“Did you enjoy your first class?” I finally asked. “Think you’ll come back?”
He nodded. “I really did, yeah. Fumiko was worried about what my mom thought of my tattoos, but once I told her my mom was okay with it, we got along just fine.” His grin widened. “So yeah. I’ll definitely be back.”
He moved in a little bit closer, and I could smell him again—that clean, masculine scent that made me want to bury my face against his chest to inhale a deep, intoxicating breath of him. My body felt tingly and alive in a way I hadn’t felt in—well, a long time. Maybe ever. And it was all him.
“I’m glad,” I said once I was able to push that urge from my mind. “I was really surprised to see you today, but I’m glad you came.”
“Do you have lunch plans?” he asked, shifting the bag from one hand to the other. “Would you like to go somewhere and grab a bite to eat with me?”
It was odd—the boyishly earnest way he asked me out stood in stark contrast with his outrageously handsome exterior, the cool confidence that he radiated.
“Yeah, I’d like that,” I finally said. I gathered up the last of my supplies and dropped them into my tote bag. “Where would you like to go?”
His face lit up in pleasure as soon as I agreed. “Angelo’s Diner. Ever been there?”
“No, but I’m looking forward to it.” And I didn’t just mean the food. The thought of getting to know this enigmatic man better made me feel a bit . . . giddy.
* * *
“I can’t believe you’ve never been here,” he said as we slid into our booth at Angelo’s, a flirtatious glimmer in his eyes. “It breaks my heart, really.” He folded himself into the booth across from me and grabbed the menus out of the holder. “Best breakfast and lunch in King County.”
I accepted the outstretched menu and flipped it open, scanning the enormous list of menu items. “Big promise,” I teased. “I’ll hold you to it.”
“Big brother!” someone called out.
I lowered my menu to find the source, while across the table, Ian groaned.
“Sam,” he said, gesturing at the dark-haired man in medical scrubs who was quickly making his way across the restaurant toward our table. “Meet my baby brother, George.” He turned toward his sibling, who was looking down at me with a beaming smile. “George, this is my friend Sam.”
I extended a hand. “I teach his knitting class.”
George’s brows furrowed as he clasped his hand in mine for a quick, firm shake. “Knitting class?”
Ian blew out a deep breath and waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll fill you in later. What brings you here?”
“Lunch, of course.”
The two of them chatted briefly while I marveled at the remarkable differences between them. Both were tall and dark-haired, but where Ian was lean and covered with tattoos, George’s bulky muscles strained at the seams of his scrubs and his bared arms were smooth and free of ink. And while they shared the same wide, easy smile and deep-set eyes, Ian’s eyes were fathomless dark, while George’s were a shocking blue, a startling contrast to his olive skin.
“Sorry about that,” Ian muttered after they said their goodbyes and George headed out of the restaurant. “This was supposed to be a casual lunch, not a family ambush.”
I waved a hand dismissively. “It’s not a problem.” I looked over at George’s broad back as he retreated out the door. “I was just thinking about how you two look so different.” I looked down at his hands and noticed him twisting his napkin with twitchy fingers. He’s nervous, I realized. Nervous about having lunch with me.
It was a surprising thought, and I immediately started casting about for a conversation topic to put him at ease. “Just how big is your family, anyway?”
His eyes lit up, and despite his show of irritation when George showed up at our table, he spoke eagerly about his family—about his adored big brother Nick and younger brothers George and Andy, and his beloved baby sister Frankie. His parents, too, and the grandmother they had recently lost.
I was surprised to hear him bubble up with so much information about his family right off the bat, but the longer he talked, the more at ease he became, until the twisted scrap of napkin was gone and forgotten on the far corner of the table, his hands instead occupied with fluid, expressive gesturing as he talked.
Our food arrived before long, plates heaped with steaming-hot sandwiches fresh from the grill and crispy French fries.
“Oh, God, this is so good,” I moaned around a ketchup-dipped fry. “How have I never been to this place before?”
“Told you,” Ian replied as he carefully picked up his Reuben. “Best-kept secret in town.”
Ian’s table manners were flawless—his mother insisted, he explained when I pointed it out. He ate with neat, measured bites, wiping his fingers carefully, elbows never touching the surface of the table. It was more than just the table manners, too—he was a polite and attentive meal companion, a good listener and most of all—
“You never interrupt,” I said around the last bite of my sandwich. “It’s kind of wild. I never realized how much people interrupt until now, having a conversation with someone who doesn’t do it.”