Hollis struggles to swallow his next bite and grabs for his water. “No, I don’t.”
“Mmm,” I say, doing my best impression. “Mmm. Mmm. Ahhh. Mmm.” I increase the volume with each iteration. The men at the bar both turn to check out what the hell’s going on.
“Practicing my audition for aWhen Harry Met Sallyreboot,” I explain.
The men nod and turn back to their bottles of Modelo. Bitsand pieces of a conversation about how Hollywood must be out of ideas drift from the bar to our booth.
“For someone who appreciates her privacy, you sure don’t mind making a scene,” Hollis says in a sharp whisper.
“Me? I’m not the one getting it on with my dinner.”
He puts his spoon down in the bowl with a small clang as the metal hits ceramic, leans back in the booth, and folds his arms over his chest. His body language saystwo can play this game, and I feel my skin heat under his stare.
“Been a while since you had a good meal, Millicent?” And shit, hesmiles. A real smile, not the horrifying forced thing he flashed at the gas station or the nearly imperceptible hints of amusement from the car. This is the genuine article, and it causes these deep parentheses to bracket his mouth. Like the pleasure he’s taking in this conversation is an extra bit of information he wants me to note.
“I... eat,” I say. How is it possible that my throat feels too dry while my mouth feels too wet? I swallow hard, and he must notice because his grin widens.
“But who cooks for you?”
It is entirely unacceptable that he is throwing me off with his handsome face and this convoluted metaphor. Twocanplay this game. Put me in, coach. “Oh, I prefer to feed myself these days. Otherwise I find I usually leave the table still hungry.” I consider winking, but that’s always a gamble for me since half of the time I full on blink instead. I’m going for playful and sexy, not bewildered or like I have something in my eye. So I pick one of the plastic swords from my Shirley Temple and run the tip of my tongue up the side of the cherries before sliding them all into my mouth.
It has the desired effect; Hollis’s Adam’s apple bobs. He clearshis throat and regroups, the smile returning as he comes up with his next line. “Maybe you just haven’t found someone who knows their way around a kitchen.”
“Well, we can’t all have private chefs waiting for us in Miami,” I say, biting into one of my raviolis. And that does it. The smile falls from his face, leaving his mouth in a perfectly straight line, no parentheses in sight. Sure, part of me regrets putting an end to the sexy banter, but most of me is glad it’s over because it wasn’t going anywhere, and truly I haven’t had a good... meal... since Josh. Before Josh, in truth. His idea of cooking was opening a can of off-brand SpaghettiOs. Half the time he couldn’t even get the lid off fully before trying to shake me out into a saucepan.
This is getting entirely away from me. The point is Josh was bad at sex, I haven’t been with anyone since we broke up in September, and Hollis’s flirting doesn’t feel fair when he’s on his way to spend a week in bed with someone else.
“Millicent,” Hollis says. “I wasn’t trying to...” He pauses. He squints and his jaw visibly tenses. “Is that a guitar?”
I look up from where I’ve focused my eyes on my plate to find five men wearing black suits and giant, red-ribbon bow ties approaching us, instruments in tow. Sure enough, the guitarist is strumming the beginning chords to a song. When they reach our booth, the music pauses, and the man in the center takes a deep breath and belts out in a clear tenor voice, “En Nápoles, donde el amor es rey...” Hollis stares unblinking at his food as a trumpet joins in, and his jaw tenses further.
As they play, I recognize the tune, if not the words. I don’t laugh so much as cackle as a mariachi version of “That’s Amore” fills the mostly empty restaurant.
The band comes to the end of the song, and I give them myfervent applause. “Thank you so much,” I say, “for providing something I didn’t even know was missing from my life.”
The tenor smiles. “Another song, señorita?”
“No,” Hollis says, a little too vehemently. “We’re... we’re good here. Thank you, though. Thanks.”
The mariachi band strolls over to serenade another table, where José recently seated a family with two small children.
“Let it never be said José Napoleoni isn’t fully dedicated to this restaurant’s fusion concept,” I say.
Speak of the Mexican-Italian devil, the proprietor himself comes to check on us.
“The dessert menu is there, when you’re ready,” José says, gesturing to a laminated trifold propped between the caddy of sweeteners and the salt and pepper shakers. “We’re doing a special right now to celebrate our recent grand opening. If you post a photo of yourselves on social media using the hashtag JoseNapoleonis, dessert is on the house. Trying to get the word out there.” He gives a little wink before going to take the other table’s order.
Hollis checks out the desserts and his eyes go wide as they land on something he must find particularly interesting. The man appears to have a major sweet tooth. “Sopaipillas with cannoli dip,” he says, his voice filled with longing.
“Do you have an Instagram account?” I ask.
He sounds uncertain as he responds, “Yes?”
“Okay, so let’s take the picture and have the post ready to show José when he gets back.” I slide out of my side of the booth and into his.
He scoots farther in toward the wall so our legs aren’t touching. “No, it’s fine. We can pay the eight dollars or whatever to buy it. I know how you feel about social media stuff.”
“But I owe you. You ordered for me to ensure I got my raviolis, and sugar seems to be your preferred gratitude currency. Besides,” I say. “Josh probably follows you, right? If he sees us together, it’s going to make him so mad.”
