“It’s just … this business with Elena,” she said, getting her friend’s name out with great difficulty.
He nodded. “I know,” he said, “and you’re allowed to feel this way.”
She nodded. “But it’s still not your job.”
“Everybody needs help sometimes,” he said.
They sat in comfortable silence amid the candlelight, and she realized just how much like a date this was. Not that it made her necessarily uncomfortable. She certainly hadn’t been dating much in the last six months—or however long it was. But she was just having that odd sense of having somebody care enough to look after her. However, she was still fighting it.
“Stop,” he said. “You’re trying to wrap your mind around this, trying to figure out the details, trying to see if there’s an underlying issue. There isn’t. So just stop.”
“Meaning that you’re just being a friend, making sure I don’t collapse?”
“Absolutely,” he said, and his tone was sincere. Then he flashed her a bright grin. “If it makes you feel better, don’t think of this as anything too intimate,” he said. “Just think about it as me looking after my case.”
She rolled her eyes at that. “I highly doubt you take anybody else out for a meal.”
“I do for dates,” he said.
She studied him quietly for a long moment.
“And we can consider this a date,” he said, “but I’d much rather take you out when you’re not quite so exhausted.”
“That brings us back to the personal-versus-business conversation,” she said slowly.
“It does,” he said.
Just then Rosita appeared with two large plates of spaghetti and meatballs. When she placed one platter in front of Cayce, she stared at it in shock. “I’ll never eat all this.”
“You’ll eat what you can,” he said, “and we’ll take the rest of it home for tomorrow.”
She looked up at Rosita, who held up a block of Parmesan, asking her if she wanted some. She nodded mutely as a generous sprinkling went over the sauce. When Rosita was gone again, Cayce stared down at the food, looked over at his plate, and said, “Is it my imagination, or is your serving even bigger than mine?”
He laughed. “They know me here,” he said, “so my portion is probably bigger.”
She looked down at the four massive meatballs in the center of her platter and saw that he had five. “If you can eat all that, I’ll be amazed.”
“I’m likely to work all night,” he said, “so it’s one of those things, you know? I eat when I can.”
“Ah, so you don’t look after yourself either,” she said immediately.
*
Richard chuckled, staring at Cayce, loving the wit that she mustered, even though she was obviously exhausted, and yet she had been game to come here. Although obviously not pleased at first, now that she was here, with a hot meal in front of her, she wasn’t throwing a fit. He knew lots of women who would never have stepped into the restaurant at all. He’d warned Rosita ahead of time, so she’d been extremely discreet but happy that Cayce was here.
He took a bite and moaned. “You need to try it.” He watched as she slowly twirled a few noodles onto her fork, lifted it up, and took a bite. She stared at him in surprise. He nodded. “They do absolutely divine spaghetti here.”
She didn’t bother answering. She bent her head to work on the food on her plate. And when she finally put down her fork, he noted the amount left on her plate and estimated that she’d eaten about 40 percent. Adding in the French bread, that was a fairly decent meal for her.
He nodded. “We’ll get Rosita to put the rest in a to-go container.”
“And I’ll need to go soon,” she said.
He could hear the fatigue in her voice. Black shadows were under her eyes, and she looked very droopy. He nodded. “I can take mine to go too.”
“No, no, no,” she said. “You eat. I’ll be fine.”
He laughed. “If we leave that plate in front of you for more than another five minutes, your head will fall right into it.”
She looked at him, laughed in delight, and said, “Can you imagine the mess?”
“A new form of art,” he said.
Rosita appeared, almost as if by magic, but she’d seen the conversation from a distance and was extremely astute. She quickly removed both plates and came back a few minutes later with their take-out boxes.
Thanking Rosita before she disappeared again, he looked over at Cayce. “I should have offered you a glass of wine,” he said, “but I completely forgot.” He chastised himself for that. Not very smooth.
She waved a hand. “I wouldn’t have had it anyway because it would put me to sleep.”
“That might not have been a bad thing.”
“The pasta and the bread are doing that alone.”
“I’ll get you home in five minutes. I promise. Just stay upright a little while longer.”
Rosita came back with the check, which he quickly snagged and paid with his credit card, and then stood. He held out a hand and helped her from the bench seat, as he said, “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
She looked at the to-go boxes. “That’s coming with us, right?”
He snagged both containers. As they headed for the exit, Rosita met him at the door with a bag. They carefully put the take-out boxes in it, and he stepped outside. His car was just a few feet away, and she stumbled even getting that far. He put the take-out bag on the hood of the car, walked around, and helped her inside. Then came back, sat behind the wheel, giving her the bag. “You hold that.”
She clutched it like it was gold.
He chuckled. “It was good, wasn’t it?”
“It was delicious,” she murmured. “And, as exhausted as I am”—she gave him a half a smile—“my mind is already putting this in my stomach for breakfast.”
“You could do a lot worse,” he said.
He pulled up in front of her
