Page 97 of Forty, Flirty & Fired

"Where else? Though you might want to clean up first."Lucia eyes my sauce-splattered state. "You look like you lost a fight with Nonna's Sunday gravy."

"It's a look," I defend, though she's not wrong. Between helping pack meals for the homeless shelter and serving our Christmas Day customers, I'm wearing more of our signature sauce than most of our plates.

Through the front windows, Seattle's snow falls steadily, transforming the city into something magical. The kind of magic I nearly dared to believe in.

But now I’m unemployed. Out on my ass. Again.

Only this time, I don’t have any corporate downsizing or big bad boss to blame it on.

It’s all on me. All on my inability to really look at the best thing that’s happened to me in too long.

Stop it, I tell myself firmly. This isn't about Alex. This is about being here, being present. Being useful to my family.

But being useful to my family is a little hard when everyone seems to be full of love, and your heart is now starving for it.

Clearly, the young couple in booth seven feeding each other bites of tiramisu didn’t get the message.

The message being: Kissing in front of the kiss-deprived might get you a side of spit in your marinara sauce.

Just kidding. Sort of.

Hard to determine when my heart is still doing that twisting-on-itself thing it's been doing since the gala.

Since Alex found my exposé. Since everything fell apart.

"You're doing it again," Sofia appears with another wave of orders, her dark hair escaping its neat bun. "That thing where you stare at happy couples like they're carrying plague."

"I am not?—"

"Table three needs more wine," she cuts me off. "And Nonna's making noise about your 'broken heart sauce' again. Pretty sure she's adding extra garlic for healing properties."

I grab the wine, trying to focus on the warmth around me instead of the hollow spot in my chest.

La Famiglia is packed - not just with our regular Christmas crowd, but with people who need somewhere to be today.

Students who couldn't make it home. Elderly neighbors who live alone. Couples who'd rather let someone else do the cooking.

Family isn't always about blood.

Sometimes it's about having a place to belong.

"The Anderson party needs their check," Lucia calls out. "And you've got marinara in your hair. Again."

I reach up, finding another spot of sauce.

"The shelter pickup is in twenty minutes," Sofia updates as she efficiently manages the growing lunch rush. "And table eight just sat down. You want to go help them?”

I don’t, I want to say.

Honestly, I’d rather go home and eat my weight in Nonna’s cannoli while watching The Holiday on repeat. But at least this keeps me distracted.

With a sigh, I head over in that direction. Stopping in front of the table, I grab my notepad and pencil.

“Hi there,” I say, scribbling the table number on the pad. “Welcome to La Famiglia. Can I help you?”

“Hmm.” The deep voice behind the menu hums. “You might be able to. I’m looking for a woman you might know. Dark hair. Curly. Brown eyes. Has got this wicked right arm for chucking bottles of Dom Perignon at unexpecting suits.”

My jaw goes slack. My pad lowers.

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