Ignite (Cloverleigh Farms #6)(70)

“I understand. It’s home to you.” I played with the stem of my glass. “It’s hard for me to leave home too.”

“Are you having second thoughts?” Ellie’s eyes widened.

“No, not exactly. I’m committed to the job, it’s just . . .” I glanced at a table to our left, where a family was celebrating a fiftieth anniversary. “Actually, it’s nothing. Nerves.”

She eyed me shrewdly as she sipped her gimlet. “Except that’s not your nerves face. That’s your I’m-trying-to-keep-from-admitting-the-truth face.”

I tried to hide behind my martini glass while taking a sip. Setting it down, I shrugged. “I’m . . . I’m kind of into the guy.”

“The neighbor?”

“Yeah. But that’s why it’s better that I’m leaving, right?”

Ellie studied me with pursed lips. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s only been a couple weeks, right?”

“Right.” I sat up taller and told myself to stop being foolish. “I’m being silly. He’s just really cool, and we have a good time together. But it’s not serious.”

“Are you guys seeing a lot of each other?” she asked casually.

“Not really.” I looked left again. Someone had tied balloons to the backs of their couple’s chairs—one said “50 Years” and the others were shiny gold hearts. “Just the nights he doesn’t have the kids or work.”

“Every night he doesn’t have the kids or work?”

“Um, yeah. So far.” I picked up my martini and sipped. “But we’re still just friends with benefits.”

“It’s just that you’re really digging those benefits?”

I laughed. “Yeah.”

“Well, maybe you’ll meet a hot guy in Rhode Island who can offer you all those benefits but comes with less baggage.” She tipped up her gimlet. “Although if you fall in love with him before Christmas, you still owe me the thing.”

“How are you even going to collect if I live in another state?”

“You’ll come home for the holidays at some point, right? You’d never stay away from your family for too long.”

“Maybe I won’t tell you about falling in love with the hot Rhode Island guy,” I said teasingly.

Ellie held up one hand. “Please. You are incapable of holding back your feelings. Some people bury them, Win, but you toss them in the air like confetti.”

Our server appeared and set down a plate. “Ladies, the grilled peaches and burrata with prosciutto and arugula.”

“Did we order this?” I looked at the dish, my mouth watering.

“I don’t think we did, but it looks amazing.” Ellie smiled at the server. “Some other table is probably waiting for it.”

The server shook his head. “The chef sent it out for you.”

“He did?” Ellie laughed. “Is it Mr. Lupo?”

“Yes,” the server replied.

“Please say thank you for us,” I said, spreading my napkin on my lap.

The server nodded. “Enjoy.”

Throughout the rest of the meal, extra dishes were sent out to our table—tiny, single-bite amuse-bouches that surprised and delighted us every time. A sautéed scallop dusted with walnut crumbs, a paté topped with fig and apricot, a roasted baby beet with goat cheese and mint. Our entrées, veal for me and stuffed pork chops for Ellie, were delectable. And for dessert, which neither of us had ordered, our server brought two house-made cannoli.

Although we protested that we were too full to eat them, we took one bite and kept going. When there was nothing but crumbs left on the table, our server came over and smiled. “Did you enjoy the meal?”

“Every bite,” I said. “But I’m beyond full, so don’t bring us any more food.”

He laughed. “How about a digestif? Maybe Limoncello?”

Ellie and I exchanged a glance and shrugged. “Okay,” she said. “That sounds good.”

“I’ll be right back.” He was only gone for a couple minutes, returning with two crystal cordial glasses of icy Limoncello.

“Thank you. And please tell Mr. Lupo how much we enjoyed every bite,” Ellie said. “That was so nice of him to spoil us all night.”

The server nodded, placing his hands behind his back. “You must be good friends.”

“He’s good friends with my parents,” she explained, taking a tiny sip of Limoncello. “I grew up calling him Uncle Nick.”

He looked confused a moment. “The chef tonight is Gianni Lupo. Not his father.”

Ellie’s mouth fell open. “Gianni was the chef tonight? Dammit! If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have eaten all those things he sent out.”

“Right,” I said knowingly. “Because we turn down house-made cannoli all the time.” I looked at the server. “Please let him know everything was wonderful, including the service. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” He nodded and backed away. Ellie set down her drink and took out her wallet.

“What are you doing?” I asked her.

“I’m getting ready to leave. Any minute now, Gianni will come out here and gloat that we devoured all his stupid amazing food.”