Chapter 7
Seven
LUCA
I ’m sweating as I send the text.
Would you want to come for dinner tonight? I know it’s short notice, but I’d love to cook for you, Marissa.
As soon as it’s sent, I start to overanalyze literally each word. What are the implications? Am I coming on too strong? Was the word love really necessary? Or do I want her in a romantic mood when she gets here?
I fling myself down on the sofa with a groan. I do want to see Marissa. She’s all I can think about. When I realized that she was the girl from the ball, I was thrilled. I hadn’t thought that I would ever see “Mari” again. The fact that our families are rivals makes things a little tricky, but I don’t care. I want to make it work. Make what work, though? There’s nothing to ‘make work’ at this point. Hence the dinner invitation. I want to see if the connection I feel is reciprocated, and if we think there’s anywhere to go with it.
Absolutely. What time?
I stare at the text for a full minute, before realizing that I’m not imagining her response, and then I respond. When she confirms again that she’ll be here at six, I’m almost shaking with joy. I’ve never felt this way about a woman before. It’s not like I haven’t had my share of fairly serious relationships either. But an instant connection? Never. I’m not a believer in love at first sight… but now I’m starting to wonder.
Knowing that I now have what I hope is a date, I spring into action. I already have all the ingredients for the dish I’m planning to make for her. No pasta. Nothing even remotely Italian. I’m guessing Marissa has also had more than enough Italian food to last her thirty life times. No, I’m going to make her a Greek feast. My grandmother is Greek, and she taught me how to make all of her most amazing dishes before she got caught up in running Venetian Dreams with the rest of the family. My grandfather is Italian, and his will dominates the rest of us.
The house is clean enough, but I do a quick tidy, just to be sure. I want Marissa to be impressed with the space. I make sure to have everything started before she gets here. I don’t want to waste my time with her in the kitchen, but I also don’t want to skimp on the actual cooking. This is something that I know I can do well, so that’s what I’m going to do. By the time she rings the doorbell, I have to admit that I’m a bundle of nerves.
“Hey,” I say, opening the door. “You look amazing. Come on in.”
She does look amazing. She’s wearing a knee length blue dress with a matching sweater over it. Somehow she looks demure and sexy at the same time. The blue sets off her black hair perfectly, making it look like it’s glowing in a halo around her face.
“Thanks,” she says, flushing. “You look nice, too.”
I glance down at my sauce-splattered apron and laugh. “Well, thanks. Come on through to the kitchen. Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Tea? Water? Soda?”
“Water would be good,” Marissa says, smiling at me as she takes a seat at the table.
I grab her a glass and fill it from the filtered water in the fridge. As I hand it to her, I realize that I should have asked her if she wanted ice. In an almost eerie exchange, she says, “Thanks for not putting in any ice. I don’t like my water too cold.”
“I wish I could take credit for that,” I say. “It’s honestly just a mistake.”
“A welcome one, then,” Marissa says with a smile. Then she asks, “What are you making? It smells fantastic.”
“We’re having lamb chops and spanakopita, and then baklava for dessert,” I tell her.
Marissa’s eyes widen. “Wow, Greek food?” she says. “I was not expecting that, but my mouth is watering just thinking about it. I love Greek food.”
“What did you expect? Italian ?” I ask, a teasing tone in my voice.
‘Well, yeah, obviously ,” Marissa says, rolling her eyes and grinning at me.
“I hope you won’t be too disappointed,” I say.
“I doubt anything you do will disappoint me,” she says.
For a second, I think she’s still joking around, but then I see the seriousness on her face. I’m flattered. “Thanks,” I say. “Well, I think we’re ready to eat.”
I plate our food and carry our meals to the table. We both tuck in to the meal, and Marissa makes appreciative noises that I find adorable. She looks up at me with a look of such admiration, that I feel my face heat up with pleasure.
“Lu…I mean Luca, you are an amazing cook!” she exclaims.
“I mean, I grew up in a restaurant, but so did you,” I say.
“Yes, and I’m not even a billionth as skilled as you are,” she says. “You have true talent. Do you cook at Venetian Dreams ?”
I shake my head. “Not anymore. Mostly I just do a lot of the paperwork.”
“Where did you learn to make food like this?” Marissa asks.
“From my grandmother,” I say. “She has Greek roots, but she mostly cooks Italian food. I think she’s always felt pressured to do so, with the Italian pride so strong in our family, and having the restaurant and all.”
“That’s nice, but also kind of a shame,” Marissa says.
“I agree. I wish that she’d get back to her roots,” I say.
“So how is it working for your family’s restaurant?” she asks. “I think you kind of know how I feel about working at mine.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “But it’s not really what I want to do with my life.”
“What do you want to do?” she asks.
It’s been so long since someone asked me that, I’m almost not sure what to say. “I would love to open my own restaurant someday,” I tell her. “Probably a Greek place. But I would do things totally different from what my parents do at Venetian Dreams.”
“How so?” Marissa says.
“For one thing, I wouldn’t make it so gimmicky,” I say. “Look, I get what my parents are going for, but the fake canal along the entryway is too over the top for me.”
“You have a fake canal?” Marissa asks, her disbelief apparent.
I shrug. “You should come in sometime. I’ll show you the gondola.”
“I would,” she says, “but do you really think I’d be welcome?”
We both lapse into silence, because we both know the answer to that question. It seems like, in this moment, we are both agreeing to whatever this will be. I can’t guarantee that my family will ever accept the fact that I am pursuing the daughter of their rival. But sitting here now, the whole thing seems too absurd to entertain.
“My parents can be stubborn,” I say. “And my brother just goes along with anything they say.”
“My parents are definitely the same way,” Marissa says. “They don’t want to hear any dissenting opinions.”
“I never feel like my parents really hear me,” I admit.
“I feel the same way about my parents,” Marissa says.
“It sucks, doesn’t it?” I say. “I wish that I had found a way to tell them that I didn’t want to work at the restaurant back when I graduated from college. Now it just seems like it’s too late, you know? And I feel just so…”
“Stuck?” Marissa knowingly finishes my sentence for me. “Yep, so do I. I feel the same way most of the time. Like, why did I go to college just to waitress at the restaurant? My older sister went to school to be a nurse, and guess what she gets to do? Be a nurse. I went for business, and I am doing exactly nothing with that degree.”
“I wish I had some wise advice to give you,” I say with a laugh. “But since we’re both stuck in the same boat, at least we can commiserate together.”
“Misery does love company,” Marissa says with a defeated smile and shrug.
We finish our meal and carry our plates to the kitchen. Everything has been perfect. It’s amazing, feeling like someone understands everything about me. I know without a doubt that I’m falling hard for Marissa.
I take her plate out of her hands and set it in the sink. She is looking at me with curiosity. I pause, take a deep breath, then with complete conviction and intentionality, I declare, “Marissa, I’d like to kiss you. Is that… okay with you?”
Marissa grins up at me, cocks her head slightly to the side and ponders me for a moment. Her eyes are lit up like fire through her long lashes. “Well… if you don’t, then I’ll have to kiss you first,” she says coquettishly.
That’s my invitation. So I take it.