His teasing smile widened, slow and sure. “Place yourself in my hands, bella. Just tell me how many scoops and let me surprise you.”
She was helpless to resist. “Okay. You choose. Two scoops, please.” She cleared her throat and found a bit of courage. “I place myself in your expert hands.”
Was that a blush darkening his sculpted cheekbones? No, it must be a reflection from the deep red gelato he scooped into her paper bowl. He added a scoop of creamy white laced with ribbons of crimson, then raised a spray can and his eyebrows. When she nodded, he topped the bowl with a fluffy peak of whipped cream and handed it over, along with a plastic spoon.
“Tell me if I got it right.” His dark gaze never left her face as she lifted a bite to her lips.
Subtle and creamy, hints of vanilla contrasted with a sharp burst of cherry flavor. “Wow.”
“That’s amarena. Bitter cherries with fior de latte.” He gestured with a tilt of his chin. “Try the other.”
She dug into the fruit ice. Tart and rich, the perfect foil. Mouth full and tongue a bit numb, she smiled and nodded.
“Frutti di bosco. Fruits of the forest. It’s good, huh?” His flirtatious mask slipped a little, giving her a glimpse of the young man beneath, sweet and eager to please. And holy brain freeze, wouldn’t she love to please him in return.
“The perfect combination. You are a true artist, signore.” She glanced around the shop, grateful no new customers interrupted this surprise encounter. “But where’s Salvatore?”
The brass bell above the door tinkled, and the old gent in question stepped through, thick silver hair gleaming, burly arms around a big Styrofoam cooler. He set his load on the counter, spread his arms wide, and flashed a mustachioed smile. “La bella Daniella!” He enfolded her in a warm hug and glanced over her shoulder. “But where’s your family? I have your daughter’s favorite right here.” He patted the cooler.
The mention of her missing kids pierced her happy, sexy ice-cream dream. “I’m afraid they aren’t coming this year. Jason and I, we—” No use boring her old friend with tales of Jason’s infidelity, his coldness, his indifference. “We went our separate ways. The kids are with him in Southern California.”
Salvatore’s smile melted. He cupped her cheek in his broad, calloused hand. “Oh, cara mia, I’m so sorry.”
Embarrassed by a wash of tears, she sniffled and lifted her cup. “Well, your new helper made me feel much better with his magic touch.” Realizing how sexy that sounded, she quickly added. “With choosing flavors, I mean.”
Salvatore chuckled. “My nephew loves the beautiful ladies, just like his old uncle. Come, sit. Visit with me a moment.”
“Oh, but I haven’t paid yet.”
Salvatore patted her hand. “On the house.” He led them to a little wrought-iron table near the front window and called over his shoulder, “Matteo, due espressi, per favore.”
Sal glanced at his nephew. “My younger brother’s boy. His papa died last March. Heart attack. Always working too hard. I told him to slow down and enjoy life. But would he listen to his big brother?” He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “Matteo’s been a great help in the shop since I lost my Giulia.”
“Your wife? She’s—”
Sal nodded and crossed himself. “Breast cancer. Terrible thing. If it weren’t for Matteo, I woulda had to close the shop.”
Danielle’s heart wrenched, and she squeezed the old man’s burly hand. “I’m so sorry, Sal. Giulia was a wonderful person.”
Olivia and Noah would be heartbroken to hear they’d lost the tiny, bustling woman who always fussed over them when they came into the shop. “Beach nonna,” they’d called her.
Sal dabbed his eyes with a paper napkin and jerked his thumb toward the counter. “Matteo’s a good boy. A carpenter like my papà.”
The good boy in question strode to their table, all six muscly feet of him. “Here you go, Zio Sal. Signora.” He set down two steaming espressos.
Salvatore patted the table. “Sit, boy. Meet Danielle. She’s been coming here for—how many years, bella?”
“Fifteen, at least.” She regarded Matteo. How old was he, twenty-five? Faced with his glorious male beauty, she felt every year of her age—and then some.
Salvatore and his nephew leaned close across the table and muttered back and forth in Italian, their gazes flicking to her. Her knowledge of that language was limited mostly to food words, but divorziata was easy enough to understand. The two men straightened and faced her, Salvatore with a wide grin, Matteo with a shy one.
What happened to Mr. Suave?
“Danielle,” Salvatore began, “would you do an old friend a big favor?”
“Umm.” Her gaze skittered between them. “Sure, if I can.”
“Tomorrow night, we are attending the Sons of Italy scholarship banquet. The food will be squisita.” He kissed his fingertips. “But the old nonnas keep trying to set up Matteo with their daughters and granddaughters.” He clapped his nephew’s muscly shoulder. “If you come as our date, he can enjoy the party in peace. What do you say?”
