~
“Well, you’re never going to convince me that was better than New York pizza, but it was pretty good,” I said as I tugged my gloves back on.
We strolled out of Alberto’s Pizzeria, a tiny hole-in-the wall place deep down one of the windy North End streets the tourists can’t find. The small bell rang behind us as we stepped out into the cold.
“You’re a dirty liar, Red. That’s the best pizza outside of Italy,” Brandon said as he patted his still-flat belly. He had put down at least half a pie by himself. I didn’t know how he did it; I had eaten two pieces, and I felt completely stuffed.
“Am not,” I insisted.
“Are too. Did you hear those guys speaking Italian? It’s the real deal here. I think the owner is actually from Naples. Nobody in the New York’s Little Italy is like that anymore.”
I shrugged. I couldn’t argue with him there. Everyone from New York knew that the real Little Italy was in the Bronx anyway. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t have to be Italian make great pizza. Every New Yorker knows that.”
Brandon scoffed and shook his head, but still slung a heavy arm over my shoulder and steered us back toward the more pedestrian-heavy scene on Hanover. Even though it was still the middle of winter, the cobblestoned street was full of people waiting to eat at the various trattorias and pasticcerias that lined the uneven sidewalks.
Brandon walked us into one shop that was particularly crowded, enough that condensation fogged up the storefront windows. Releasing my frame, he easily elbowed his way to the front of the counter using his linebacker-sized shoulders, then reached behind and pulled me in front of him, wrapping his arms securely around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder.
He didn’t ever seem to want to stop touching me, I realized with pleasure. All through dinner, which we had eaten on stools at a Formica-covered countertop, he had rested one hand comfortably on my knee; on the train, he’d balanced his arm along the back of my seat so his fingers could toy with my hair while we chatted. Now, with his fingers knotted comfortably about my waist, I thought I could hear him humming contentedly as we perused the pastry-stuffed display. I didn’t fight it. I wanted to hum right along with him.
“You ever been here before?” he said directly into my ear so he could be heard over the din. Various shop employees scurried behind the counter, taking orders from customers at such a dizzying pace I felt like I was back on Wall Street, watching the traders on the floor.
I twisted around to grin at him. “Mike’s? Of course. Best cannoli in the city. Not as good as back home, but, still delicious.”
Brandon grinned back, his dimples showing in a way that made my stomach flip despite its full contents.
“We’ll see. Two ricotta cannoli, a coffee and a tea, please,” he called to one of the servers, and released my waist to reach into his coat pocket for his wallet.
“No, let me,” I protested, yanking my wallet from my purse as quickly as I could. “You got dinner and the T.”
“Absolutely not,” Brandon said, taking out a twenty. Obviously he couldn’t completely get rid of his need to impress. I understood more now about why he was that way, but it didn’t convince me to put away my wallet. I didn’t care what most romance novels said I should expect from chivalry; I didn’t like feeling beholden to anyone.
“Nope,” I said, plucking the twenty from his hand and shoving it into Brandon’s pocket.
Before he could object, I handing a ten to the bored teenage server, who scurried away to make change and retrieve our desserts. I twisted around to find a pair of bright blue eyes glowering at me.
“Come on, Red. I thought I was taking you out,” he grumbled down at me, trying not to make a scene in the middle the café.
I raised an eyebrow at him playfully and touched him on the nose with my index finger. “You’re pretty cute for an Eisenhower-era chauvinist, did you know that?”
The small crease between his eyebrows deepened, but he couldn’t hide the obvious amusement cracking his fierce expression. “I guess I’ll have to be faster than you, then. You’re going to keep this old man young; I can see that.”
I grinned and turned back toward the counter, grabbing the cannoli and my tea from the server with a quick thanks before Brandon could take them.
“Let’s walk and eat, old man,” I called to him, wanting to get out of the congested shop. I wove around the throngs of people, and was out the door before I turned around to check for my date. Brandon’s blue eyes glowed through the crowd, clearly up for the chase as he followed me out.
~
“Favorite movie.”
It was a common game that had emerged spontaneously as we meandered around the North End and down toward the Harbor, enjoying our cannoli and coffee as we zigged through the crooked streets of one of the oldest parts of Boston. So far I had discovered that Brandon’s favorite drink was a craft IPA (although he also enjoyed good scotch or brandy), his favorite band was Alice in Chains, and his favorite color was red. From his obvious leer during the last answer, I had to wonder about the truth of the last one. I, in turn, had informed him of my love of excellent Irish whiskey, my longtime love affair with Bill Evans, and that, like every other stereotypical New Yorker, I favored black.
I gave him a playful side-eyed look. “What do you think, boss man?”
He wrinkled his nose in an expression so adorable that I wanted to kiss him. “Please tell me it’s not that movie about the blonde chick at Harvard,” he said.
“Well, I’m not a complete cliché,” I said. “No, although that Legally Blonde is objectively hilarious. Don’t even try to argue the point. You’ll lose. Guess again.”
Brandon pursed his lips because venturing another guess. “I got it. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Since you’re from Brooklyn and all.”
“Isn’t that sort of akin to me guessing Good Will Hunting since you’re also a prodigy out of Southie?”
He smirked, but didn’t deny my sarcastic compliment. “Dorchester. Totally different places, but I take your point. Okay, then, Ms. Unpredictable, answer the question.”
I gave him my best wide-eyed gaze. “To Kill a Mockingbird.”
He grinned. “You’re kidding. Really? How is that less clichéd than Legally Blonde?
“Because Mockingbird is a legitimate classic,” I said. “Come on, what lawyer wasn’t partly inspired by Atticus Finch?”
“Hmm. Okay, I’ll give you that. So you like old movies then?”
I nodded after finishing my cannoli. “I grew up in a house that appreciated fine arts and cinema,” I said through a mouthful of ricotta and pastry shell, which I washed down with the last bit of my tea. “Plus our TV reception was terrible, so all we ever watched were Bubbe’s old VHS tapes. Gary Cooper’s a fox.”
“Figures,” Brandon said. “You are definitely a save-the-world type. I think you just earned yourself another nickname, Scout.”
I blanched. “Another nickname?”
“Well, we could go with Boo Radley, if you want, but I figured you’d prefer the narrator.”
“All right, all right, your turn,” I said as I shoved against his shoulder. “Favorite movie.”
“You’re not gonna guess?”
I didn’t respond, just gave him a look that hopefully told him he better answer or I’d push him into the harbor. He popped the last of his cannoli into his mouth and took an agonizingly long time to chew and swallow. He opened his lips as if he were going to answer, and then lifted his coffee cup instead.
“Oh my God!” I cried, tossing my now-empty cup at him. He laughed as it clattering onto the pavement, then scooped it up and tossed it a nearby trashcan along with his trash.
“You are way too much fun to rile up, Red,” he chuckled, grabbing my hand and tucking me comfortably under his shoulder with my arm wrapped about his waist. The wool of his coat shielded me from the breeze coming off the harbor. I eagerly burrowed into the space, inhaling the Brandon’s scent with something close t
o ecstasy.
“It’s Goodfellas, by the way,” he was saying. “I’m a sucker for Scorsese. I almost guessed that for you too, actually, since it also takes place in Brooklyn.”
“East Brooklyn,” I corrected him almost automatically, like everyone else who lived in the borough. “Yeah, it’s a good movie.”
I didn’t want to tell him that Scorsese’s film was a little too close to home to be enjoyable, considering my dad’s involvement with people who had actually worked for the real-life versions of those guys. There had been a few too many instances of mobsters or their henchmen sporadically showing up at our front door while I was little. There was nothing endearing or glamorous about them.
We walked for a bit in comfortable silence. Usually when a lull in conversation hit, I was left wondering whether or not my date was bored or what he might be thinking—it was often the first thing that turned me off. But with Brandon, it didn’t seem to matter if we were talking or not. The simple rub of his hand on my shoulder and the way he occasionally rested his nose in my hair made me feel at ease without a single word. Why he felt like he had to shower me with extravagant gifts was beyond me. His company was the best thing he could offer.
“Sometimes it’s hard to believe that so many legendary things happened here,” I remarked as we passed some signage marking the Paul Revere Trail. A group of tourists posed for pictures beside it, and Brandon nodded at them pleasantly, though his arm around my shoulder tightened.
“Well, that’s Boston for you,” he said, tugging me even closer. “Greatest city in the world.”
I snorted. “I think that’s my line.”
He looked down at me with a grin, then stopped walking. “Hold on a second.”
Before I could stop him, he swiped a bit of stray ricotta from my cheek before sucking it off his finger. I stared at him, half disgusted, half aroused.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” I said, in response to which I received a toothy grin.
“Oh, believe me, Red, there are a lot of things I wouldn’t mind licking off you,” Brandon said as he hugged me closer to his side. He nuzzled his mouth against my ear, nipping my earlobe in a way that sent shivers down my spine. “I think you taste best of all, though.”
The flush that ran up my neck was immediate, as was the sudden bolt of desire between my legs. I swallowed it down and reminded myself that we were both in public and in the freezing cold.
“Well, fair’s fair, Mr. Sterling,” I said as nonchalantly as I could manage. I turned to face him, letting his hand drift down my arm so I could toy with his fingers. “I should probably get a taste of you sometime soon too, don’t you think?”
One side of his face quirked up into that sly half-smile. He leaned in again so I could feel his warm breath against neck and growled into my ear, “Anytime, Red. Any. Time.”
It was becoming entirely too clear that I wasn’t going to be able to play this game very well with him. He would fluster me every single time. So instead, I took the coward’s way out and changed the subject.
“So we went to MIT, and now to your favorite places to eat,” I said, looking to where several boats and a few barges made their way across the dark harbor. “What are your other favorite places in Boston?”
“Well, if it were April, I’d be taking you to Fenway, of course,” Brandon said with a sigh. We resumed our companionable stride despite our difference in height. Considering how much walking we were doing, I was glad that I had worn low-heeled boots.
“Ugh, don’t tell me you’re a member of Red Sox Nation,” I said with a playful scowl. “Those fools clog up the damn T every time there’s a home game. You can’t get anywhere in this city during baseball season!”
“That just tells me you’ve never been to Fenway. Anyone who sees the Sox play there knows the magic, baby.”
“Well, I’ve been to Yankee Stadium a few times,” I countered. “I’m pretty sure that’s just as magical.”
He leaned back, feigning with one hand as if I’d just shot him in the heart. “Don’t tell me you’re a Yankees fan, Red. That might be the end for us.”
I giggled. “No, nothing so bad as that. My dad’s actually a Mets fan, if that helps.”
He nodded in approval. “So long as no one wears a Yankees cap, we’re good.”
We continued to meander around Old Boston, walking by Faneuil Hall and back up to the cobbled streets of Haymarket as we chatted amiably about our lives, retelling small stories from our experiences at school and the different careers we had. Brandon was curious when I told him about my decision to leave investment banking for a career in family law—our career choices were actually quite similar.
“Why didn’t you ever leave Boston to play the market in New York?” I wondered.
“Boston’s my home,” Brandon says as he kicked a can out of our way.
“Do you ever go back to your old neighborhood?”
He pressed his lips together, but shook his head. “Not—not really. Sometimes I might check on some old friends of my mother’s, the ones who used to look in on me before I lived with the Petersens.”
He said it so casually that I might have missed the oblique reference to his unfortunate upbringing. Like most people who had had a shitty early life, he tended to talk around the hard facts of his childhood rather than recall them directly. I didn’t want to push him to say more than he wanted—I understood the desire to keep some things firmly in the past—but I also didn’t want to hide the fact that I knew certain things he thought I didn’t.
“But honestly,” he continued without noticing my tension as we crossed the street, “most people I knew back then don’t even live there anymore, and the ones that still do don’t want to see me.”
I frowned. “Why’s that?”
“Probably because they think I should have come back when my ma got out of jail.”
Wait. That was completely different from what I’d been told. “What? I thought she was—”
“Was what?”
I gulped. Shit, I’d been caught. “Um, well, Kieran might have mentioned a few things to me. About your parents.”
His feet came to a sudden halt, stopping us in front of King’s Chapel, its famous cemetery eerily dark and silent in the heart of the city. “Kieran.”
“She’s your friend, right? She was there the night you and I met. Well, she’s the director of—”
“FLS. Yeah, I know.”
He didn’t move, standing as still and tall as the Corinthian columns holding up the front of the church. His arm around my shoulders felt like vice. I continued speaking in a rush, hoping to diffuse the sudden awkwardness that had sprouted between us.
“Kieran just said that you grew up together, that’s all. In the same house and that you were friends. And that your Mom is—”
“Dead.” The word fell between us like a stone.
“Um, yes,” I confirmed with a shaky nod. “And she mentioned that your dad—”
“Is finishing up his second ten-year sentence.” His arm fell from my shoulders and he shoved both of his hands deep into his coat pockets. When he looked at me, his expression was steel. “For beating up his last girlfriend with a wrench.”
I said nothing, but my stomach dropped at his icy words.
“Oh, she didn’t tell you that part?”
“Brandon, I’m sorry. Kieran just—”
“Has a way of butting in where she shouldn’t.” He pressed his lips together so hard that they nearly disappeared, then exhaled a long breath toward the sky. “What else did she say?”
“Um, well, she also said that your mom was a—had some issues with drugs.”
He pulled his hands out of his pockets and threaded them through his hair, something I now recognized as a sign of agitation. “Anything else?”
I shook my head. “No, not really.”
He darted a suspicious blue glance at me. “You sure?”
“Brandon, yes, I’m sure.” I took a step toward him,
hoping he might pull me back into the nook between his arm and his solid body. But instead he took another step back and sighed again.
“Well, I guess it’s for the best,” he said, his tone resigned. “You should know what I really come from.”
We stared at each other for what seemed like a full minute, and it felt like the busy downtown street where we stood was completely silent. His eyes were hooded yet direct; and I begged him to see openness in mine. I wanted to hear whatever he could tell me. I hadn’t been lying when I said that. So I waited.
“She is dead,” he finally said again. “A year after she was released. I was fifteen. She wanted to regain guardianship, but the judge asked me to make a statement about what I wanted.” He shrugged, as if testifying against his own mother weren’t a massive deal. Only the rising accent indicated otherwise. “Life with the Petersens was good. I was about to graduate high school, and they had already offered to send me to MIT if I could get in. I had enough to eat, and no one was coming home drunk or beating the shit out of me on a daily basis.”
I didn’t say anything, but couldn’t help but wince at his harsh words. I couldn’t imagine someone as tall and strong as Brandon being beaten by anyone. A vision of one of the kids from the clinic immediately rose to mind. Angie Martinez and her daughter both came in last Friday with bruises all over their arms; the little girl had a nasty cut over her right eye.
Suddenly I was choked up, imagining Brandon as a small, blonde-haired little boy, with the same kind of bruises up and down him. Brandon didn’t notice, just turned and started to walk quickly across the street toward the park without checking to make sure I was with him. I had to trot to keep up with him, but I was there while he strode the last three blocks past the Granary Cemetery and the Park Street Church. It wasn’t until we were well inside the Commons, walking in the relative peace of the bare-branched trees and the small lights that lines the pathways, that he finally slowed down to finish his story.
Legally Yours (Spitfire Book 1) Page 22
