Page 43 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
Her eyes light up. "That sounds perfect."
An hour later, we're seated in a corner booth at Rosetti's Italian Corner, a bottle of red wine between us. The restaurant is cozy, with exposed brick walls, hanging bulbs, and red checkeredtablecloths. Christmas decorations adorn every surface, a small tree in the corner, and poinsettias on each table.
Tony Rosetti himself showed us to our table, greeting me like an old friend, though I haven't been here since I was a kid. "Any friend of the Hunters is family here," he said, patting my shoulder.
"This place is wonderful," Lettie says, looking around appreciatively. "So authentically Italian."
"Tony's grandfather opened it in the 40s," I tell her. "Ezra's family has been coming here for generations."
"Is this your first time?" she asks.
I shake my head. "I used to come here as a kid. Before..." I don’t finish the sentence. She knows what I mean.
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "Well, I'm glad you brought me here."
Something warm unfurls in my chest at the genuine happiness in her eyes. I've spent so long avoiding places that triggered memories, I'd forgotten there might be good ones worth revisiting.
We order pasta and more wine. The conversation flows easily between us, covering everything from her social media strategies for the festival to my thoughts on different barrel-aging techniques. It feels comfortable. Natural.
I'm halfway through my carbonara when I notice a small stage being set up in the corner of the restaurant. A man in a Santa hat is fiddling with a sound system.
"What's happening?" Lettie asks, following my gaze.
"No idea."
Tony appears beside our table, beaming. "Wednesday night tradition during December," he explains. "Christmas karaoke. Italian style."
Lettie's entire face lights up. "Omylanta, I love karaoke!"
"Perfect," Tony says. "The Christmas Queen must participate. It's mandatory."
"I don't think so," I say quickly.
Tony ignores me, focusing on Lettie. "We start in twenty minutes. Plenty of time to finish your meal and choose a song."
After he leaves, Lettie turns to me with pleading eyes. "Please tell me you'll sing with me."
"Absolutely not."
"Just one song?"
"I don't sing. Especially not Christmas songs."
She pouts, but doesn't push. "Fine. But you have to promise not to judge my performance too harshly."
"I make no promises," I say, but I'm fighting a smile.
Twenty minutes later, the karaoke machine is up and running, and Lettie's name is first on the list. She squeezes my hand before making her way to the stage, confidence in every step.
The music starts, and I immediately recognize the upbeat intro to "Feliz Navidad." Lettie grabs the microphone, and any nerves she might have had disappear as she launches into the song with impressive enthusiasm.
She's not a professional by any means, but her voice is sweet and clear, and her joy is infectious. The other diners are clapping along, some even singing the chorus. I find myself tapping my foot under the table.
When she reaches the chorus for the second time, she points directly at me, challenging me with her eyes. "I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas..." she sings.
Something compels me to my feet. Maybe it's the wine, or the way she's looking at me, or the unexpected lightness I've felt all evening. Before I can stop myself, I'm walking to the stage.
Her eyes widen in surprise, but she hands me the second microphone without missing a beat. Together, we sing the final chorus, and the entire restaurant joins in.
