That's (Not Exactly) Amore Page 4

  “You’re crazy. He did not!”

  Tabby sends her a wink. “How much should we bet this little coffee date with Officer Hottie gets our Laini here a date with the Italian stallion?”

  “If I wasn’t so broke,” I grumble, “I’d take that bet.”

  Let them joke. Let them make bets. Let them talk over my head. But oh, please, please, let them be right!

  4

  But why don’t you like the idea?” I’m following Joe Pantalone around like a lovesick teenager. He hates all of my ideas for decor. I’m getting frustrated and, quite frankly—fed up. Jazz and I did a conference call earlier and came up with a few ideas. Old New York—retro, yet very hip. Old is new, you know?

  But Joe is having none of that. So as far as the redecorating, we have to go back to the drawing board.

  “I like the idea of a sloped awning between the two buildings.”

  Well, at least he’s throwing me a bone.

  “That was Nick’s idea in the first place,” I admit. Which isn’t easy considering Nick’s on the opposite side of the country and I could really use the credit.

  Joe stops for a minute and turns to an employee. “Take over here, will ya?” Then he looks at me. “You want to sit out front and have some coffee? We could discuss what I have in mind.”

  I glance at my watch: 10:55. “Actually, Joe, I’m meeting someone in about five minutes, so we’re going to have to wrap this up.”

  He glances at the door as the bell dings. “Is that who you’re waiting for?”

  A blonde wearing a skirt that’s way too short for this time of year wiggles her way to the counter. Have I ever given this guy any indication that I would hang out with someone like that? I’m uncomfortable wearing shorts more than two inches above my knees.

  “No.” The bell above the door dings again, and my heart does a flip as Mark saunters in. I almost don’t recognize him in regular clothes. Jeans, a tan T-shirt under a striped button-down shirt. He’s wearing a leather bomber jacket. I can’t help feeling a bit smug. “That’s him.”

  “Him?” Joe’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Are you telling me you brought a date to the coffee shop?”

  “Well, it isn’t a date, exactly. He arrested the guy that broke into my apartment Friday night and we sort of hit it off.” I look at him askance, a lot more casually than I feel inside. “It’s just coffee.”

  Mark is walking toward me, his face split by a great smile.

  “Just coffee, huh?” Joe mutters. He stays planted by my side and I’m starting to wonder if Tabby and Dancy are right. Maybe Joe is a little more into me than he lets on.

  “Hi, Mark.” I know I’m a little more effusive in my greeting than I would be if Joe weren’t standing there just begging me to make him jealous, but it’s not every day a girl gets a chance like this, so I’m making the best of it for however long the illusion lasts.

  Mark gives Joe a once-over, and his smile fades just a bit before he turns his attention to me. “You seem much better than the other night.”

  “Thanks to you catching the guy.”

  “Did you recover everything?”

  “Just about.”

  Joe is really frowning now and chomping at the bit a little. I know I’m being rude by not introducing the two men, but, quite frankly, it’s women like short-skirt-blondie who get guys like this to practically come to blows over them. So since it’s me and not her and she’s looking a little jealous too, I decide to enjoy the melodrama. Still, just standing here while they growl is becoming awkward. And I don’t want that.

  “Joe,” he finally says with a jerk of his chin.

  Mark nods back. “Mark.”

  “You want coffee?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll take—” I begin.

  “I already know what you want.” Joe goes back to the kitchen. I stare after him, bewildered by his rudeness. I was going to say I wanted a mocha latte with an extra shot of espresso and extra whipped cream—my usual. But what if I’d wanted something different? What then? Mr. Smug.

  I turn to Mark. “Do you want to sit? Joe or one of the other employees will bring our coffees.”

  “Sure.” He steps back and lets me go ahead of him. I stop at a corner table.

  “Is this okay?” I know it’s a little presumptuous of me to assume he wants to sit in a secluded spot, but it just seems like the place to pick.

  “Perfect.” He stares down at me with a knowing look that makes my cheeks warm. It’s not a mocking sort of knowing look, though. Not the kind you see in romantic comedies or romance novels where the “hero” is Rhett Butler–ish—you know, rakish and sardonic. Mark seems genuinely pleased. How refreshing.

  He holds my chair as I sit and slides it in with finesse. We settle in and then stare at each other like you do when you really want to spend time with someone but you know nothing about the other person and don’t know where to start. I wait for him to talk and he waits for me, and suddenly I laugh. I do that when I’m nervous. Darn it. Now I feel dumb. Or actually, I would feel dumb, except he laughs too, and just like that the ice is broken.

  “So, Mark, tell me about being a cop.”

  His lips twitch.

  “I guess I shouldn’t have said ‘cop,’ huh? Is that politically incorrect?”

  He shrugs. “That’s what I am. Although I guess some prefer to be called ‘police officer.’”

  I try to dazzle him with a smile. Who knows if it works or not, because at that moment Joe shows up and practically throws our coffee cups onto the table. “One regular coffee. One mocha latte shot of espresso, extra whipped cream. On the house.” He stomps off.

  Goodness. Talk about a temper.

  “What’s his problem?” Mark looks a little bewildered by the entire exchange.

  I don’t know what to say, so I fake ignorance. “What do you mean?”

  “The two of you . . .” His gaze searches mine for answers even though he leaves the question unsaid.

  “Good grief. Not in this lifetime.” I know that’s an answer that would make someone think I have no attraction to Joe Pantalone, and of course I do, but I’m miffed at the way he’s acting. Besides, I think my best chance of a love connection might be Mark at this point. And judging from the wide grin that is spreading across his sensuous mouth, I think he’s thinking the same thing.

  “Good,” he says. “Then I suppose I can accept the coffee.” He takes a sip. “On the house.”

  Joe glares at us for one solid hour until Mark finally leans across the table and asks, “Can we get out of here? That guy is starting to get on my nerves.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Anywhere but here. We can walk down the sidewalk and put a dollar in every beggar’s cup, for all I care. As long as that guy isn’t around.” He stands. “What do you say?”

  I can’t help but toss a glance toward Joe. Sure enough, he’s glaring. A split-second decision brings a quick nod to my head. “Sure. Let’s go.”

  When Mark and I reach the front door, I turn to give Joe a slight wave. Not to rub it in, just to say good-bye, but Joe is suddenly absent. I figure he ducked into the kitchen, or his office. The guy who has been downright hovering for the past hour has suddenly gone invisible. Oh well, let him.

  Outside the warmth of the coffee shop, the air on the street is crisp. More than crisp, really; it’s the kind of air that can’t quite make up its mind if it wants to sting your toes and bite your nose or just nip and nibble a little bit. Perfect if Mark and I knew each other better. I’d snuggle up against him for warmth. Call me old-fashioned, but that sort of closeness is quite a ways off.

  “I have an idea,” he says just as I’m about to say, “So, what do you want to do?”

  “Oh, yeah?” My teeth are chattering a little, so I hope whatever he has in mind takes us somewhere with really good heating.

  He grabs my hand and pulls me along toward the subway station. “Wait, where are you taking me?”

&n
bsp; A wink, an actual wink from a guy. “Be patient, little one.”

  Any guy that calls me little one can take me to Timbuktu for all I care.

  We hold hands on the subway. Well, we hold hands and the overhead bars. It’s awkward trying to keep my footing and hold his hand, but if I wiggle my fingers free he might think I don’t like him. So I tough it out. He’s still keeping mum about our destination.

  We end up at Rockefeller Center. Is it wrong that I’m disappointed? I mean, at Christmastime, there’s no place I’d rather be than Rockefeller Center, with the magical tree and lights and decorations. But February is sort of a month without a point unless you’re in a relationship and go in for flowers and candy and gifts. But Mark and I are sooo not there. Plus, V Day is a whole ten days away, even if we were.

  We step off the subway and walk east toward Fifth Avenue.

  “Seriously. Where are we going?”

  “Don’t be so impatient, woman,” he says. “This is an experience to be savored. Enjoyed. Rushing anything just takes the joy out of it.”

  I lift my eyebrow to let him know I know he’s talking about us as much as about waiting for whatever he has up his bomber-jacket sleeve. At Fifth Avenue, we head north and I start to get the picture. A really dark and scary picture. He’s taking me to the Top of the Rock. I almost breathe out a sigh as I note the length of the line at the entrance. It’ll be a good two hours before we get to the front of the line.

  “Maybe we don’t have time for this,” I offer. “Don’t you have to be at work?”

  “Day off. Didn’t I mention that?”

  “No.” Butterflies are making babies in my stomach. I have to get a grip. I can’t admit to being deathly afraid of heights. Not to a guy who walks in and out of danger for a living.

  But here’s a true statement: I’ve lived in New York all of my life, am a huge fan of the movie An Affair to Remember, not to mention Sleepless in Seattle, and yet I’ve never even once had a desire to ride to the top of the Empire State Building. I always figured if God wanted me that high up, He would have made me an eagle instead of a big chicken. The thought of standing seventy stories up looking across the city from an observation deck at Rockefeller Center—or the Top of the Rock, as it’s called—and being expected to actually keep my eyes open, makes me downright sick to my stomach.

  Mark nudges me. I look up into his eyes and am gratified to notice concern there. He’s big and strong, good-looking, and intuitive. I wonder why he hasn’t been snagged by now. Is it him?

  “Do you live with your mom?”

  His eyebrows scrunch together. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

  “No. But do you?”

  “No. What’s wrong?”

  “All right.” I tip my head and look way up at the building. “I don’t do heights, I don’t ride roller coasters, and I don’t climb mountains.”

  His expression falls like a little boy who hands his mom what he thinks is a pretty bouquet only to find out she doesn’t really want smelly weeds and poison ivy. “So Top of the Rock isn’t really a great idea?”

  I shake my head. “Not so much. The thought of it makes my head ache.”

  “Well, maybe if you face your fear . . . ?”

  My head is still shaking. “I’d rather live with it.”

  The smile he gives me is filled with affection and makes me want to kiss him. But of course I don’t. First of all, my nose is so frozen I’m not positive it isn’t running. And second of all, kissing is at least three dates away. I guess I should admit that I am a schedule, list, and planning person. That’s why I like to follow recipes.

  “How does lunch sound?”

  Aw, he wants to feed me. My kind of guy. “Sounds great.”

  “There’s a great little Italian restaurant a few blocks away. How’s that?”

  “Terrific.” Although the thought of Italian anything makes me think of Joe.

  Mark tucks my arm through his and leads me away from the tower of doom. My breathing comes easier now. He gives my arm an affectionate squeeze.

  “Okay, so you don’t like heights. How do you feel about outdoorsy activities in general?”

  “You mean like eating at hot-dog stands? Or camping?”

  “I’m guessing you prefer the hot-dog stand?”

  Is that a statement about my weight? I’m not going to ask, but isn’t that a little insensitive of him?

  I shrug. “Camping is okay.”

  His eyebrows go up. “Really?”

  “As long as it isn’t freezing out.”

  He gives me a once-over and frowns. “You’re shivering.”

  “A little,” I admit.

  “I’m sorry. Let’s get you warmed up.” He hails a taxi with one arm and slips the other around my shoulders, snuggling me into his warmth.

  Technically, snuggling like that shouldn’t happen for another couple of dates at least. But since I’m freezing, I’m willing to compromise my principles. Just this once.

  He leads me to a taxi and lets me in first, as any great guy would. I stay close to the other door. I’ve already held his hand and let him warm me up. Maybe I should put on the brakes a little before he gets the wrong idea about me.

  We ride a few blocks until we reach a little Italian restaurant squashed between a wedding boutique and a New Age bookstore. “Maniaci’s?”

  “Yeah, their son works in my precinct.”

  Which leads me to ask: “How long have you been an officer?”

  “Two years.”

  Only two years? He seems older than most rookies. Not that I know many rookies. Or any, for that matter. Still, I imagine he’s older than most.

  He must notice the raised eyebrows or the funny look on my face, because he nods a little as he opens the door to Maniaci’s.

  “I was in the marines for nine years. Joined up right out of high school.”

  The marines? I swallow hard. The next obvious question would be whether he’d served in Iraq or Afghanistan, but I don’t want to dredge up bad memories, so I don’t ask. I figure that can wait for the next date. I mean, if there is one, that is.

  As soon as we step inside, we’re greeted by a jovial overweight Italian with graying temples and a big smile. “Officer Mark!” he says, pounding my date on the back. “You bring a beautiful woman to eat at Maniaci’s?” He’s grinning so big I think maybe he’s faking a little. But anyone who calls me beautiful, sincere or not, is okay in my book. Until proven otherwise.

  “This is Laini Sullivan,” Mark says, and I truly think he looks sort of proud. Which produces this weird sense of hey-maybe-I’m-okay-after-all.

  I’m not kidding. My chest actually tightens at the thought. I need to process this new feeling. Usually I’m plagued by the desire to apologize to whatever guy is taking me out—for my extra pounds and questionable wardrobe choices. Today, for instance. I’m wearing a pretty nice pair of slacks. I mean, sure, they were $19.99 on sale at Sears—and they are a size 12, but I like them. I like pink. I like stripes. ’Nough said.

  But back to the fat little Italian man who does not remind me of Nick or Joe in the least. Shoot, now I’m thinking about Joe again. Maybe we should have gone out for Chinese instead.

  “You come-a with me. I give you best table in whole restaurant.”

  Seriously, I feel like Lady from the Disney movie Lady and the Tramp. But I’ll tell you right now I am not sharing a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs with Mark. I don’t care how cute he is.

  5

  Life has been a complete whirlwind of activity over the last week. Classes, study sessions with Jazz and the rest of the group, a birthday party for David and Tabby’s twins, and dinner with Dancy and Jack, where all I did was watch them make eyes at each other. My gut is one ball of tightness. It’s been over a week and Mark hasn’t called. What did I do to scare this one off? I’m not given to delusion, but I honestly thought we had a connection.

  But I have to force all distractions from my brain and focus on making mys
elf clear. Today is the day Joe Pantalone will listen to reason. My name is Determination. Determination Refuse-to-Take-No-for-an-Answer Sullivan. He will agree to the revised ideas for the renovations, and he will agree to hire the architect so we can begin applying for all the millions of permits needed for a project this size. It’s a lofty goal for one person. But I’ll have my team of wannabe designers, the architect, and the contractors. It’ll be fine. I’m almost one hundred percent sure of it.

  Waiting for Jazz to arrive to provide my much-needed backup, I hesitate just outside Nick’s. I’m not in the greatest of moods. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. Romance is in the air—for everyone but me. And why does all the mooning and sighing have to start the week before? It’s Valentine’s Day, people, not Valentine’s Week.

  The girls and I usually spend it together, except last year Tabby babysat for David’s twins while he took another woman to dinner and she ended up so sick with the measles that she picked up from the kids that Dancy stayed with her. This year, of course, the two of them are sewn up in their cozy little romances and I’m out in the freezing cold with no one to call my own. I’d sort of hoped, even though I knew it was unlikely, that Mark might ask me to dinner for the big night. Okay, that was a dumb thing to hope for. I know that. A Valentine’s date is for those already in a relationship or at least farther into one than I am with Mark. If a relationship is indeed beginning. I haven’t heard from him since lunch at Maniaci’s Monday—of last week. Today is Wednesday so that’s—nine whole days. Who am I kidding? I’m never going to see him again.

  “Hey!” My friend and project-mate, Jazz Bates, shivers her way up to me. “Why are you standing in front of the door?”

  I shrug. “Just waiting for you.”

  She grins and throws a couple of fake punches into the air just like she’s Rocky Balboa. “Gearing up for a fight?”

  “Oh, brother. I hope not.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Jazz says, more because she’s only twenty-three, I think, than because she has any idea what’s going to happen beyond that door with the jingle bell over the top.