Calli looked into piercing light-green eyes, stifled a snicker, snorted instead, then covered her mouth and curled toward the table.
“How are we finding everything this evening?” he asked.
Trina kicked her shin under the table, and Calli’s eyes started watering from struggling not to release the fit of hilarity. She wondered which of her friends had set this up, and feeling a bit wine-numbed, the hot man’s sudden appearance got her giggly.
“Everything is wonderful,” said Jordan. “Calli here was in seventh heaven with the taste of the prosciutto balls.”
Calli bit down in reaction to the word balls. What was she—a thirteen-year-old boy?
Gracefully, the man lifted the bottle of wine. “They are especially pleasing on the palette with the Petite Petit. Nice choice.”
Calli tucked her chin in tighter, trying desperately to control her laugh.
“Is your friend all right?” his rich, husky voice inquired.
Calli pressed her lips tighter as a bellow threatened to explode from her chest and throat.
“She’ll be fine . . . maybe after some water,” said Jordan.
“I’ll send over the server for refills. My name is Nic Moore. Let me know if you need anything at all.” He strolled away.
Trina waved a hand in the air and said, “Guuurrl, what is wrong with you?”
Calli’s restrained laughter erupted, and it felt like a good five minutes before she calmed down and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Okay, which one of you paid to have the hottie stop by the table?”
“He’s the restaurant manager,” Tory whispered, leaning a little closer and looking after Nic. “See, he’s greeting all the tables.”
“Oh.” Calli felt a little light-headed, whether from the laughter or wine, she wasn’t quite certain.
Tory stood and dropped her napkin on the table. “I need to visit the little girl’s room. Give me your cards, there’s one of those thingies up front. Maybe we can win.”
Calli, Trina, and Jordan fished out their business cards. As Tory walked toward the front, Calli said, “I think everyone wins those silly drawings,” and finished her glass of wine.
Dom
Dom scanned the restaurant, taking note of which tables were finishing up, then walked back to the front to check the reservation schedule. His standard of service at Moretti’s was to ensure that seating flowed without having people loitering in the entry for an hour as they waited for a table. Over the years, the restaurant had become enough of an iconic establishment that only the occasional drop-in happened before the late happy hour at ten o’clock, at which time the bar became quite crowded. The regular clientele knew well enough that reservations were a requirement.
“Good evening, Mr. Moore.” The hostess passed as she escorted a couple into the seating area—a young, radiant woman and a man whose eyes shifted nervously to Dom’s and away as he patted the breast pocket of his suit.
Reading an impending proposal in the man’s twitchiness and worried eyes, Dom turned and, for a long moment, he watched the patron dote over his date. He pulled her chair for her to take a seat, then touched his breast pocket again. After she sat, he moved his own chair a little closer, keeping just enough room to eventually sink to one knee. Dom grinned.
In the reception area, he stopped next to Anton, the maggiordomo, and whispered, “Have the bartender chill a bottle of champagne, on the house, and make sure the waiter delivers it just after the man asks the big question.” It was quite the show to have engagement events at Moretti’s. It occurred with some regularity, and Dom loved being a part of so many couples’ special moments. It was part of the reason he’d gone into the restaurant business originally. Ironic that I’ve never felt that temptation.
Letting out a small amused laugh, he returned to business and perused the evening schedule. Seven parties were due to arrive within the half hour, matching the seven tables he’d counted as he’d scanned the floor. Everything was right on—
“Excuse me?” A high-pitched voice interrupted his calculation. He turned to the short woman who’d called for his attention, wrinkling his brow. She shuffled some cards nervously in her hand and shifted her eyes between him and the dining room.
She’d been at the table with the four women . . . the one where the lady couldn’t stop laughing when he’d greeted the table. An evening didn’t go by when he wasn’t propositioned by at least one woman, but this one wasn’t one he’d expected to approach him.
“Yes? May I help you?” he asked.
“Can we—” She pointed to the hallway leading to the restrooms and stairs, then shimmied over to the wall beside the hall entry.
Dom noted the rock on her left hand, which further added to his confusion. He joined her.
“Nic, right?” She asked as she looked around him, apparently to ensure no one was watching.
He nodded, keeping up with his persona, and leaned against the wall with one hand casually in his pocket. She was more than a head shorter, so the slump brought him a little closer to her height.
“This is a bit awkward.” She swallowed, clearly thinking where to begin. Then, suddenly, she widened her eyes at something she must have realized too late, and added, “Oh. And not about me at all.”
Dom relaxed a little as she flipped through the three business cards in her hand.
“My friend, Calli. I think you should call her.”
Dom accepted the card, a familiar style, and read: Callista Stockton, Moffitt & Hall. So she worked at the same firm as his own investment advisor, Kyle. “This is the one closest to the door? In the floral dress?” When the woman affirmed, he raised both brows. “What makes you think I should call her? She didn’t look up while I was at the table.” In fact, she seemed to have found his presence quite hilarious.
The woman snatched the card from his hand, darted over to the hostess table for a pen, and scribbled on the back. Returning, she handed back the card. “That’s her mobile. I’ve known her forever. Just . . . trust me . . . you two would have a great time together.” She skirted around him and back into the dining room.
Dom shook his head. But you don’t know me, he thought. He slipped the card into his pocket and went to the dining room entrance to see this Callista Stockton again. The lady walked back and took her seat as the taller, more sultry woman beside her made an apparently funny remark. Callista tipped her head back, laughing freely and allowing her dark curls to spill further down her back. Then she exposed the curve of her neck by gathering the curls and pulling the weight of her hair over one shoulder. The floral pattern she wore said she was strong, yet sensual. It wasn’t one of the dime-a-dozen, tight, plunging-neckline skin suits that most women going after him flaunted. Then again, she wasn’t really after him, was she?
Behind him, Anton greeted the next Moretti’s guests, and Dom returned to work.
Chapter 5
Calli
The phone buzzed on the desk in Calli’s home office, and she reluctantly lifted her heavy head from where it lay cradled on her arms, her keyboard pushed forward to allow the room. The space between her temples throbbed in protest as she squinted at the phone’s screen. It read, Lanesboro High School.