by his troubled gaze. "Did something happen?"
He hesitated.
"I run a business, too. If anyone understands, it's me."
His gaze met hers. "That's one of the things I like about you. You understand me. The way I think. No one else seems to."
She reached for his hand. "It takes a special kind of person to be in business."
"Yeah, a crazy one who doesn't mind a little bankruptcy." He let out a gust, then sighed. "The Globe found a new favorite in the North End."
"Oh, Dante. I'm so sorry." She knew what that meant to his business. She'd seen it happen to other places. Diners could be fickle people, running from one hot spot to another. Now that the focus would be elsewhere, Vita would be relegated to the shadows for a while.
"The thing that bugs me the most is my mother is probably right. This place is an albatross. I'm never going to make it into what my father wanted it to be."
Maria knew then why Dante had valued her family so much. Her mother may be persistent about getting her daughter married, but she always had Maria's best intentions at heart and would never say or do anything that didn't support her only child's dreams.
Mamma had been at Gift Baskets the day it opened and had always been one of the shop's most vocal supporters, spreading the word around the North End better than a tissueless two-year-old with a cold.
"You inherited this, but you also inherited what your father made it," she said softly. "Not everything sits on your shoulders, you know."
"I never thought of it that way." He looked past her, out the small window on the back wall. "My father wasn't much for being a hard-nosed businessman. He was always letting people run up a tab and then never making them pay it, stuff like that. But even though he wasn't a success money-wise, he taught me something."
"What?"
Dante flattened his palms on the smooth metal table. "After my father died, I was going to close Vita. I had no intention of going into a losing proposition. My mother certainly didn't want anything to do with it. She had already put the house up for sale and booked a flight t
o Florida. But at the funeral, hundreds of people came. People he'd helped. People he'd given credit to. A meal when they couldn't afford one. Or simply a listening ear on a bad day."
"He sounds like a good guy."
"He was. A better man than me." Dante shrugged, his smile wry. "He wasn't a man who talked much. Or was home much. But yet, everyone else said how kind and. generous he was."
"But that generosity cost him. This place. You."
"Yeah. He overdid it a little. Still, I couldn't let go of his restaurant and kill his dream, too. And once I started working here, I fell in love with the place, just like he did." Dante pulled back and ran his hands through his hair. "But with that new restaurant picking up all my business, I don't see how I can ever turn Vita into a success."
"Why? You've survived before."
His shoulders dropped and he shook his head. "I'm tired, Maria. It's hard being the one man behind the show. I've run out of ideas. I can't compete with all the other restaurants in the North End. I mean, we're all doing lasagna. How can Vita be different?" He sighed. "The name means 'Delicious Life' and it hasn't quite worked out that way yet. Especially not for me. This place is my life. It isn't so delicious when you work seventy hours a week and still don't see anything for all that effort."
Delicious life.
Maria thought about those words for a second. Wasn't that what she'd been seeking all these weeks? And also trying to avoid? Yet every time she denied herself her favorite foods, she ended up bingeing twice as badly the next day.
"This lasagna," she said, scooping up another bite onto the fork, "do you have it on the menu?"
"No. It's just something I cook for the kitchen staff. I like to experiment with new things and this week it's been low-calorie versions of their favorites." He grinned. "As Rochelle likes to remind me, bathing suit season isn't all that far away and they've been dipping into the garlic bread too often this winter. So they asked me to make something lighter."
"Are you planning on putting it on the menu?"
"This? Nah. It's just for fun. When people come here, they expect a certain type of meal. They want what my father gave them. If there's anything people in this neighborhood like, it's predictability."
