“You’re making quite an impression,” he murmured. “Everyone’s wondering who you are and how long you’re going to stay.”
“Just two weeks, I’m afraid. My kids have summer soccer league, and I have therapy appointments booked for July and August.”
As they climbed the steps onto the stage, he pursed his lips and nodded slowly, seemingly deep in thought. “Tacoma’s not so far away. I’ve been meaning to get up there and check out the antique shops.”
“You’re into antiques, Matteo?”
“Sort of. I upcycle old furniture, like this here.” He pointed to a small table with a gleaming blue-green finish that allowed the wood’s natural grain to shine through.
“Gorgeous.” She ran her fingertips over the smooth surface. “Reminds me of my mother’s sewing table.”
His smile widened. “That’s what it was, before I gave it a makeover. Open it.”
She lifted the fold-out top. A galvanized tub sat in the cavity that once held a sewing machine.
“To hold ice and drinks.” He pointed to the wooden lid. “You put your snacks here, and the cups go there.”
“Matteo, this is brilliant.” She squatted to see how he’d attached the tub.
He huffed and shoved a hand through his dark curls. “Nothing like helping kids learn to speak right. I mean, correctly.”
Great, now she’d made him self-conscious. Swallowing a soft grunt, she pushed herself upright. “We all have our gifts. I lack your artistic talent.”
“Artist? Hell, I’m a carpenter.” From the open collar of his shirt, he pulled a small silver medal on a slender chain. “Saint Joseph, our patron saint. Gift from my grandfather.”
“Was your dad a carpenter too?”
Another snort. Funny how he made that ungraceful noise sound so sexy. “Dad sold cars. Had a big, shiny dealership. Kept pressuring me to work for him—until he dropped dead from a heart attack at age sixty.” He patted the tabletop. “I’ll stick with carpentry.”
Poor kid! He might laugh it off, but his wry half-smile betrayed a deep vein of hurt. She wanted to comfort this near stranger who made her pulse race, but she feared overstepping, so she settled for squeezing his shoulder, firm and solid beneath her hand.
Matteo wasn’t so reticent, though. Not content with that skimpy contact, he pulled her in for a hug. Ignoring the flurry of whispers around them, he murmured against her hair, “Sorry to be such a downer. You’re easy to talk to, Danielle. Thanks.”
Fizzy warmth burbled up from her middle and filled her head with foolish thoughts. Fighting her reaction, she stepped back and pasted on a casual grin. “So, where do I get my raffle tickets?”
She bought twenty, depositing most in the jar in front of Matteo’s ingenious bar cart, plus one each in a basket of romance books and bubble bath, as well as a picnic hamper filled with salami, cheese, and wine. When the drawing was held, she won the romance basket. A sign of good things to come? Or solitary nights curled up with a book? A cute young woman won Matteo’s table, dammit.
Who was she kidding? With dozens of pretty young girls vying for Matteo’s attention, there was no way he’d choose her company over theirs. Time to make a graceful exit before she made a fool of herself.
While he hauled the lucky winner’s prize out to her car, Danielle thanked Salvatore for a wonderful evening, then shook hands with the rest of their tablemates and retrieved her wrap and purse. Returning to her side, Matteo pinned her with a puzzled frown. “You can’t leave yet. You haven’t had dessert.”
“Dessert?” She patted her overstuffed tummy. “Where would I put it, in my purse? I had a wonderful time, Matteo, but I should get back home before—”
He leaned in close and whispered, “There’s dancing too, and if you go, the nonnas will pounce.” He ran his hands up and down her arms. “Please stay, bella. Dance with me.”
The lights dimmed, and someone switched on a by-God disco ball above the dance floor. Its glittery shine transformed Matteo’s dark eyes into a bewitching night sky.
“Well, I suppose…” She wet her lips as she draped her belongings over the chair back. She hadn’t danced with a man since a stilted two-step at her wedding. Lately, she only hit the dance floor with tipsy women friends at concerts and parties. But now, Matteo was holding her hand, walking backward toward the dance floor where couples young and old swayed to “Volare.”
He pulled her into his arms, his right hand between her shoulder blades, his left gently cradling her palm. For a moment that felt like forever, they stood beneath the spinning lights, gazes locked. His eyebrow quirked up. “Are you ready?”
She sucked in a breath, then nodded.
Away they glided. Maybe it was the wine, but it seemed her feet didn’t quite touch the ground as Matteo guided her around the floor in swirling arcs. She was dimly aware of stares and whispers from the growing crowd of dancers. When the song ended, he spun her out and back, so she landed against his chest.
“You’re a great dancer, Danielle.” His soft kiss on her forehead sent giddy echoes through her whole body.
“That was all you, Matteo.” Movement over his shoulder caught her eye—a trio of pretty twenty-somethings tittering at the dance floor’s edge. Two of the girls shoved the third forward. “Incoming,” she whispered.
