Chapter 17
Seventeen
Caroline
After St. Catherine’s, I expected Noah to drop me at home and vanish into his own weekend. Instead, he took a sharp left at the end of my street and pulled into the lot of a tiny Italian place with a faded awning and mismatched patio furniture.
The place was warm and smelled like basil and garlic. The owner—short, bald, and wearing a suit that had seen better decades—spotted Noah and lit up.
“Noah! My boy!” he shouted, arms wide. He hugged Noah like he was family, then turned to me and kissed my hand.
“We’re honored,” the man said, guiding us to a corner table by the window.
Noah tried to protest, but the owner waved him off and brought breadsticks, oil, and the “house wine” before we even opened the menu.
For the next hour, food appeared at regular intervals—lasagna, arancini, a salad with so much dressing I had to eat it with a spoon.
I tried to pay at the end, but the owner just patted my hand and said, “No, no, never for you. Not when you’re with Mr. Massimo.”
I flushed, embarrassed. “Please, let us—”
He shook his head, eyes twinkling. “He’s done more for this neighborhood than anyone. We owe him.”
Noah muttered a thank you and changed the subject, asking about the owner’s daughter, his grandkids, his dog. The questions came so fast it was clear he’d rather talk about anything but himself.
When we finally left, the owner walked us to the door and pressed a box of cannoli into my hands.
“For breakfast,” he said, winking.
Noah was silent on the drive home, hands tight on the wheel. I watched him, wondering how a coffee shop owner commanded that kind of respect.
When he parked, he looked at me, really looked. “That was weird. Sorry.”
I shook my head. “No, it was nice. People really like you.”
He smiled, almost shy. “It’s a good place. I just try to keep it that way.”
I wanted to ask what he’d really done for them, but he was already unbuckling, already at my door.
He walked me to my building, cannoli box balanced in one hand, then stood awkwardly in the lobby.
“Thanks for coming today,” he said. “The kids loved you.”
I blushed. “I loved it.”
He hesitated, then leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. It was quick, but it left me dizzy.
“Good night, Caroline,” he said, then turned and vanished down the block.
I floated up the stairs, carried by carbs and curiosity.
I set the box of cannoli on my kitchen counter, poured a glass of wine, and replayed the night a hundred times in my head.
There was so much I didn’t know about Noah Massimo. But one thing was certain:
He wasn’t just another nice guy.
And I wanted to learn every secret he had.