Chapter 10
Mangias Italian Restaurant sits across Main Street from the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery like a delicious dark cave filled with old-world charm that makes you want to speak with your hands and call everyone bambino.
The place is all dark wood paneling and red-and-white checkered tablecloths that have witnessed more romantic confessions than Valentine’s Day.
Sinatra croons from hidden speakers about flying to the moon and getting under someone’s skin, while the walls display a museum-worthy collection of vintage family photos, empty wine bottles, and enough hanging garlic to ward off every vampire in New England.
Tonight, the usual Italian decor has been invaded by Fourth of July decorations that somehow manage to look charming rather than ridiculous. Star-spangled bunting drapes between the Italian flags, and tiny American flags sprout from the wine bottle centerpieces like festive flowers.
The air smells like heaven, if heaven had a really good Italian grandmother running the kitchen with garlic, basil, oregano, fresh bread, and a simmering marinara sauce that could make my entire ancestry proud.
Watson plants himself beside our corner table like he’s part of the reservation, his flag bandana giving him the look of a dog fully prepared to pledge allegiance to anything that hits the floor.
The owner, Tony Mangaccio, has a simple philosophy about pets. “Dogs welcome. It’s the human animals I’d like to keep out.”
Cooper and I have ordered enough food to feed a small Italian army, because apparently romantic dinners make us both lose our minds and our portion control.
The antipasto platter between us looks like edible art—prosciutto draped like silk scarves, fresh mozzarella that came from very happy cows, and salami arranged in meaty rosettes because evidently this place takes their cured meats seriously.
“Try this,” Cooper says, spearing a piece of prosciutto and offering it to me with an intimate gesture that makes my toes curl inside my shoes.
I lean forward to take the bite, and somehow manage to make eating processed pork products look seductive. Or at least that’s what Cooper’s expression suggests as he watches me chew.
“Mmm,” I manage around the salty perfection. “That’s almost as good as your interrogation techniques.”
“Almost?” Cooper raises an eyebrow, his blue-green eyes taking on that predatory look that makes my internal temperature spike. “I’ll have to work on my technique later tonight.”
Watson looks between us with an expression that reads he’s not entirely sure what’s happening but suspects it involves food he’s not going to get to sample.
Our Caesar salad arrives courtesy of a waiter who looks like he’s seen it all and lived to tell the tale, followed by chicken parmigiana that’s the size of a small country and veal marsala that smells like it was personally blessed by an Italian saint.
The garlic bread announces itself from three tables away, and the linguine with clam sauce has me wondering if I’ve died and gone to carbohydrate heaven.
“This is better than foreplay,” I announce, twirling the linguine around my fork like I’ve been practicing Italian food seduction for years.
“It’s better than most people’s foreplay,” Cooper counters, stealing a bite of my chicken parm with a wicked grin. “Though I happen to know yours is in a league of its own.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I say, and I don’t bother blushing because apparently Italian food makes me shameless.
“I’m counting on it,” Cooper murmurs, his voice dropping to that low register that does things to me.
“Speaking of things that could stop my beating heart,” I tease. “Any word on what killed Larry?”
Cooper frowns. I’ll admit, my segue skills could use some finessing.
“The coroner found a toxin in his blood. Large amounts. A lethal dose.”
I gasp. Not that I’m surprised. “What kind?”
“He won’t say until the results come back.”
“Did you test the pudding?” I blink at the thought of innocent looking Julia doing the deadly deed—with her delicious corn pudding, no less.
“It’s in the lab. It should take—”
Cooper’s about to say something else when the restaurant door opens and I give an audible groan.
Mayor Harry Nash walks in with Carlotta hanging on his arm like a sequined lampshade. They’re laughing at something private and intimate, and he’s looking at her the way a man looks at a woman he’s definitely planning to take home for activities that don’t involve municipal planning.
My appetite vanishes faster than a bad alibi.
Cooper notices my sudden change in demeanor and follows my gaze to where Mayor Nash is helping Carlotta out of her jacket.
“Ah,” Coop says. “I guess the rumors are true about him cheating on Carlotta regularly.”
Wait, what?
“Cheating?” I blink, confused. “But that is Carlotta.”
Cooper squints across the restaurant. “Are you sure? I thought she was with someone else tonight. The war reenactment people.”
“Let’s just say she’s efficient. She’s on-again, off-again with Mayor Nash,” I explain, watching as Mayor Nash nuzzles Carlotta’s neck in a way that makes me want to bleach my eyeballs. “Apparently, tonight they’re very much on-again.”
Cooper nods. “I’m not even going to try to unpack that.”
“There’s not enough wine for this,” I mutter, then realize this is more than awkward, it’s a problem.
I’m supposed to assassinate that man, and he’s over there flirting with Carlotta while I’m trying to eat dinner like I don’t have a hit scheduled to keep to.
Mayor Nash is really starting to muck up my holiday.
“I’m gonna kill him,” I say without thinking.
Cooper’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth. “That’s a little extreme for relationship drama, don’t you think?”
If only he knew how literal I was being.
Although to be fair, Cooper probably knows more about my moonlighting career than he’s willing to admit.
Like I’ve said, we’ve developed an unspoken understanding about my employment situation—he doesn’t ask detailed questions about my income sources, and I don’t volunteer information about the specific services I provide for Uncle Jimmy.
It’s this sort of willful blindness that keeps our relationship functioning while allowing him to maintain his professional ethics and me to maintain my freedom. I’ve never looked good in orange.
Before I can figure out how to backpedal from my inadvertent confession, the restaurant door opens again, and Coop’s spicy little sister, Loretta Salamander, makes her grand entrance.
“What now?” Coop looks mystified by what we’re being treated to.
And by grand entrance, I mean she’s wrapped around Flip Flapjack like a red-headed octopus who’s discovered the world’s most comfortable rock—old rock.
Her flame-colored hair is teased to heights that require air traffic control clearance, and she’s wearing a leopard print dress that defies good taste.
She’s got one leg hooked around Flip’s thigh, one arm draped across his shoulders, and she’s whispering something in his ear that’s making him blush from his collar to his considerably receding hairline.
“Sweet mother of marinara,” I breathe, watching as they navigate to a table without Loretta actually touching the ground. “She’s like a very glamorous python.”
Coop groans at the sight.
Flip, to his credit, just stands there and takes it like a man who’s accepted his fate as a piece of furniture. His vintage bowling shirt strains across his considerable belly, and his mustache twitches with what might be pleasure or panic. It’s hard to tell from this distance.
They settle at a table where Loretta immediately begins feeding Flip olives with a sensuality usually reserved for Italian art films.
“I just love a man with such an impressive appetite!” her voice lands on every table like an uninvited guest.
Come to think of it, he probably can’t hear her without the shouting.
Watson tilts his head like he’s trying to understand why humans make eating so complicated.
The waiter has just delivered their appetizers when the restaurant door bangs open with enough force to rattle the wine glasses.
Nona Jo storms in like an avenging angel in sensible shoes, her beehive hair practically pulsating with righteous indignation.
She’s wearing a black dress that makes her look like she’s either attending a funeral or planning one, and her eyes snap to Loretta—sharp, steady, and not letting her out of sight.
“THAT’S MY MAN, YOU RED-HEADED HARLOT!” Nona Jo bellows, pointing at Flip and the entire restaurant goes silent except for Sinatra crooning about doing things his way, which seems oddly appropriate for what’s about to unfold.
Loretta looks up from her olive-feeding performance as if she’s just been challenged to a duel. “Your man? Honey, I’ve got dibs on him and he’s not going anywhere!”
“Dibs?” Nona Jo screeches, advancing on their table like a tiny Italian hurricane. “DIBS? I’ll show you dibs!”
What follows can only be described as the most chaotic catfight in the history of Italian cuisine.
Nona Jo launches herself at Loretta with surprising agility for someone collecting Social Security, while Loretta defends herself with her purse, which appears to be large enough to house a small family.
“Ladies, please!” Flip pleads, caught between them like he’s one wrong word away from not surviving this.
Cooper and I leap from our table, leaving Watson to guard our linguine, and rush over to intervene before someone gets marinara sauce in their eye.
“Nona Jo, stop!” I grab my grandmother’s arm while Cooper attempts to separate Loretta from what appears to be an Italian flag she’s somehow acquired as a weapon.
“She started it!” Loretta shrieks, her hair now resembling a red haystack that’s been struck by lightning.
“And I’ll finish it, too!” Nona Jo retorts, waving her purse like a threat.
Flip’s phone buzzes and he glances at the screen.
“Oh no,” he says, reading the text. “Plumbing emergency at the diner. Pipes have burst! I have to go!”
The relief on his face is immediate and dramatic.
He sprints toward the exit, pausing only to throw money on the table and the promise to call both Loretta and Nona Jo later.
We all know he’s lying, but nobody calls him on it because honestly, the man deserves hazard pay for surviving dinner with these women.
“Well,” Nona Jo sniffs, smoothing down her dress. “I have bingo in twenty minutes anyway.”
She turns to Loretta like she’s delivering a death sentence. “You stay away from my man, missy, or next time I won’t be so gentle.”
“Gentle?” Loretta squawks, touching her disheveled hair. “You tried to scalp me with a breadstick!”
Nona Jo exits like the senior gangster she is, leaving the rest of us standing amid the wreckage of what was supposed to be a romantic dinner.
“Listen here,” Loretta says, pointing her weapon-grade fingernail at me. “I need a man with money, and Flip’s got potential. Unless you can find me someone better, your little bingo-hall granny better watch her back. I didn’t survive three divorces to lose to a senior citizen.”
With that, she storms out, leaving Cooper and me standing in the ruins of what was supposed to be a peaceful evening.
“Is it always this dramatic with your family?” Cooper asks, helping me back to our table where Watson has been faithfully guarding our now cold pasta.
“You do realize that’s your sister.”
He sighs. “I like focusing on your family better.” Cooper takes my hand. “Your place or mine for dessert? Because I’m thinking we should skip the tiramisu and get out of here before any more relatives show up.”
“Yours,” I decide quickly. “You’ve got a better security system.”
Some romantic dinners end with candlelit kisses and whispered sweet nothings. Others end with geriatric catfights and emergency plumbing issues.
Welcome to dating in Honey Hollow, where romance comes with a side of chaos.