Page 119 of Coerced Kiss

I didn’t pay attention, but a strong smell of deep-fried fish wafts to us on the breeze.

“Better?” I ask, taking her elbow.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t ever apologize for being pregnant again. Come on. I have an idea.”

I take her back to the car and drive to Little Italy. The restaurant I frequent doesn’t have a sign above the door or a menu outside. The daily special is whatever the chef decides to cook.

Rusty does a double-take when I enter with Anya. One, I usually only come here for dinner. Two, I’ve never brought a woman.

“Sav,” he says, greeting me with the customary hug and a slap on the back. “Who’s this lovely lady?”

“This is Anya, my girlfriend. We’re getting engaged soon.”

He grows a pair of owl eyes, but he quickly schools his features. “Welcome. You’re in luck.” He winks at Anya. “I made fresh gnocchi.” Bustling toward the back, he waves for us to follow. “Come in. I’ll prepare your table.”

We go through the main area to the private room at the back. There’s only one table set with a checkered tablecloth and a geranium pot plant in the center. A fridge with wine and beer stands in the corner.

He seats Anya and drapes a napkin over her lap. “Any allergies or food intolerances?”

Anya shakes her head.

“Anya is very fond of tomatoes,” I say.

“Ah.” Rusty waves a finger in the air. “I have just the thing for you then. How does my creamy pomodoro sauce sound?”

“Perfect,” Anya says, smiling at him.

I lean over and take her hand, making it clear she’s mine and reminding her that all those pretty smiles belong to me. “Bring us a salad for the table and a side dish of antipasti. Do you have tiramisu today?”

“Always.” Rusty snaps his fingers. “Would you like some wine?”

“I’m driving. Water will do.” I look at Anya. “Still or sparkling? Maybe something else? Tomato juice?”

Her smile stretches at the mention of the juice. “Still water is fine, thank you.”

“I’ll bring your order shortly,” Rusty says with enthusiasm that reaches a new level before hurrying away.

“You come here often,” she says, taking in the humble space.

I rub a thumb over her knuckles. “It’s rustic, but the food is good.”

“I like it. It’s cozy. It feels as if we’re having lunch in someone’s grandmother’s kitchen.”

“Exactly.”

That’s why Rachele refused to come here. She found it too basic. In her opinion, a restaurant only has merit if it adds value to her Instagram status. It’s refreshing to be with an uncomplicated woman, someone who doesn’t require that I lay the world at her feet before she’ll grace me with her attention. Not that Anya has a choice. She’s stuck with me. Yet if she did have a choice, she wouldn’t ask me to slay dragons before giving me an ounce of her time. That’s what I like about her. I like that I can sit across a table from her and enjoy a plate of simple gnocchi.

Anya clears her throat. “We’re in a private room.”

I raise a brow. “Do you prefer to sit in the front?”

She motions at her hand that’s buried under the bulk of mine on the table. “There’s no one here to see you holding my hand. You don’t have to act as if we’re madly in love.”

I grin. “It’s for Rusty’s sake.”

Her smile holds a challenge. “Is that so?”