He continues before I can stop his line of thinking. “I’m ex-military. I own a boxing gym. My office is a run by me, not a board of directors wearing five-thousand-dollar suits.” His gaze is sincere and sad at the same time.
I have to fix this. The last thing I want is for him to see me as a type of girl who thinks money matters more than happiness. Money has practically ruined my life. It did ruin Hannon’s. I grip his hand between both of mine.
“I’m not that girl, but I can’t change where I came from.”
He swallows and purses his lips. “Neither can I.”
The waiter chooses this moment to bring our food. He sets down the manicotti and gnocchi at the top of the table and then places our salads in front of us.
I let go of his hand, putting both of mine into my lap.
Nick curls his hand around my nape. “How’s about we eat, continue our date, and let the chips fall where they may, huh?”
Hope rings eternal in my chest. I nod and offer a small smile.
“Okay, now let me get you plated up.” He lifts the manicotti and places a rolled-up stuffed noodle thing smothered in meat sauce onto my plate. Steam billows around the top, sending mouthwatering scents into the air. “Manigot.” He says the word with an Italian flare, pulling me out of the weird funk we’d entered minutes ago with our heavy discussion. “Have you ever had gnocchi?” He lifts the bowl and scoops some of the potato pasta and chicken onto the side of my plate.
“I think so, but it was square and pillowed looking.” I frown and use my fork to turn over the rolled potato.
He grins. “This place is the second-best place to eat Italian food in town.”
“Second-best? What’s the first?” I ask while he plates his own food. As much as I want to dig into the succulent-smelling food, my manners override my senses, and I wait for him to serve himself.
He flashes a sexy grin my way. “My mother’s kitchen, of course!”
We both laugh, and I poke a piece of gnocchi, blow on it, and put it into my mouth. A taste sensation explodes across my taste buds. The mixture of alfredo, blue cheese, and the potato pasta is utter perfection. “I don’t know about your mother’s cooking, but this is incredible.”
He takes a bite of his own and smiles around it. When he finishes, he nudges my shoulder. “This is good. Ma’s is unparalleled. Swear.” He crosses his heart with an index finger.
“Maybe one day I’ll be lucky enough to taste it. Then I’ll be able to compare.” I cut into the manicotti, and the ricotta oozes out of the shell, tantalizing my eyes as well as my taste buds.
Nick doesn’t take another bite, just watches me eat. “Oh, I think you might be able to compare the food sooner rather than later.” He issues the statement almost like a warning. One that heightens my nerves and sends a little thrill shooting down my spine.
“Should I be scared?” I ask, actually thinking I might be scared already. I’ve never been taken home to meet the parents. The men I dated were in college. We’d have a couple dates, a handful of intimate times, and they’d move on.
What would Nick’s mother think of me? A dowdy, shy, woman with no job and no talent. I frown and prod my food, trying not to let my fear override the discussion. It’s not like it’s happening today.
Nick takes a large bite, chews, and ends with a smirk. “Absolutely. Ma’s a handful.” He answers my question about being scared. His response does not make me feel any calmer.
“Is she like Grace?” I smile, thinking of my new best friend. Her words, but I’m starting to wish they were true.
He chuckles. “Gracie is a ball of energy for sure. My mother is that, times a thousand, but armed with a wooden spoon or a spatula. She’s always cooking.” He shakes his head and spins his wineglass.
“Is that her favorite thing to do?” I want to know more about his family. They sound so down-to-earth and real. The exact opposite of mine.
Nick sips his wine and leans back. “Yeah, I’d say cooking is way up there, along with being judgy.” He chuckles, but I am not laughing in return.
“Why, um, is she judgy?”
“Because she’s a Catholic, guilt-driven, Italian mother of six. She’s got nuthin’ better to do than get all up into her children’s lives.” He chuckles.
I frown. “Why does she care?” My mother hasn’t even realized I’ve moved out, and it’s going on a week.
Apparently that question rattles Nick, because he turns in the booth and focuses on me and not our dinner. “She’s a mom. She cares too much. From whether or not we’re sleeping well, to having a good job, to food in our bellies, to time spent on things we love. Then there’s the hugs and kisses.” He shrugs. “All good moms worry, poke, and prod their children, wanting the best for them. I’m sure your mother does too.”
Hugs and kisses. Um, no.
Cares too much? Not a chance.
Making sure I’m doing something I love? Ha! That’s a good joke.
Wanting the best for me? Only if it suits her purpose or my father’s business deals.
All of this reminds me I never canceled on the date mother had planned. I haven’t been home all week, and I don’t plan on ever going back. She never even bothered to call and find out where I went, when I’d be home, or why I’d taken most of my possessions. The date, though, that’s going to make her angry. A little snarky side to me I haven’t been acquainted with before grins evilly.
“Why are you smiling?” Nick brushes my bottom lip with his thumb. Just that little touch sends warmth and arousal spiraling through my belly. It distracts me so much, I answer honestly.
“I was supposed to go on
