When It Falls Apart (The D'Angelos, #1)(18)

“I’m good. Thank you.”

Chloe walked away and Brooke smiled.

The ravioli was even better than the last time. How you could beat lobster, she didn’t know, but the way the cheese melted on her tongue was bliss.

How on earth did Chloe keep her slim frame with this kind of food available every day?

Brooke had asked herself that question the two times she’d been in Italy. Pasta, in European portions, was available like potatoes were in America, in one form or another every night. Bread, pasta . . . wine. Yet the women were slim, and the men fit. Brooke had chalked it up to all the walking one did while roaming the city. She’d stayed in Florence and Rome during her trips, Florence being her favorite. While Little Italy was not Firenze, it was the closest thing she would get to it on this side of “the pond.” And in light of her father’s health . . . the closest she’d get to it in years. Which was depressing if she were being honest with herself.

She’d take it. And maybe take the time to learn Italian so when she did return to the real thing, she’d have a better grasp of the world around her.

She liked the idea.

Intentions, life goals, and something to look forward to.

Another bite of cheese and pasta went past her lips, and she sighed with pleasure and closed her eyes.

“I see you’re enjoying your meal.”

Brooke’s eyes opened to find an older woman standing a few feet from the table, a smile on her face.

“The ravioli is sinful. You should try it.”

The woman put a hand to her chest and offered a slight bow of her head. “Grazie. My grandmother’s recipe.”

Brooke brought her napkin up to her mouth and swallowed her food completely. “This is your restaurant?”

“It is. Mari D’Angelo,” she said in introduction.

“I’m Brooke Turner. I’m new here . . . well, soon to be new here. This is my second time in your restaurant and I’m in love.”

The woman’s smile was radiant. She had to be in her late fifties, maybe sixties. Her accent thick enough to suggest that English was her second language.

“You’re moving to our Italy?”

“I’d like to. The rents are a bit steep, though.”

The rushing of small feet preceded the appearance of Francesca. “Nonna, Nonna!”

“Slow down before your papa sees you,” Mari warned the girl.

“Too late.” A deep, sexy, Italian voice shivered up Brooke’s spine as the quintessential Little Italy man came into view. Dressed in jeans and a casual shirt and not the white uniform of a cook, he had a strong jaw, with piercing eyes that looked through you.

Sexy. Way too damn sexy.

“We’re going to the park,” Franny announced to her grandmother.

Brooke found herself smiling. “Where you can run without risk of colliding with the waiters.”

At her words, Francesca’s father took the moment to look up. His gaze narrowed, then softened . . . slightly. “You.”

He recognized her.

She was surprised. “Hello again.”

Mari moved her gaze between them. “You know each other?”

Brooke shook her head. “No. Not really. When I was here before, Franny and I ran into each other.”

Franny pinched her lips, glanced up. “We did?”

“That’s not how I remember it.” He took a moment and explained what had happened. Mari’s smile settled on her face and her hands clasped in front of her as she watched her son speak.

“I see,” Mari said when he was done talking. “Francesca is just as energetic as you were at her age.”

As if proving her grandmother’s point, the girl tugged on her father’s hand. “C’mon. Let’s go. Dinner will be soon.”

Mari waved a hand at her son. “Go. I’m here for the first rush if you’re late.”

“We’ll be back.” His eyes traveled to Brooke. “Enjoy your meal . . .” His words trailed off as if in question.

“Brooke.”

“Brooke,” he repeated. “And thank you again.”

“Please, it’s not, wasn’t . . . a problem.”

He turned, said something to his mother in Italian, and walked away, Franny’s hand in his.

“My son. A good man. Excellent father. Hard to do on your own. But he does it,” Mari said after he was out of sight.

The hair on Brooke’s neck did a little dance as Mari disclosed a little too much information for a patron in the restaurant. Or maybe that was the Italian way.

“I’m sorry, I’ve met your son twice now and have never gotten his name.”

If Mari was smiling before, she was radiant now. “Luca. Strong name, vero?”

“Yes.” Brooke glanced at her plate and Mari gasped.

She rattled something in Italian and then started apologizing profusely. “All this chatter and your food is cold.”

Before Brooke could utter a word, Mari called out to the kitchen. By the time Brooke could take a second bite of her cold pasta, the matriarch of the D’Angelo family had another steaming hot plate in front of her and was whisking away the old one.

“Ah, better.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I did. You eat, and perhaps we can talk over cappuccino when you’re done.”