Page 49 of Party Favors

When we arrived at the restaurant, the hostess said she could seat us immediately, despite the fact that there were a bunch of people waiting for a table.

“I guess it pays to know the owner,” Max said to me, and his lips were close to my ear again and my head buzzed as we followed behind the hostess.

If someone had asked me to re-create the sound I made in response, I would not have been able to because it lacked any recognizable vowels or consonants.

“This place looks expensive,” he said, and it hadn’t occurred to me to take his financial situation into consideration. I didn’t know exactly what it was, but considering his comments today, my guess was that working for a nonprofit didn’t pay very well.

I didn’t have a ton of money, but given that I’d gotten paid today, I could cover dinner. It would probably mean ramen noodles for the rest of the month, though.

“It’s only expensive if you buy stuff,” I teased him. “But don’t worry about it. I’ve got it.”

“Everly, you can’t keep paying for things when I—”

We arrived at our table and Max pulled a chair out, standing behind it. He obviously intended to assist me.

Like he’d stepped out of some novel from the nineteenth century. I sat and scooted myself in while he went to the other side of the table.

Just as he’d sat down across from me, Bartolomeo, the owner, made his way over to us.

“Everly! Cara mia!” He leaned down to kiss me on both of my cheeks and I returned the greeting. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I’m introducing my friend Max to your excellent food. And if my client agrees, I have an event I’ll need you to cater.”

“No talk of business tonight,” Bartolomeo said, waving my words away with both of his hands. “You will call me later. We will talk. Tonight is for amore, eh?”

“No,” I said, hoping that I wasn’t blushing as I tried to set the record straight. No amore here. Just ... whatever the Italian word forfriendshipwas.

Max held out his hand and introduced himself to Bartolomeo, and the two men began a rapid dialogue in Italian. I had no idea what either one of them was saying and cursed the fact that I’d never bothered to learn the language despite my Monterra royal obsession.

What I did notice was Bartolomeo pointedly looking at me several times while he made multiple hand gestures that I couldn’t interpret. Max’s smile got bigger and wider until I felt like I was going to throw my fork in an attempt to get them to stop talking.

“Dinner is my treat,” Bartolomeo said, finally shifting back to English. When I tried to object, he said, “No, I insist.”

Then he winked at Max and went back into the kitchen.

“What was that about?” I asked him.

Max shot me a mysterious smile and opened the menu. “He had some very nice things to say about you.”

“Like what?”

“What’s good here?” he asked, avoiding my question.

I wanted to probe further, to find out what exactly had happened in their conversation, but I got the sense that Max was going to keep his secrets. “I’ve never actually eaten here at the restaurant before, but I have tried his food at several events. You can’t go wrong with the lobster risotto or the spaghetti alla gricia. Both the branzino with capers and the tagliata di manzo are incredible. I’d recommend any of those.”

“If you recommend it, that’s good enough for me.”

His words sent little effervescent bubbles through my veins, making me lightheaded. He was probably just being nice, but I appreciated the vote of confidence.

The hostess came by our table. “Bartolomeo asked me to let you know that he’s going to serve you our tasting menu.”

“So much for my recommendation,” I said as Max and I handed our menus to the hostess.

“This way we’ll get to try a bit of everything,” he responded, and then hesitated a beat before adding, “Can I ask you a question?”

I nodded. This man could do anything he wanted to me and I would thank him for it.

Ugh. I had to knock it off with those kinds of thoughts.

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