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  “What?” Theresa scoffed. She’d show Janna how romantic it was. She proceeded to tell her the whole sordid tale of how Michael had taken advantage of her parents, weaseling a dinner invitation by bringing them a plate of food from the restaurant. She did not tell Janna how she almost fell back into her old habit of mindless flirting as they walked to the train station. Janna would latch on to that like a terrier on a plump, juicy ankle. When she was done, she sat back triumphantly.

  “I think you’re wrong about Michael,” Janna said quietly.

  Theresa blinked. She had fully expected Janna to agree that it was wrong of Michael to surprise her like that at her parents’ home. “Excuse me?”

  “I know him better than you, Ter, and I’m sure his bringing food to your folks was completely on the level.”

  “He admitted he was hoping they’d put in a good word for him!”

  “Well, he’s honest. But he has a big heart. Ty once found him giving out care packages of ziti to some of the homeless guys who congregate around the entrance to Penn Station.”

  “So nominate him for sainthood,” Theresa interrupted.

  “He’s no saint, that’s for sure. He’s got a wicked temper.”

  “Tell me about it. I thought his head was going to pop off on the train platform when I told him I don’t date Italian guys.”

  “I don’t blame him.”

  Theresa’s heart sank in dismay. “You’re supposed to be supportive of me, not him. That’s what best friends do.”

  “You’re being arbitrary and unfair. One cup of coffee with Michael Dante wouldn’t kill you.”

  “Yes, it would. Besides, he’s a client. I want this relationship to remain strictly professional, thank you.”

  “You mean like mine and Ty’s did?” Janna asked, eyeing the last small bite of cake. Theresa pushed the box to Janna and handed over her fork.

  “You and Ty were different,” said Theresa.

  “How?”

  “You liked Ty. I don’t like Michael.” I won’t let myself, she added in her head.

  “But you like that he sent you a present,” Janna crooned.

  “Shut up, will you, please?” Theresa said with a sigh. This whole exchange was reminding her of a bad after-school special, teenage girls teasing each other into revealing secret crushes. . . . If she were flattered that Michael had sent her the pastry—which she wasn’t—Janna was the last person she’d admit it to. Janna would go running to Ty and Ty would say something to Michael at practice and then it would be all over. It would be exactly like high school.

  She watched as Janna finished the cake and tipped the empty box and remaining fork into the trash. Obviously, the tiramisu was made by Michael’s brother, and that bode well for the restaurant. If she did her job right, Toothless Michael the Noodge and Chef Anthony the Nut were going to be elevated to a level they never dreamed of. She could already imagine the review in the New York Times, the four-star rating . . . and it would all be because of her hard work and creativity. And the food, of course.

  “Theresa?”

  Blinking the daydream away, she turned to her friend. “Mmm?”

  “I’m sorry to push you about Michael. I know you hate it. It’s just that it’s been so long since you’ve gone out with anyone, and he’s such a nice guy—”

  Theresa made a zipping gesture across her lips and Janna shut up.

  The subject was closed.

  Three days and three more dessert deliveries to the office forced Theresa down to the gym at Chelsea Piers for an hour-long session on a cross trainer. Between the tiramisu, sfogliatelle, olive-oil cake and almond cookies, she didn’t want to think about how many calories she had ingested. She had to hand it to Michael: He was persistent.

  Not to mention creative; other guys might have tried flowers or perfume.

  She increased both the exertion and elevation level on the elliptical. Perspiration seemed to be pouring off her in buckets, rivulets running between her breasts and down her back. Just ten more minutes to go, she thought, as she mopped her dripping face with a towel and took a large gulp of Evian. She tried to resume reading the book she’d brought, but the truth was that she could never concentrate on words when she was working out. She wound up reading the same paragraph over and over. She wished she’d brought her Walkman with her. At least then she could zone out listening to music.

  She was panting her way through her final four minutes when she thought she heard someone say her name. She looked up to see a blond vision looking buff and delectable and standing only a few feet away from her.

  Reese Banister.

  “I didn’t know you worked out here,” he said. He was wearing gray sweat pants and a plain white T-shirt.

  “Yeah . . . I . . . do,” Theresa managed breathlessly. This is not happening. I am not standing here on this machine with no makeup on, drenched in sweat and stinking to high heaven, in front of this man. It is a hallucination. If I blink once, he will go away.

  She blinked.

  “What are you reading?” he asked with interest.

  Shit.

  “Um . . . uh . . .” Theresa stopped peddling in an effort to catch her breath. Mortification had struck her mute. She could barely form words. She sounded like a grunting idiot. In a few seconds, he would realize this and turn away from her in disgust. Quickly, she handed her book to him.

  “Wuthering Heights,” he read out loud. “Hooked on the classics, huh?”

  “I like to read it once a year,” she told him, her breathing beginning to normalize somewhat.

  “So you’re a romantic,” he murmured.

  Theresa could feel herself blush straight up to the roots of her sweaty hair. “I guess.”

  “Have you ever seen the movie? he asked. “You know, the original, with Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon?”

  Theresa nodded, her heart pounding wildly. She adored that movie. She could quote huge chunks of dialogue from it. Her impersonation of Cathy flinging herself across the rainy moors howling “Heathcliff!” was famous. “You’ve seen it?” she ventured.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Reese. He looked almost bashful. “I love old movies.”

  “Me, too,” Theresa confessed.

  “Name your favorite.”

  Theresa shook her head, tongue-tied. “I couldn’t. There are so many.”

  “Top three, then,” Reese goaded.

  Theresa thought hard, trying to ignore the glare from a nearby woman who clearly thought she should surrender the cross trainer. “Gone with the Wind is definitely up there,” she said slowly. “Strangers on a Train . . . Casablanca. ”

  “You can’t say Casablanca. Everyone says Casablanca.”

  “I was unaware there were rules to this game.”

  “That’s the only one,” Reese promised.

  “Okay, then. A Streetcar Named Desire.”

  Reese’s eyes lit with unexpected surprise. “That’s in my top three, too!”

  “What are your other two?” Theresa asked.

  While Reese contemplated the question, Theresa grappled with the excitement welling up within her. They shared so many common interests, interests she never thought she’d find embodied in one man. Like a flower long buried under snow, Theresa could feel herself thawing and preparing to bloom. It was a feeling she hadn’t experienced since before the Lubov incident. She gratefully welcomed its return.

  Reese snapped his fingers. “Got it! Bridge Over the River Kwai and Zulu.”

  “Those are guy films.”

  “So? They’re great.”

  “I’m not sure I agree.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to have our own film festival some time and see who’s right.”

  Theresa blushed again, prompting Reese to cough uncomfortably. Looking apologetic, he handed the book back to her. “Sorry I interrupted your workout.”

  “No, it’s okay,” she said, patting the back of her neck with a towel. “I was almost done anyway.”

  “You don’
t look like you need to work out.”

  “Believe me, I do. If I didn’t go to the gym my butt would have its own zip code.” What was she saying?! Here they’d had a nice, relaxed, intellectual conversation—he’d even flirted with her, if she wasn’t mistaken—and she had to ruin it by putting herself down like some self-deprecating twit?? Time. To. Shut. Up. Theresa tried to be cool as she reached for her Evian bottle and drank deeply. Unfortunately, the water went down the wrong pipe. She leapt off the cross trainer coughing and spluttering.

  “Theresa! Are you all right?” Reese asked, alarmed.

  “Fine,” Theresa wheezed, humiliated. Slow breaths, take nice slow breaths, then run away as fast as you can.

  “You sure you’re okay?” He looked genuinely concerned.

  “Fine, fine,” Theresa croaked.

  “I was wondering . . . have you and Janna had a chance to look at that memo I gave you?”

  Business. “We’ve looked at it,” she told him, “but we haven’t had a chance to discuss it.”

  “Oh, okay. That’s fine. Ummm, maybe you and I could get together over drinks Friday night?” he asked casually. “To talk about it,” he added. And then said shyly, “And other, more important things like writing and photography and old movies. Are you free?”

  Not business! “Sure!” The urge to resume coughing and spluttering returned, this time from sheer disbelief. “I mean, I think so. I mean, I have to check my PalmPilot and get back to you.” I mean, I should just nod and be quiet!

  “Great.” His smile was infectious. “What if I give you a call at work to finalize plans?”

  Theresa nodded. “That sounds good,” she said.

  “Okay, then. I guess I’ll see you Friday.” He pointed in the direction of the rowing machines. “I’m going to work out. Have a good night.”

  “You, too,” said Theresa, collecting her things and heading straight to the locker room to shower.

  I have a date, she thought, amazed. Maybe it’s time.

  CHAPTER 05

  Fall was in the air. Theresa could feel its invigorating bite, and every tree she passed proudly displayed its new wardrobe of oranges, reds and yellows. For most people, the new year began in January. But for Theresa, it always started in the fall, when the hot, dreamy days of summer officially ended and everyone was forced back to the realities of work or school. To her, autumn was a time laden with possibility. Normally, spending a glorious day like this on a non-Sunday trip to Bensonhurst would dampen her spirits.

  Not today.

  She was meeting Reese Banister for drinks tonight. She imagined his face illumined by flickering candlelight as his sensitive blue eyes unlocked the secret of her soul. . . .

  Stop.

  Now was not the time to fantasize.

  She had arrived at Dante’s and had work to do.

  The door to the restaurant was open, and she ducked inside. It had been a month since she’d last seen Michael, running like a lunatic beside her train. In the interim, she’d been busting her butt coming up with a good plan for putting Dante’s on the map. Her gut instinct was that Michael—irritating as he was—would be open to her suggestions. It would be an uphill battle with his brother. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw Michael sitting at the same table as last time.

  But he wasn’t dressed casually in jeans and a tennis shirt.

  This time he was wearing tight black polyester pants and a sleeveless white undershirt known in some circles as a “wife beater.” Around his neck was a giant, gold Italian horn. On his left hand, an ostentatious pinky ring. On his right wrist, a braided gold bracelet thick as a dog collar. His hair was slicked back and a toothpick dangled suggestively from his lips.

  “Hey, babe,” he crooned as she approached the table. “What took ya so long?”

  Theresa bit her lip, but it was no use; she burst out laughing. “What on earth—?”

  “Wha? I’m an Italian guy, right? So I figured I’d bedda start lookin’ and actin’ da part.” He slouched down his chair, opening his legs wide. “Lookin’ good today, sweet-cakes. My wife’s working late. Wanna go out dancin’?”

  “Stop it,” Theresa begged.

  “Stop what?”

  “Fine.” Theresa slid into the seat opposite him. “I was wrong. Now cut the wiseguy act. You’re giving me the creeps.”

  “Okay, baby. Anyting for you.” Michael straightened up in his chair, removing the toothpick from his mouth. “Better?”

  “A bit.” Theresa found herself smiling. “You need your head examined,” she told him.

  Michael grinned. “It got a reaction out of you, didn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” Theresa admitted begrudgingly.

  Michael noticed her eyes do a circuit of his body, pausing to admire his bare biceps. He held up his right arm, making a fist and flexing his arm. “You wanna cop a feel, baby? Be my guest.”

  Giggling, Theresa reached out to briefly touch the rock-hard muscle.

  “Nice and hard, huh?” Michael asked.

  “Oooh, very hard,” Theresa snorted, playing along.

  “Just the way the ladies like it,” Michael confided. “Wanna touch the other one?”

  Theresa started to speak, then stopped, heat rising to her cheeks. Stop, a voice in her head warned. Stop now. This is exactly the kind of behavior that got you in trouble in the first place. Stop flirting. Stick to business. “Let’s discuss the restaurant instead, shall we?” she returned lightly. But even as she said it, she was having a hard time keeping her eyes off his body. And that bracelet! “Where did you get that jewelry?”

  “The horn is Anthony’s. The ring and the bracelet belong to my cousin Paul.”

  “Or Paulie,” Theresa replied quickly, “as he’s probably known.”

  Frowning with disappointment, Michael slouched again and shoved the toothpick back between his lips. “You’re doin’ it again, angel.”

  “Sorry,” Theresa muttered grouchily, relieved when he grabbed a flannel shirt off the back of his chair and covered up the well-sculpted arms and shoulders she’d never noticed before today.

  Divested of his toothpick, he smiled playfully. “So, now that you know what an innovative, witty, and non stereotypical Italian male I am, will you have coffee with me?”

  “Let’s talk business first, all right?” Theresa craned her neck past him to peer at the kitchen doors. “Will your brother be joining us?”

  “No, Lurch is hiding in the kitchen waiting for you to leave. Later, I’ll tell him what we discussed, and he’ll curse me for tampering with the purity of our parents’ vision.”

  “Sounds like you two have a great relationship.”

  “We do. In between the name calling and occasional fist fights.” Michael gazed at the walls of the restaurant. “Let me guess: The first thing you want us to do is build a big bonfire, and torch the pictures of Frank, the Pope and the gondoliers.”

  “Nope,” Theresa replied cheerfully. “I want you to keep the decor.”

  “You do?” Michael pushed back in his chair, surprised.

  “Yup. It’s homey, which is how we’re going to spin the restaurant: as an unpretentious family place where customers can get good, traditional Italian food at decent prices.”

  Michael peered at her dubiously. “Are you yanking my chain?”

  “No.” Theresa laughed, smiling. “Look, there’s a trend right now toward comfort food. People want stuff they remember from childhood, or from their imagined childhood: meatloaf, macaroni and cheese, spaghetti and meatballs, you name it. You guys are going to become the name in Italian comfort food.”

  “So we don’t have to change the menu?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Michael looked confused. “How are we going to pull in new customers if we don’t have a new look or a new menu?”

  Theresa beamed. “Specials.”

  “Specials,” Michael repeated blankly.

  “You’re going to have something special two or three times
a month, tied to the calendar. The first Friday night of every month could be family night; kids eat free and adults have unlimited salad and breadsticks. In December you could offer a big, traditional Italian dinner on Christmas Eve. January? A Superbowl party. Romantic candlelight dinner on Valentine’s Day. A Mother’s Day special in May.” Theresa found herself getting excited. “We’ll tie specials into the community. Next September, you could run a special connected to the Santa Rosalia festival. There will never be a holiday or local event for which Dante’s isn’t doing something special.”

  “Starting when?”

  “Now.” She checked Michael’s expression, hoping to see the enthusiasm she was feeling reflected back at her. Instead, he looked like he was suffering from a bad case of indigestion. “What’s wrong?”

  “When you say specials . . . will Anthony have to make special dishes?”

  “Sometimes, like for Christmas Eve and Valentine’s Day. In the summer, you guys could make up special picnic baskets to go with biscotti, cured olives, some panini.”

  Michael looked doubtful. “I don’t know.”

  “I do,” Theresa said confidently.

  “This will bring in the real foodies?”

  “In time. I’m going to start by sending out a press kit to every magazine and newspaper writer under the sun who has anything to do with food. I’ve already compiled a list of about three hundred.”

  “Three hundred?”

  “And that doesn’t even include radio and TV personalities who we want to try to get in here to review the restaurant. I’m telling you: One thumbs-up from Joan Hamburg at WOR and you’ll have a line out the door, guaranteed. When’s the construction being done for the expansion?”

  “March, I think. We’re open in April.”

  “Hmmm.” Theresa nibbled the tip of her pen. “That means we might miss the chance to do Easter dinner here, depending on when it falls. We’ll have to check the calendar.”

  She stopped talking, giving him time to let it sink in. Michael remained silent.

  “You look shell-shocked.” She laughed.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Michael answered carefully. “Everything you’re laying out sounds great. It’s just Anthony. He’s going to blow a gasket. I can hear it already: ‘Mom and Pop never ran monthly specials, yada yada yada.’ ”