His laughter rung out, and he looked so relaxed and perfect in that moment, bursting with such unthreatening confidence, she wondered again how it was possible that he remained single.
“Yes, but rule number one of the clan mentality club is that we don’t talk about the clan mentality club.”
“Here we are.” One of the black haired women—Maggie couldn’t tell them apart—delivered a platter covered in thickly cut buffalo mozzarella and fresh tomatoes, drizzled in olive oil and a balsamic vinaigrette, sprinkled with shavings of aromatic basil.
Maggie’s mouth watered, and she unraveled a fork from the dinner napkin.
“Beautiful,” Ryan praised. “Maria, this is my neighbor, Maggie.”
“Good to meet you. We got a real nice antipasto platter tonight. Some paper-thin prosciutto, Kalamata olives, fresh baked bread, and sautéed long hots. You want me to bring somethin’ out?”
“Bring it all,” Ryan welcomed and the woman beamed.
“That’s a lot of food.” Maggie cut a sliver of caprese and shut her eyes as the soft cheese melted on her tongue, mingling perfectly with the vibrant blend of basil and tomatoes. “Ohmygod,” she slurred, shoving another bite into her mouth.
“Right?” Ryan popped a slice between his lips.
“What is this?” The burst of salt and homemade cheese melted like a drop of heaven over her tongue.
He chewed with a smile, watching her savor the food. “I’m pretty sure it’s made from the same stuff orgasms are made of.”
She snorted. “No wonder I can’t remember the last time I tasted something so good.”
He arched a brow but didn’t comment. Still, she blushed. Definitely too much information but goddamn this salad was off the charts delicious.
Another sister brought out the antipasto platter and cleared away the caprese. Ryan introduced her again. The women were very preoccupied with feeding him and paid little attention to her. Maggie didn’t mind because the food was that good.
By the time the main dish arrived, she was painfully stuffed but couldn’t seem to put down her fork. The pasta was a delicate angel hair that tasted so fresh she knew it was nothing more than eggs and flour that morning. And the veal, seared then dressed in a rich tomato sauce, had no match. It was easily the most delicate meat she’d ever tasted.
“I can’t stop.”
He groaned, twirling another bite of pasta on the tines of his fork and hefting it into his mouth. His eyes glazed with a sort of contentment that only came with incredible food or sex. But in all honesty, the meal might’ve been better than sex—she couldn’t remember.
He groaned somewhere between pain and pleasure. “We have to stop.”
“Have to,” she agreed, dredging a mouthful of sauce with the last piece of bread and shoving it into her mouth.
“I’m gonna be sick if I eat one more bite.”
The third sister appeared. “So?”
“Oh, my God, so good,” Maggie said, holding her belly.
“Amazing,” Ryan agreed, giving his bloated stomach a pat.
The woman preened. “Maria’s slicing you a nice piece of tiramisu. How about coffee?”
Maggie was going to burst, but the thought of leaving and not tasting the tiramisu felt like some sort of capital sin. “I think I’ll need coffee just to make it home.”
“Two coffees.”
Maria cleared the table, and a moment later a square of layered rum-scented cake dusted with spicy cinnamon sat between them with two spoons balanced on the side. He lifted his and touched it to hers.
“Cheers.”
They took a bite at the same moment and both groaned, the sounds equally sexual and ripe with contentment.
“Holy crap.”
“Shh.” She shut her eyes and held up her hand, savoring the decadent taste. “Shut up. I’m in the middle of something.”
He laughed. “You have cinnamon on your chin.”
“I don’t care.” Her eyes sprung open when his finger brushed her jaw.
He smiled. “Got it.”
Maggie slowly licked her lips, unable to turn her heavy gaze away. She was in some sort of Italian food oblivion. A real carbohydrate coma. Everything felt soft and heavy and warm. That’s when it occurred to her, despite their intentions, this had turned into a date.
“Um…” Realization ricocheted between them. He knew it and she knew it. Hell, the three sisters probably knew it. Maggie cleared her throat and looked down at her coffee. “So…”
“So…” he echoed.
The emptiness of the restaurant registered as did the soft flicker of the votive candles and the dainty red rose in the bud glass between them. She put down her spoon and sat back. Did this sneak up on him the way it snuck up on her? Or did he plan it all along?
Dean Martin’s voice rang from the speakers singing Everybody Loves Somebody.
Her head lowered, realizing she’d been the one to suggest they go out instead of ordering in. Stupid. Why did she keep putting herself in situations like this with him?
“I didn’t plan this,” he said, seeming to follow her train of thought.