The Bachelor Takes a Bride. Brenda Harlen
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said ‘good plate of pasta.’”
“All this talk of food is making me hungry,” Lauryn said.
“Me, too,” Jordyn agreed. “Let’s head over to Marg & Rita’s before it gets too busy and we have to wait for a table.”
But Tristyn shook her head. “It’s my turn to pick where we’re going for dinner,” she reminded her sisters.
Which was technically true. Their monthly “girls’ day” that usually involved the spa and/or shopping was always followed by dinner and drinks, and they alternated who got to choose the restaurant. Except that they’d become addicted to the signature drinks at Marg & Rita’s and hadn’t gone anywhere else in the past five months.
“We always go to Marg & Rita’s,” Lauryn said.
“Not always,” Tristyn denied.
Jordyn sighed. “Let me guess—you’re in the mood for Italian food tonight?”
“My mouth is watering for Valentino’s seven-layer lasagna.”
“I thought you were trying to cut down on carbs.”
Tristyn waved a hand dismissively. “That plan went out the window with the banana-pecan waffles I had this morning.”
“Now that you mention it, Italian sounds really good,” Lauryn agreed.
“I want fajitas,” Jordyn insisted, because she did. And because she wanted no part of whatever plan she suspected her sisters were concocting to throw her into Marco Palermo’s path.
“Sorry,” Tristyn said, not sounding sorry at all. “We can do Marg & Rita’s next month, when it’s your turn to pick. Although maybe by then, you’ll be craving Italian, too.”
Jordyn ignored the innuendo and crossed her fingers that Marco wouldn’t be working tonight.
“You’re late,” Gemma said when Marco walked into the kitchen at Valentino’s just after four o’clock Saturday afternoon.
“And I might feel guilty about that if not for the fact that it’s supposed to be my night off.”
“You have a night off?” This came from Rocco, a fifteen-year-old neighborhood kid who was the grandson of one of Nonna’s oldest friends and one of their weekend dishwashers.
Marco cuffed him playfully in the back of the head. “It’s interesting how everyone likes to harp on the fact that I have no life outside of the restaurant but then, when I’m not supposed to be here, I get called in anyway.”
“You’re right,” Gemma agreed. “I’m sorry. But Rebecca’s roommate called to say that she was sick, and I could hear her retching in the background.”
Marco grimaced. “And what are the specials tonight?”
“The pasta is gnocchi with tomato-cream sauce and fresh basil, the pizza is grilled vegetable on a whole-wheat crust. Sydney is working the front of the dining room. You get the back.”
“Lucky me.”
“You only need to stay through the dinner rush,” Gemma promised. “After that you can get back to...whatever.”
“I’m going to hold you to that,” he told her, pretending that “whatever” was something other than a Yankees–Red Sox game on television.
He understood why she’d called. Within half an hour, both he and Sydney were beating a steady path from the kitchen to the dining room and back again. He’d forgotten how much he’d once enjoyed this interaction with the customers, hearing their rave reviews of the food, answering their inquiries about his grandparents and other family members. There was one screwup: the sous chef put fusilli instead of rotini with Mrs. DiCenzo’s chicken Parm, but the error was quickly rectified and the customer’s displeasure alleviated by a complimentary serving of tiramisu.
He was delivering two large pizzas to a family of six—regular Saturday-night customers—when he saw them walk in. Jordyn and her sisters. And, as usual when he saw the stunningly beautiful middle Garrett sister, his heart skipped a beat.
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