4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Sunday Evening
As Danielle entered the low cinderblock building on Salvatore’s arm, a blast of sensation slammed her: loud voices, laughter, and rich scents of garlic, cheese, fresh bread, and tomato sauce wafting from serving tables along the wall. Her stomach rumbled.
All dolled up for a party, the meeting hall was stuffed with big, round tables decked with flickering candles. On the low stage, Italian and American flags framed a D.J.’s table. People streamed through the entrance, greeting each other with hugs and backslaps. Kids dashed about, peeked from beneath tablecloths, and poked fingers into dishes. Mamas and grandmamas smacked little hands away from the feast. At a smaller corner table, old guys gesticulated over a dice game. Above the din, Dean Martin crooned, “Come back to Sorrento.” Family, friends, food, fun—like all the best parts of Thanksgiving transplanted to June and sprinkled with Italian seasoning.
Danielle sighed. Her kids would love this. Over the years, she’d often wondered what it would be like to live full time in Trappers Cove. Tonight’s party offered her a taste.
Salvatore tugged her toward a table in the center of the room and pointed to a folding chair.
“That’s Matteo’s jacket. Where’s that boy gone to?”
Danielle scanned the crowd. “There he is.” She hoped Sal didn’t notice the fierce flush climbing her cheeks.
Backing through a side door and giving her a view of his broad shoulders flexing beneath a snug dress shirt, Sal’s nephew carried an enormous, steaming pan, which he set on the buffet table. A petite nonna bussed him on the cheek, and another squeezed his biceps. As soon as his cargo was situated on its chafing dish stand, more grandmothers flocked to him like hungry sparrows, patting his cheeks and pointing to their own dishes of food.
Salvatore chuckled. “See? Those nonnas will tear him apart. Each one wants him for her own daughter or granddaughter, and Matteo’s too polite to chase them away.” He nudged Danielle with his elbow. “That’s your job, bella.” He stuck two fingers in his mouth and let fly a piercing whistle.
Matteo’s head snapped toward the sound. His brows flicked upward, and his smile widened.
Her heart skipped a beat or two, then thumped in time to his steps as he crossed the room. Despite the hands clutching at him, the hugs and backslaps, he kept his gaze trained on her—until a tiny princess in a poufy taffeta dress planted herself in his path, raised her arms, and demanded, “Up.”
He scooped the toddler into his arms, smooched her forehead, and carried her to the table where Danielle waited, barely breathing.
“Hi,” the little girl announced with a serious expression. “I’m Sophia. I’m this many.” She held up two fingers, then three. “You’re pretty.” She patted Matteo’s broad chest. “Down.”
He raised a single eyebrow.
The little one heaved a comical sigh, shrilled, “Pleeeeeease,” and was promptly set back on her feet.
As the child skipped into the crowd, Matteo took both of Danielle’s hands. His gaze traveled over her body, leaving her slightly dizzy. If he was gorgeous yesterday in his black T-shirt, jeans, and apron, tonight he was simply spectacular in slim charcoal trousers, shiny loafers, and a crisp white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to display strong forearms dusted with dark hair. His top two buttons were open, revealing a small silver medal against tan skin. Her fingertips itched to unbutton the next button, and the next.
His gaze met hers and held, his lips curving in a subtle, private smile. “Sophia’s right. You’re very pretty, Danielle.” He pronounced her name with a panty-melting Italian accent, like some delicious dish.
Mayday! She sucked in a ragged breath and slid her hands from his soft grip. “Thanks. You’re looking very dapper too.”
She gave herself a mental smack. Dapper? What a dorky thing to say.
But Matteo’s smoldering expression didn’t falter. He moved closer, close enough to smell his subtle scent of sandalwood and sea air. Close enough to feel his breath tickling her ear as he whispered, “You’re just in time. The nonnas were closing in.”
Deep inside her chest, something fizzled like a snuffed candle. She’d misread the flicker in his dark eyes. He’d only asked her out as a shield against matchmaking matriarchs. For a split second, she considered excusing herself, claiming an upset stomach—not much of a stretch when faced with making a fool of herself over a younger man.
Then a skinny teen deposited a basket of steaming garlic bread on their table. Its tempting, yeasty aroma drew a rumble from Danielle’s middle and triggered the memory of Cari’s wise advice: “Promise me you’ll have fun tonight.” She couldn’t break a promise to a friend. Besides, these two charming gents were counting on her.
Placing a hand on Matteo’s firm shoulder, she rose on tiptoe and whispered, “You can count on me, bello.”
“Mille grazie.” He pressed a soft kiss to her temple. “Now, let’s eat before all the best dishes are gone.”
Flushed and flustered, she followed him to the buffet line and filled her plate with pasta, plus antipasti of marinated mushrooms, grilled vegetables, olives, cheese cubes, and paper-thin salami and prosciutto, along with peppery rucola salad and spinach-and-ricotta stuffed turkey involtini. Good thing her new skirt had a drawstring waist.
Back at the table, Salvatore filled her tumbler to the rim with red wine. “Local family makes this up near Westport. It’s not Chianti classico, but it’s not bad.”
She sipped. “Not bad” was a huge understatement. Bold and complex, perfumed with berries and earth, the wine offered a perfect complement to the rich dishes before her. She’d tried most of the restaurants in Trappers Cove, but nothing came close to this feast. Their tablemates, two middle-aged couples and a retired fire chief, entertained them with town gossip and good-natured ribbing. Salvatore joined in, pointing his fork at the people being discussed. Matteo kept quiet, focused on the heap of food before him, but from time to time he nudged Danielle’s leg and waggled his eyebrows, as if to say, “Isn’t this delicious?”
After the chief’s story about rescuing a cantankerous pet monkey from the church steeple, Matteo’s hand closed softly over hers. “Seconds, bella?”
She blinked at her empty plate. Distracted by the genial company and Matteo’s husky laughter, she’d hoovered down enough food for two dinners, maybe three. “Thanks, but no. If I eat any more, you’ll have to roll me home.”
The woman across from her asked, “So, Danielle, you Italian?”
“Partly. My grandfather’s family came from Genoa. Dante Delfino was his name.”
“Meraviglioso.” The woman’s husband pinched his wife’s plump cheek. “See, Rosa? Matteo’s found himself a nice Italian girl without your help.”
Rosa gave her husband a shove, but the smile she gave Danielle glowed with genuine warmth.
Beneath the table, Matteo squeezed her knee, igniting sparks of pleasure that zinged up her leg. Why not play along? Just for tonight, she’d help her new friend by letting these matchmakers think they were a couple.
Rosa asked, “What do you do in Tacoma?”
“I’m a speech therapist for the school district.”
Matteo leaned in, eyes alight with sincere interest. Or was he just that good at flattery and flirtation? “So, you help kids with lisps and stutters?”
She nodded. “Some of my students have difficulty with certain sounds, like L or R or TH. Others have speech delays or learning problems that affect their oral communication.”
“Big kids or little?” Salvatore asked.
“Mostly little. With early intervention, they can make big improvements.” She tapped her sternum. “Like me. When I was little, I couldn’t say my S’s. Other kids made fun of me.”
Further explanation was interrupted when a tall, bony-faced gentleman stepped up to the podium to thank the chefs. A tiny, beaming nonna accepted a lavish bouquet for organizing the meal. She angled the mic down and rattled off a long list of names. “And thanks to Matteo, our muscle man, for carrying all the heavy stuff.” She blew him a kiss, which he caught in his palm and pressed to his heart.
Danielle stifled a moan over his sheer adorableness. Though tonight didn’t really count as a date, sharing this amazing feast with Matteo would definitely be the highlight of her solo beach trip.
“Before we start dessert,” the MC continued, “you got ten more minutes to buy your raffle tickets. Remember, all proceeds go to the scholarship fund, so dig deep.”
Salvatore pointed to a long table at the back of the stage. “Go take a look, you two. It’s for a good cause.”
Huh. Did her old friend have matchmaking inclinations too? People rose to stretch, and several moved toward the display of raffle prizes. Danielle slid through the crowd on Matteo’s arm, their passage marked by whispers and pointing fingers.
“You’re making quite an impression,” he murmured. “Everyone’s wondering who you are and how long you’re going to stay.”
“Just two weeks, I’m afraid. My kids have summer soccer league, and I have therapy appointments booked for July and August.”
As they climbed the steps onto the stage, he pursed his lips and nodded slowly, seemingly deep in thought. “Tacoma’s not so far away. I’ve been meaning to get up there and check out the antique shops.”
“You’re into antiques, Matteo?”
“Sort of. I upcycle old furniture, like this here.” He pointed to a small table with a gleaming blue-green finish that allowed the wood’s natural grain to shine through.
“Gorgeous.” She ran her fingertips over the smooth surface. “Reminds me of my mother’s sewing table.”
His smile widened. “That’s what it was, before I gave it a makeover. Open it.”
She lifted the fold-out top. A galvanized tub sat in the cavity that once held a sewing machine.
“To hold ice and drinks.” He pointed to the wooden lid. “You put your snacks here, and the cups go there.”
“Matteo, this is brilliant.” She squatted to see how he’d attached the tub.
He huffed and shoved a hand through his dark curls. “Nothing like helping kids learn to speak right. I mean, correctly.”
Great, now she’d made him self-conscious. Swallowing a soft grunt, she pushed herself upright. “We all have our gifts. I lack your artistic talent.”
“Artist? Hell, I’m a carpenter.” From the open collar of his shirt, he pulled a small silver medal on a slender chain. “Saint Joseph, our patron saint. Gift from my grandfather.”
“Was your dad a carpenter too?”
Another snort. Funny how he made that ungraceful noise sound so sexy. “Dad sold cars. Had a big, shiny dealership. Kept pressuring me to work for him—until he dropped dead from a heart attack at age sixty.” He patted the tabletop. “I’ll stick with carpentry.”
Poor kid! He might laugh it off, but his wry half-smile betrayed a deep vein of hurt. She wanted to comfort this near stranger who made her pulse race, but she feared overstepping, so she settled for squeezing his shoulder, firm and solid beneath her hand.
Matteo wasn’t so reticent, though. Not content with that skimpy contact, he pulled her in for a hug. Ignoring the flurry of whispers around them, he murmured against her hair, “Sorry to be such a downer. You’re easy to talk to, Danielle. Thanks.”
Fizzy warmth burbled up from her middle and filled her head with foolish thoughts. Fighting her reaction, she stepped back and pasted on a casual grin. “So, where do I get my raffle tickets?”
She bought twenty, depositing most in the jar in front of Matteo’s ingenious bar cart, plus one each in a basket of romance books and bubble bath, as well as a picnic hamper filled with salami, cheese, and wine. When the drawing was held, she won the romance basket. A sign of good things to come? Or solitary nights curled up with a book? A cute young woman won Matteo’s table, dammit.
Who was she kidding? With dozens of pretty young girls vying for Matteo’s attention, there was no way he’d choose her company over theirs. Time to make a graceful exit before she made a fool of herself.
While he hauled the lucky winner’s prize out to her car, Danielle thanked Salvatore for a wonderful evening, then shook hands with the rest of their tablemates and retrieved her wrap and purse. Returning to her side, Matteo pinned her with a puzzled frown. “You can’t leave yet. You haven’t had dessert.”
“Dessert?” She patted her overstuffed tummy. “Where would I put it, in my purse? I had a wonderful time, Matteo, but I should get back home before—”
He leaned in close and whispered, “There’s dancing too, and if you go, the nonnas will pounce.” He ran his hands up and down her arms. “Please stay, bella. Dance with me.”
The lights dimmed, and someone switched on a by-God disco ball above the dance floor. Its glittery shine transformed Matteo’s dark eyes into a bewitching night sky.
“Well, I suppose…” She wet her lips as she draped her belongings over the chair back. She hadn’t danced with a man since a stilted two-step at her wedding. Lately, she only hit the dance floor with tipsy women friends at concerts and parties. But now, Matteo was holding her hand, walking backward toward the dance floor where couples young and old swayed to “Volare.”
He pulled her into his arms, his right hand between her shoulder blades, his left gently cradling her palm. For a moment that felt like forever, they stood beneath the spinning lights, gazes locked. His eyebrow quirked up. “Are you ready?”
She sucked in a breath, then nodded.
Away they glided. Maybe it was the wine, but it seemed her feet didn’t quite touch the ground as Matteo guided her around the floor in swirling arcs. She was dimly aware of stares and whispers from the growing crowd of dancers. When the song ended, he spun her out and back, so she landed against his chest.
“You’re a great dancer, Danielle.” His soft kiss on her forehead sent giddy echoes through her whole body.
“That was all you, Matteo.” Movement over his shoulder caught her eye—a trio of pretty twenty-somethings tittering at the dance floor’s edge. Two of the girls shoved the third forward. “Incoming,” she whispered.
Without releasing her, he glanced at the intruder, then pressed his forehead to Danielle’s. “Can I kiss you?”
A flurry of sensations blanked her brain—the warm press of his skin, his woodsy scent, his breath whispering over her lips. Too stunned to speak, she nodded.
He captured her chin between thumb and forefinger and held her gaze for a moment, until his dark lashes fluttered down, and he closed the distance between them. His lips brushed hers, feather-light, and pressed softly at each corner of her mouth, which opened on a sigh. Sweet Jesus . When had she ever been kissed like this?
“Mmm,” he hummed against her. His breath smelled of Chianti. He pressed her closer, hand splayed at the small of her back, and kissed her again, a long, voluptuous caress. She wound her arms around his neck and arched into his embrace, moaning helplessly as the tip of his tongue traced her lower lip.
“Madonna,” he murmured. Beneath half-lowered lids, his eyes shone dark and molten.
A sharp whack on his shoulder shattered the moment. “Basta così,” an older man scolded. “There are kids here. Go home if you’re that arrapato.”
Matteo threw his head back and laughed. “Means horny,” he explained. “Sorry, bella. Your beauty is intoxicating. I got carried away.” He pressed another kiss to the shell of her ear. “Will you forgive me?”
Face aflame, she nodded. “Should we go?”
He loosened his hold, once again taking her right hand. “As much as I’d like to get you alone, I’m enjoying dancing with you. Give me just one more?” As if on cue, the D.J. began a Sinatra tune.
She searched the dance floor for the giggly girls, but they’d disappeared into the crowd. The lights shifted to a rosy hue. Matteo swayed her slowly, keeping a safe distance this time, but the air between them crackled with electricity. Could the others see how she flushed and bloomed at his touch? They must have noticed because at each turn, eyes followed their movements, and murmurs trailed behind them.
“I think I’d better sit down,” she told him when the music faded. “I’m feeling a little woozy.”
On their way back to their table, they passed the girl who’d hoped to dance with Matteo. She muttered under her breath, but when Matteo gave her a dismissive wave, she raised her volume. “Cradle robber.”
Danielle went rigid with indignation. Jealous bitch . The girl was right, though. Matteo was at least ten years her junior, maybe more. She must look ridiculous, making out with a much younger man in front of a roomful of strangers. The rosy cloud she’d been floating on a moment ago deflated, dumping her back to earth with a painful thud.
She squeezed his hand. “Matteo, I’m really tired. I think I’ll head home.”
Those mesmerizing dark eyes saw right through her lie. “Don’t worry about Bianca. She’s crazy, a real shit stirrer. Nobody listens to her.”
She reached for her purse, dangling from the back of her chair. “Honestly, I had a wonderful time, but I’m ready for some quiet.”
He hovered behind her, far too close for clear thinking. When she reached for her wrap, he unfurled it and draped it over her. His hands settled on her shoulders, a warm, heavy weight that kept her rooted in place. His breath stirred her hair. Finally, he sighed. “Okay. If you want to go, let me walk you home.”
“No, really, I—”
“Too many drunk tourists out on a warm night like this. Please, bella. Let me see you to your door.” His broad palms kneaded her tense shoulders. “Uncle Sal will give me hell if I don’t.”
Just then, Salvatore returned to their table holding a plate piled high with pastries. “What’s this? Leaving before dessert?” He lifted a cannolo to her lips. “Stella Giusto made these. You’ll never taste anything better.”
“She’s tired, Zio,” Matteo interjected. “I’m gonna take her home.”
Salvatore’s expression of dismay smoothed into a knowing grin. “Ah. Okay, then. You two lovebirds go on home.” Grasping her shoulders, he kissed both her cheeks. His mustache tickled. “I hope to see you soon, Danielle.”
She nestled under Matteo’s protective arm as they wound through the crowd. Outside, the cool evening air carried the ocean tang, more noticeable now that the Belgian waffle and kettle corn vendors had shut down for the night. Just as Matteo had predicted, boisterous tourists filled Main Street, roaming from one bar to the next. He kept his arm around her shoulders until they reached her rented cottage, only releasing her when they climbed the porch stairs, and she fished in her purse for the key.
“Nice place,” he remarked. “I can see why you keep coming back.”
“Yeah, well.” She opened the door. “It’s not the same without my kids.”
According to Marie and her other divorced friends, the quickest way to get rid of a guy was to mention your offspring. But Matteo stood his ground, a dreamy smile on his face. “I’ll bet you’re a wonderful mama.”
“How can you tell?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. You’ve got”—he waved a hand as if wafting smoke—“this caring aura. You’re a very loving person.”
“You can tell that from just one kiss?”
He shuffled closer. “One spectacular kiss.” Closer still. “Fireworks, bella.”
Oh God, he’s going to kiss me again. And I really, really want him to .
His eyes glowed with the promise of passion. But instead of kissing her, he pressed his forehead to hers and chuckled. “And the fact that you’d go on a blind date with an old man and a stranger. That was a very sweet thing to do, Danielle. Thank you.”
Disappointment tinged her sigh of relief. Better not think about how marvelous it would feel to kiss him again, how he’d taste, how he’d hold her, caress her…
She gave her head a little shake. “It was my pleasure, Matteo. I enjoyed that glimpse of the real town. You know, beyond the tacky shops.” Oops! “I don’t mean your shop, of course.”
He tucked his chin and flashed a wry smile. “Yeah, Main Street’s pretty damn tacky in summer. But there’s a lot more to the town than tourist traps.” His brows flicked up, and he seized her hands. “Let me show you, Danielle.”
“Show me what?”
“The real Trappers Cove.”
She chuckled. “I’ve been coming here since you were—” In high school? Elementary school? The thought landed like a rock in a puddle, splattering her dreams with muddy reality. “Anyway, I’ve seen Trappers Cove from top to bottom. The beach too.”
“You’ve only seen the facade. Let me show you the real deal.”
“I don’t know, Matteo. You’re so”—she waved her hand, taking in his gorgeous frame from top to bottom—“young, damn it.”
He tilted his head. “Ah, the age thing. Okay, I’m thirty-one. You?”
She gulped. She’d never worried much about the passage of time. As her Italian nana said, you’re as old as you are. Useless to fret about it. But tonight, she wished she could turn back time for these two weeks, so she could be with Matteo without feeling so damn foolish.
She squared her shoulders. “I’m forty-two.”
He stroked her arm with the back of his forefinger. “A woman in full bloom.”
Her knees wobbled. Either he was joking, or he was a true seduction artist. She searched his dark gaze and found no mockery there. Maybe it was an Italian thing. Europeans held more appreciation for mature beauty, right? Or maybe he had a weird mama fixation?
Who cares? I have two weeks to myself. Might as well enjoy them to the fullest.
“All right, then. I’d love to see the town through your eyes, Matteo.”
He grinned like a kid at Christmas. “Yeah? That’s great. I have to work for Uncle Sal in the afternoon, so we can start with breakfast. Pick you up at seven?”
“In the morning?”
His thumbs teased her palms, massaging in slow, sensuous circles. “Put yourself in my hands, dear lady. I promise you’ll have a good time.”