“No, but that makes me feel sorry for the tree.”
He rolled his eyes. “You would. Does it help that this vintage is French, and French barrels cost twice as much as American ones?”
“Yes. That does help. Thank you.”
When he smiled, she felt relieved, glad to avoid more serious talk. As the bottle hovered over her glass, she held out a hand to slow his pour. “I should go back to the bakery and work more tonight.”
“We’ve both been working eighteen hours a day. A night off and some sleep might be good for us.” He raised a brow in question as he continued to hold the bottle over her glass.
“Okay, fine.” She removed her hand. “But one glass is my limit. The last time we drank, I agreed to a fake marriage.”
Leo tossed his head back and let out a hearty laugh. Which somehow gave her a little thrill.
He lifted his glass to hers, then waved a hand over the food. “Mangia. Eat.”
Then he dug right in while she plucked a noodle with her fork, because suddenly she felt a little overwhelmed. With the trouble he’d gone through, with the glimpse into his inner life. With…everything.
Meanwhile, Leo had a large amount of pasta twirled around his folk when he halted. “Is something wrong?”
She set down her fork. “Just…thank you for making dinner. I appreciate it.” How to tell him that in all the time she was with Sam, he’d never done this? Oh, order takeout, sure, but…no. Nothing like preparing a meal when she was too tired to even think about making one herself.
He paused with his fork almost to his mouth. “Seems like you might need someone to cook for you a little more often.”
She tried to keep the conversation light. “As the oldest, I’ve whipped up a lot of quick meals for my sisters. Totally not the same.”
“Sam didn’t cook?”
That startled her. His bringing up Sam. “Not at all.”
“When two people are busy in a relationship, it’s nice for both to toe the line.” He swirled his wine. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to judge.”
“Actually, you judged correctly. And you’re right. My next fiancé is definitely going to cook like this.”
“Good one.” He took a sip of wine. “There’s nothing like a good meal at the end of a long day—that’s what my dad always says.” He dove into the pasta. “My mom used to make this dish a lot. It’s just butter and garlic pasta with fresh veggies. Good in a pinch, filling, delicious.”
“There’s more in here than butter and garlic. Mussels, for one. And some green stuff. Basil, maybe?”
“It’s a secret.” He grinned widely. The sight of which made her stomach flip—not good when confronted by a full meal. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“Then I’ll stop asking questions.” She smiled over her wineglass.
“Just…enjoy it.” He stopped forking it in to examine her plate. “And please tell me you’re going to eat more than four noodles.”
“You probably never met a carb you didn’t like. I never met a carb that didn’t stick to my hips.”
“You have amazing hips,” he said. She stopped chewing and looked up. “I mean,” he said, clearing his throat, “I mean…”
She held up a hand. “You don’t have to be nice. I guess I got the curves in the family.”
That made him set down his fork. “I’m not being nice. You couldn’t possibly not know you’re stunning, Tessa.”
This was getting really…awkward. He was just trying to get along. Or whatever. She shook her head. “Thanks, but time to change the subject.”
“Ha. Well, let me tell you about the food. Gia and I used to eat in the restaurant every night after school. We’d literally finish our homework and sit down at a table in the back, and our dad would say, ‘What do you want me to make you to eat?’”
“That sounds like a dream,” Tessa said. “Did you used to eat what was on the menu?”
“Anything we wanted. A lot of times there would be a big vat of something—like spaghetti or some frutti di mare or maybe even homemade pizza. It was fabulous.”
“Both our cultures appreciate food,” Tessa said.
“Well, except you French put four nuts on a plate and call it a meal.” He said it with a deliberate, mischievous twinkle in his eye.
She couldn’t let that one go. “And you Italians overflow your plates and go in for seconds.”
“We have pizza.” He sat back with a try-and-top-that expression.
“Crepes,” she countered.
“You French eat snails and call it food.”
“And you Italians douse your dishes in enough cheese to give a heart attack a heart attack.”
“Frog legs.”
Okay, this was war.
“Perrier,” she added.
“San Pellegrino,” he bit back.
“Champagne!”
“Chianti.”
“Paris.”
“Rome.”
She threw her hands in the air. “Okay, I give up. You are still so competitive,” she said. “But you work really hard, so I can’t be too mean.”
“I think competitive is…interesting. And you work just as hard.” He flashed a smile that made her stomach flip.
What was it about him? This back-and-forth, this going toe-to-toe. It was kind of…exhilarating. In a bizarre way.
Leo set down his wineglass with conviction. “I’m going to do whatever it takes to save our restaurant. Not just for my family. For me, too. I’m learning more from my dad than just running the business; I’m learning about the food. I know if he saw how successful my ideas could be, he’d change his mind and let me try some new things. I just have to find a way to convince him.”
“So why don’t you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Show him your ideas in action.”
“Tessa, he won’t let me do farm-to-table. Or create a delivery service. Or anything.”
“Have you thought about a trial run?”
“I’ve thought of just about everything.” He pinched his nose in frustration. “He keeps telling me no.”
“Then set something up privately. Like, showcase everything you can do on a small scale—just for him. And I’ll do the dessert. It will be like a proposal. Except not on paper but in person.”