Page 41 of Levi
She laughs.
“Follow me,” she waves. “I reserved your favorite table when I saw your name pop up on our reservation app.”
I wrap Jules in my embrace and follow Carmela. She’s still laughing.
* * *
“This restaurant ruinedit for me!” Jules declares, finishing her last bite. “These are the best meatballs I’ve ever tasted in my life, and I doubt I’ll ever taste anything close to this until I make it to Italy.”
“It’s a family recipe,” I tell her. “Spaghetti and meatballs isn’t a traditional Italian dish––neither is the eye-popping size of these babies––but Carmela doesn’t care because it’s one of her best-selling dishes.” The juicy and moist meatballs at Zia Josefina are the size of baseballs.
“I can see why,” she nods. “Thank God she decided to break with tradition. It would’ve been a shame not to combine these succulent meatballs with this out-of-this-world homemade spaghetti. And let’s not forget to talk about the lip-smacking tomato sauce.”
“I agree.”
Since it’s her first time here, I ordered for both of us. After a tasty Caesar salad, we dived headfirst into a generous platter of spaghetti and meatballs for two.
“More wine?” I ask.
“No, thank you. A third glass would be pushing it.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “Dessert?”
“Absolutely, but can we wait a bit?”
“Just say the word,” I tell her.
I gesture for our waiter to top up our glasses of sparkling water.
“How old are you?” she asks out of the blue.
I cock an eyebrow.
“You were wearing a sharp black suit at the club and today you’re sporting a well cut dark gray one. It’s uncommon among guys my age.”
“You’re also wearing a suit,” I quip.
She’s gorgeous, yet unassuming in her lavender suit, but it’s a far cry from the sexy dress she wore Saturday night.
“I was meeting with a potential investor. I wanted to make the right first impression. You seem to live in a suit.”
When you hang out with fashion icons who happen to be former rock stars, it influences your style.
“How old areyou?” I turn the tables on her.
“Hey, I asked you first,” she says with a touch of indignation.
“Perhaps, but you left yourself wide open with that statement,” I rebut. “Come on, spit it out.”
“I’m twenty-three,” she reveals. “And you?”
“I’m twenty-seven—”
“You’re so much younger than the guy my best friend hooked up with at the club,” she blurts out before her face turns beet red. “Oh gosh, that was loud.” Concerned eyes scour the restaurant before meeting mine. “I really shouldn’t be airing ournaughtylaundry in public like this,” she says with a giggle.
“No one knows what club you’re talking about,” I assure her. “And yes, I’m twenty-two years his junior, but the guy is in phenomenal shape.”
“He has a hell of a body.”
