Chapter 5
Oliver tried all afternoon not to think about Luca Moretti.
The way he’d looked, savoring every single bite of his chai spice twist. The look of bliss on his handsome face, losing that hard edge when there wasn’t anyone to argue with or to impose his will upon.
It convinced Oliver that the glimpses of flirtatious, charming man he’d seen under that tough mask were the real Luca.
But, he reminded himself, it doesn’t matter who the real Luca is, because he’s not staying around for you to find out.
He’s going to fix Giana and Enzo, or he’s gonna try, and then he’ll be gone, and it won’t matter that you found him nearly irresistible.
Even when he was being arrogant and a little bit obnoxious.
But even more when he’s trying to be sweet. When he lets himself be sweet.
“You’re pacing.”
Marjorie looked over at him as she finished counting up the cash for the day from the drawer.
Oliver stopped in his tracks. He had been pacing.
“Why so tense?” she asked casually, like it wasn’t unusual for him to be anxious.
But it was. He was laid-back; always took things as they came.
He’d had to learn to exist that way to stay in one piece when he’d worked at the high-end restaurants in Charleston, and then coming back here, and becoming a business owner? Same deal.
“I’m . . .” Oliver hesitated. He’d nearly just told Marjorie, frankly one of his oldest friends, that he wasn’t tense, when he very much was.
And lying to her, even when he was doing it for what felt like a good reason, was more alien to him than any rogue anxiety he was feeling.
“Remember that guy who came in this morning? Before lunch? Tall, dark, unbearably handsome?”
Marjorie shot him a look. “Of course I remember him. You don’t see a guy like that wearing a suit like he does all that often. I remember him.” She paused. “You talked to him. I thought it was about business.”
“It was.” Oliver twisted his beanie in his hands. “Sort of. Kind of. We never . . .he didn’t . . .”
“Ah.” Marjorie didn’t have to say anything else, only the single syllable. And okay, it was obvious. What he was twisted up about was Luca.
“He wouldn’t stay. He’s not staying. He’s some big hotshot restaurant exec back in California,” Oliver explained.
“And?” Marjorie retorted, raising an eyebrow. “Does that mean you can’t enjoy him while he’s here? Because if he’d given me even a fraction of the looks he was giving you, I’d take plenty of advantage.”
Oliver rolled his eyes. Marjorie was sixty, at least, and proclaimed loudly, to anyone who would listen, that most men weren’t worth the air they wasted.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Oliver said, but while he might be able to dissemble with Marjorie—though not well, if her incredulous expression was any indication—he couldn’t with himself. He was tempted.
“Just because something’s temporary doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing,” she said. “Like your time in Charleston. You learned a lot. You grew as a person. You figured out what you liked and what you didn’t. Not everything has to be a lifelong commitment, Oliver. You know that.”
“But . . .” Oliver hesitated. He knew she was right. So why was he still hesitating?
“Don’t tell me,” she added sternly, “you still need the birds and the bees talk, Oliver.”
“No, no, no, definitely not.” He’d casually dated in Charleston, hadn’t he? Sure, none of those guys or those relationships, if he even wanted to use that word, had a big fat expiration sticker slapped on them, the way Luca Moretti did, but why did that matter?
“You like him, tell him.” She was adamant.
Maybe the kind of adamant he needed.
“I don’t even know if I like him yet.” Though that was a lie. He did like Luca. Maybe there wasn’t a good reason why he did already, but he’d felt drawn to the man, even as he both annoyed and frustrated him, since he’d nearly hit him with his car.
“Well, what are you waiting for then? Go find out if you like him.” Marjorie finished counting the money and zipped it up in the pouch. “I’ll take the bank deposit and you take yourself down to Nonna’s and talk to that nice handsome man.”
“Was he nice though?” Luca Moretti seemed like a lot of things, but nice probably wasn’t in the top five—which Oliver liked, because he had plenty of niceness to go around.
It was like biting into a pie, thinking it would be sweet and discovering it was salty and savory and maybe even a little spicy.
Unexpected, yes, but the good kind of unexpected.
Marjorie smacked him in the arm. “You aren’t even dating him yet and here you are already complaining about him.” She grinned. “Seems like love at first sight to me.”
“Oh please,” Oliver said, rolling his eyes. “It’s not anything like that. I just nearly killed him accidentally and then there was the time he ran right into me at the Inn.”
“You even had a meet-cute!” Marjorie crowed. “What are you still doing here?”
“We did not have a meet-cute,” Oliver retorted.
“Did you flirt with him?”
“Have you seen him?” Oliver shoved his hands into his pockets. “Of course I flirted with him.”
“There you go,” Marge said. “If there’s flirting, no way it’s not an official meet-cute. Those don’t happen all that often in Indigo Bay. It’s practically a crime if you don’t take advantage.”
“How would you know?” Oliver asked, in a tone of disbelief. He had no idea Marjorie was this much of a romantic. Or this much of a matchmaker.
Maybe it was like a disease and she’d caught it from his mother. Oliver shuddered. He didn’t need more than one person haranguing him to find love and settle down.
Though . . .it wasn’t like he could settle down with Luca. In a few weeks, he’d go back to the west coast, and hopefully, he’d remain a warm—maybe even a hot—memory.
That made up his mind.
He was going to date Luca Moretti and enjoy him while he was here, and not fall in love with him, and then when he left, he’d be totally fine with it.
“I know more than you realize, boyo,” Marjorie teased. “When I was in Italy one summer . . .”
“No, no, no,” Oliver said, covering his ears. “I don’t want to hear it. Especially not details, okay?”
“Okay.”
Oliver thought the fact she stopped meant she’d capitulated, but he also didn’t miss the sly look in her eyes as he pulled off his beanie and ruffled a hand through his hair, using the shiny, spotless front window as a mirror.
“You got the deposit?” he asked casually.
“Yep, I’ve got it,” she said. “I’ll lock up. You do . . .well, whatever it is you’re planning on doing.” There was that sly, knowing look again.
“Alright. Have a good night,” Oliver said awkwardly.
He should be used to this town being so interested in everyone’s personal life because they had none of their own, but nope, he wasn’t.
Not even remotely. On one hand, it could be annoying and intrusive.
On the other . . .there’d been a cold anonymity about the big city that he hadn’t liked.
He’d felt so alone there, like if he fell off the face of the earth, nobody would notice or actually care.
But here? Here in Indigo Bay, he was woven into the fabric of the town’s existence. He was an integral thread.
Oliver let the door shut behind him, the tinkling of the bells hanging from the corner sending him off with his own soundtrack.
It was still mid-afternoon and the sunshine was warm on his back as he walked down the street toward Nonna’s.
When they’d first opened three years ago, he’d worried that the deli might cut into Sweetie Pie’s business, but after going there twice, he’d realized it wasn’t going to be an issue.
Giana was sweet and meant well, but she wasn’t really a business owner.
And Enzo? Well. Oliver had only had to go on one date with him to realize he had zero interest in developing their business into something that could rival Sweetie Pie’s.
He barely had any interest in the business at all.
It had been at least two years and eight months since he’d been inside Nonna’s, and as he pushed the door open, he realized not much had changed.
It wasn’t an inviting setup, though this time at least, the moment he opened the door, the most delicious smells hit him square in the face.
Rich tomato. Garlic. Basil. The unctuousness of roasted meat.
The change in aroma had to have come from the man sitting at one of the tables, one leg propped on a knee, his jacket tossed on the back of a nearby chair, a pained expression on his face like he was rapidly developing a headache.
Oliver realized something else, a second too late.
He’d walked right into the middle of an argument.
Three sets of eyes swiveled toward him.
Luca looked surprised, pleasantly so.
Giana looked annoyed.
And Enzo’s expression, as he leaned against the front counter, could best be described as murderous.
Shit.
“Uh,” Oliver said. “Hi. I thought I’d just stop by to follow up with Luca about . . .uh . . .about the bread.”
He hadn’t really envisioned what he’d do once he got here.
In a dim, poorly lit fantasy, he’d imagined walking in, just seeing Luca here, his coat off and his sleeves rolled up, revealing those strong, capable forearms rippling with muscle, and asking him, straight out, if he’d like to have dinner tonight.
He had not predicted that he’d walk into the middle of an argument.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Enzo spat out. “You asked him?”
Luca made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.
Oliver had just told Marjorie that Luca wasn’t really nice. And he wasn’t. He was arrogant and blunt and a little overconfident of his own certainty. But Oliver realized now just how much he was holding back.
Luca had left Sweetie Pie’s at nearly eleven in the morning.
Now, it was almost three.
Had they been arguing like this for four hours?
Surely not. Surely they’d had a lunch crowd to feed.
Okay, so they’d only been arguing like this for . . .at most two hours.
Still.