That's (Not Exactly) Amore (17 page)

Her dark brows lift in surprise. “Your ideas were so good.”

I shrug. “Maybe I have a knack for Italian decor.”

She nods slowly. “What about the other decors?”

I sling myself back on the couch and let out a groan. “Nancy! Can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure. What are roomies for?”

“I hate interior design.” Tears pool quickly and become two streams running down my face. “I thought I loved it. Truly. I love putting rooms together at home, but once I went to school for it, it just became work. There’s too much to think about. I never used to worry about color schemes. If I loved something and thought it worked, I put it together. Period. Now I have to think about sage green vs. forest and burnt orange vs. rust. It’s just ridiculous. And I can’t see a difference. What if I really am color blind?”

“Not too many people truly are.” She hesitates a second, then levels her gaze at me. “But, Laini, design is all about color schemes and putting the right fabric with the right room style.” Her eyes sparkle. “From the bottom up. From the architecture to the fabric for the furniture.” The passion in her eyes makes me jealous. She takes my hand. “It’s like taking all the ingredients for a pan of those amazing cinnamon rolls and putting them together, shaping them, and adding the icing.”

I nod. That’s language that makes sense to me. I can almost smell the dough.

“That’s what we’re doing to Nick’s. Taking a blank space and making it beautiful. The entire process is so exciting I can’t wait to get started.”

See? And I’m not looking forward to the process—I just can’t wait until it’s done. I admit as much to Nancy and she gives me a look filled with pity.

Standing, she stretches. “I’ll be right back.”

I stare after her as she walks down the hall to her room. I’m finally starting to get used to Dancy’s old room being “Nancy’s room.”

When she comes back a minute later, she’s carrying a Bible. “Ecclesiastes. It talks about the futility of working yourself to death and not living a good, happy life.” We read a couple of verses that support her viewpoint. “The bottom line, Laini, is that you have lots of dreams, but you have to filter those dreams and figure out which ones are from God and which ones come from other people’s expectations or your own notion that a certain career path is something you ‘should’ want. Retirement is a long way away. Don’t get snaked into a job you don’t love.”

“But the money my aunt loaned me to go to school . . .”

“Find your true dream and pay her back.”

It sounds so easy coming from Nancy. She’s doing well in her field. Since she got Nick’s job, she’s bid on three others and landed two of them. She’s booked up for months. And thrilled with each new day.

Me? I just want to get this project over with and hopefully get a decent grade for my efforts.

The phone rings and Nancy answers. “Sure, Joe.” She hands it to me and I feel myself blush.

“Hey, Joe.”

“Look, I know you were busy last Saturday. But if you don’t have plans this Saturday, my family is having a dinner for my grandparents. Sort of a party for their sixtieth anniversary.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, so anyway, what do you think?”

“Nancy mentioned you might be asking me.”

“Nancy did?”

“Yeah, she said you want to introduce me to some guys who might want me to bake for them.”

“Oh! Oh, yeah. If you come with me, I’ll get you fixed right up. Deal?”

I feel just like I did when Nick shook my hand and promised me the interior design job. All jumpy inside. Nervous and excited at the same time.

“Yeah, deal.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up around six. Wait. Should I pick you up on Long Island?”

“No. I’ll go after the party. My mom has a lot going on these days anyway.”

“You sure?” He sounds unconvinced. “I don’t mind picking you up there.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll just tell my mom I’m about to land some new business.” Please, please correct me. Tell me this is a date with the side benefit of making a connection or two. Come on, Joe—pony up. Call this a date.

“Right. It’s not like it’s a date or anything.”

And after a minute of awkward silence, we say good-bye, and that’s that. Suddenly I see my houseful of Italian-Irish children fading away and transforming into some Italian girl’s (like Nancy) houseful of full-blooded Italian children.

Not one freckle or strand of curly red hair.

Some girls have all the luck.

16

T
he next night when I get off the train, Joe isn’t there to meet me, but oddly enough, Mark is. Plain clothes and all. I’m genuinely pleased to see him, but I sort of wonder if he and Joe flipped a coin. “You’re not working?”

“New shift.” He gives me a look of real regret. “I’ll have to work Saturdays for a while.”

I can tell he’s truly sorry. “Don’t worry,” I blurt before I think. “I have plans with Joe this Saturday anyway.”

He pulls back like I stuck a hot match to his skin. “You’re dating Joe Pantalone too?”

Sheesh. He makes it sound like I’m cheating. “We’re not dating, Mark. He invited me to his grandparents’ anniversary party.”

“How is that not a date?”

Oh, man. He’s actually jealous. I like it. But there’s no reason for it and I don’t play games.

“Mark,” I say calmly. “Joe’s about to close down for renovations. He just wants to introduce me to some family members who might need some cinnamon rolls or stuffed sandwiches or whatever. He’s just looking out for me. Making sure I don’t lose anything financially during this time.” Now that I think about it, that’s kind of . . . heroic of Joe. But what was I saying? “See? It’s really innocent. No need for jealousy.”

We stop walking and he takes my hand. Pulling me against the side of the building, he looks deep into my eyes. “I think there is a need for jealousy. Maybe you don’t see the way he looks at you, Laini. But I do. Actually, anyone with eyes can see.”

Maybe not. Nancy has eyes, after all, and she apparently can’t see anything but Joe’s sense of honor. I keep the bitter thought to myself. Besides, how can I even think about Joe with a good-looking, Polo cologne–smelling, blue-eyed muscly cop looking at me like I’m the best thing he’s ever seen? My heart thunders in my ears. He’s moving in.

“Don’t go, Laini,” he whispers just before landing a kiss. His brawny arms encircle me and draw me softly against him, and I relax in the moment. I don’t even want to think about how long it’s been since I’ve been kissed. Let alone kissed like this. His lips are warm and soft, and the man definitely knows how to make a girl go weak in the knees. No wonder Kellie doesn’t want to let him go. Ick, why did she have to come up? Go away, old girlfriend—and your son. I close my eyes tighter and shove the images aside.

I’m getting a little carried away (okay, this isn’t exactly a third date, but let’s call it that anyway. This kiss is just too good to stop on a technicality) and inching my arms around his neck when a loud wolf whistle and a lurid comment from a passerby pull me right out of the moment. Mark’s gaze scans my face for a second before he pulls away too, takes my hand, and leads me away from the audience.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have waited until we got to your apartment. I just . . .” He looks at me and I think he might do it again. Instead, he shakes his head. “The thought of you with another guy drives me crazy.”

“But I told you it’s not a date.”

“It’s you and that guy and his family of criminals, Laini.” He pushes out a heavy sigh. “You can’t get mixed up with the Pantalones.”

The ridiculousness of his hyperconcern makes me laugh a little. “I admit I wondered how Joe managed to pull off getting those permits in such a short time. But a lot of people have connections with city hall that aren’t illegal. Besides, Joe himself said he wanted to do things by the book. And I’ve known Nick for ages. He’s a good Christian man. Definitely not a crook.”

“You don’t understand.” He turns me to him, holding my upper arms. “There are things I can’t tell you, but the Pantalone family has a criminal record a mile long.”

Alarm seizes me. “Joe?”

He scowls and drops my arms. “No. But he’s about the only one in the group.”

When we get to my apartment, he hesitates at the bottom step. “Are you still going?”

“Yes,” I say quietly. “I told you, it’s not a date, but even if it was, what’s wrong with that?”

“What about us?”

What about us? It’s a valid question. I mean, I did kiss the guy. I curse myself for my weakness. “I like you a lot, Mark. I’d like to keep seeing you.”

“But you want to see Joe too?”

I put my hand on his shoulder and laugh. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not dating Joe?”

He snatches me around the waist with one arm and pulls me close. “What if I asked you to only date me?” His voice is husky as he stares down at me.

Be still my heart. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say yes. I’d love that. Only something holds me back. Common sense, I imagine. “I’d say I think it’s too soon for us to be exclusive.”

Rejection washes over his face. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

“I’m sorry. But we haven’t been going out that long.”

“How long do we have to be going out before you’ll consider seeing only me?”

This feels like pressure. And pressure usually makes me run. I fight against rushing inside and leaving him standing alone and bewildered. “Can’t we just play it by ear? Take it one step at a time and all that?”

A look of affection passes over him and he leans down, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead. “All right. I won’t pressure you. But Joe Pantalone . . . I hope you won’t date him. He’s bad news. Please trust me.”

I reach up and touch his face. I mean, it’s nice to have a man so interested. Jealous. Concerned. I’ve been in a wasteland of male absence for so long . . . and now I’ve suddenly entered an oasis. How can I not enjoy this? How can I even think of running away from such a great guy? His hand, large and warm, covers mine as he turns his face into my other hand and kisses my palm, once, twice. And then my wrist. He laces his fingers with mine, leans forward, and kisses me again—on the lips this time. “Can we go somewhere and have some coffee? Or maybe I could come up and have coffee here.”

I may not be very experienced when it comes to men, but I recognize passion when I see it. I think Mark is hoping for more than coffee. “Actually, I’ve been dying for some shrimp fried rice from Mr. Wang’s. How’s that sound?”

He laughs. “It sounds like I just got shot down.”

Saturday night Nancy and I get ready together. Apparently Nana invited my roommate to her anniversary party. It wouldn’t take much for me to give in to jealousy. But I have to step back and put things into perspective. Just last night I shared quite a few kisses with a very nice, available, good-looking police officer who just happens to want to date me exclusively (although I’ve yet to confide in him my plan to “wait until marriage,” so his desire to have me all to himself might just change if it gets that far).

Anyway, there is no reason for me to be jealous of Nancy’s invitation to the party. I mean, Joe didn’t exactly invite her, did he? Even though it’s understood that she’ll share a taxi over there with us.

“Now, don’t be upset tonight,” Nancy says, standing in front of the mirror by the living room door. “Nana has a bad habit of throwing Joe and me together for little tasks that have to be done by the two of us alone. Going out for ice, for instance, or walking down into the basement for more wine. She’s not even close to subtle. Don’t let it bother you. Joe and I will do our best to deflect her. Plus, this year we’re having the party at a restaurant, so that should help.”

“Why would I be jealous?” I stand behind her, nonchalantly crunching my curls. “Remember, this isn’t a date. I’ll be there long enough to get my introductions to some of Joe’s family, and that’s all.”

“Sure it is, honey. You just keep telling yourself that.” Nancy sends me a grin through the mirror where she’s applying a thin coating of plum-colored lipstick. Perfect with her dark skin and hair.

When Joe shows up at our door ten minutes later dressed in a black sport coat and a pair of dress slacks, my heart goes into a tailspin.

“Not interested, huh?” Nancy murmurs, and I can only pray Joe didn’t hear.

“You girls look amazing.” Joe gives Nancy a cursory glance then his eyes swoop over me a couple of times. When he meets my gaze, the appreciation I see in those chocolate brown eyes of his boosts my confidence, and I suddenly don’t feel so chubby and awkward.

The party is at Murals in the theater district at the Warwick Hotel. A restaurant with, predictably, murals all over the walls. Joe escorts me in, his hand warm on my back. We’re one of the last to arrive, and it’s so packed out, there aren’t many seats left. As is proper, Joe ushers me to his grandparents’ side. “Happy anniversary, Papa and Nana. Papa, this is Laini.”

The old man could be Anthony Quinn. Even with age spots and a slight tremor in the hand he extends, he’s dashing. I imagine he might have been devastating in his prime. His eyes twinkle as I take his hand. “Very beautiful,” he says with a fantastic Italian accent.

I smile. “Thank you, sir. It’s nice to meet you.”

“It is very nice to meet you as well, young lady.”

Nana frowns about as deeply as I’ve ever seen anyone do. She clears her throat so loudly I’m afraid she might be choking on a bite of bread or something.

Apparently unconcerned, Joe chuckles, bends, and places a gentle kiss on Nana’s papery cheek. “You remember Laini, don’t you, Nana?”

Her beady black eyes zero in on me like a witch about to cast a spell. I try to hang on, but my gaze falters beneath her perusal. She gives only the faintest nod; then her eyes slide past me and brighten insultingly fast as she recognizes Nancy.

“My Nancy.” Extending both arms, she dismisses me and embraces Nancy.

Nancy smiles and stoops. “Happy anniversary.”

“You look beautiful,” Nana says in her barely discernible English. “Does she not, Joseph?”

“Yeah, Nana.” He rolls his eyes. “She’s a real looker.”

Nancy tosses out a throaty laugh and nudges him.