Page 13 of Escorting the Mogul

“I feel sorry for those people!” Jenny laughed. “They’re definitely not having as much fun as we are!”

Hanover Streetin the North End was packed with tourists. I maneuvered around them and pulled up in front ofAlfonso’s, the finest Italian restaurant in Boston. Even though it was early afternoon, there was a line; people spilled down the sidewalk, waiting for a table. As soon as I put the car in park, a young man in a white shirt hustled out from the restaurant.

“Hey, Mr. Bryson.” He gave us a lopsided smile. “Can I park the car for you? Your usual table is ready.”

“Thank you, Luca. That would be great. By the way, this is Jenny. She’ll be joining me today.”

Luca grinned at Jenny, but good boy that he was, he looked directly into her eyes and not at her rocking body. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jenny. You will dine with us and love it. Long live Alfonso!”

“Long live Alfonso,” I agreed, climbing out and tossing Luca my keys and a hundred-dollar bill. “See you in there, kid.”

I put my hand on the small of Jenny’s back and steered her inside. The waiting customers gaped as we strolled past them. There was no valet parking at the restaurant, and the usual wait for a table was over three hours. Or so I’d been told—I never waited. Alfonso’s was one of my first investments when I started my VC business. Chef was forever grateful that I gave him his big break.

“Ah, lovely to see you, Mr. Bryson,” the raven-haired, sultry hostess said. She wore a form-fitting black jumpsuit that hugged her curves. She eyed Jenny up and down. “And this is…?”

Jenny thrust out her ample chest. “I’m Jenny, Cole’s new girlfriend. Nice to see you. Is our table ready? I’m starved!”

The hostess did a double take, but she quickly recovered and smiled. “We have some great specials today. You’ll love it. Right this way.” She led us through the restaurant, which was luxurious but simple. The tables were large, reclaimed wood, the walls were exposed brick, and candles flickered throughout the room. Our table was at the end, facing out on the action.

Wisely, the hostess sat us side by side. I immediately put my hand on Jenny’s thigh, and she leaned into me. I inhaled her coconut scent again, wondering if it was addictive. It seemed like maybe it was—I couldn’t get enough of her.

The hostess asked, “Would you care for some wine?”

“Yes, please. TheBarbaresco Gajashould be fine.”

She nodded quickly. “Yes, Mr. Bryson.”

When she’d left, I pulled Jenny’s chair closer so we were touching. “Do you like red wine?”

“I sure do.” She surveyed the packed dining room. “This place is popular, huh?”

“That’s because it’s the best. What would you like to eat? Alfonso does a mean risotto…” Our server brought the wine and our menus. Jenny watched as he poured a sample and handed it to me. “I already know it’s great. Go ahead and pour the lady a glass.Salut,” I said before taking a sip.

Jenny grabbed her glass and raised it to mine. “Cheers.” She drank her wine in one sip. “Oooh, that’s good!” She happily opened the menu while the smiling server poured her another glass of wine.

“Now, what’s this…” Her brow furrowed as she read over the entrees. “What the heck is aFormaggio e Malazana?”

“It’s mozzarella and eggplant,” I answered.

“Ew, they could have just said so.” Her brow furrowed deeper. “What aboutPolpo Scottato?”

“It’s seared octopus.”

“Oh my God!” Jenny practically threw the menu at me. “No wonder they don’t say it in English—they’re trying to trick you! Whatever happened to spaghetti, huh? I thought this place was Italian!”

“It is.” I chuckled. “And there’s spaghetti on the menu, right there.” I pointed to theSpaghetti Alfonso. “Would you like that?”

She wrinkled her nose as she read the description. “What the hell ismicro basil?”

“It’s basil, I think. Just…tiny basil.”

“Tiny basil.” Jenny blinked at me. “That might be the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

“Ha! You’re funny, Jenny.” I poured us each more wine before the server had a chance to come back. “I haven’t known you for long, but I like spending time with you.”

She beamed up at me. “I like spending time with you, too. Just don’t try to make me eat an octopus, okay? That might just be the end of our friendship.”

I keptmy arm around Jenny the whole time we were at Alfonso’s. Our meal was terrific. The wine was flowing; the food was incredible, and most surprisingly, Jenny actually ate. The women I dated—most of whom were models—barely touched their food, opting to save their calories for alcohol. It was refreshing to share a meal with someone who actuallysharedit.

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