the memory of those almond-shaped hazel eyes that could make a man forget his own name. And finally the thing that nagged him the most—the great mystery. Sara believed he’d wronged her in some way, and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what he’d done.
He’d been thinking about it far too often. And he’d come up with the same conclusion each time. She must’ve mixed him up with someone else. It was the only thing that made sense because he’d barely said a dozen words to her the three years they’d attended the same school.
Only one thing to do about it. He had to ask her what it was she thought she remembered. She’d try to ignore him, or tell him she was joking, and normally he’d let it go. In fact, he would’ve preferred to forget she’d said anything. But the damn thought had popped up right in the middle of his interview.
For a few seconds it had thrown him off track. Thankfully, he’d recovered quickly and he’d gotten a good vibe from the woman, but he wasn’t going to let himself get excited. The job was technically for someone with more experience. If that was the case, fine. At least it had been good practice. But being distracted by thoughts of Sara’s imaginary slight? He couldn’t have that.
He’d ask her what she meant, and he wouldn’t leave without an answer. The question was should he go to Moretti’s now? He was tired and he still needed to hit the gym.
Dom stuck his hand out for a taxi that zipped right past him. Perfect. He glanced at his watch. They’d be closing real soon. Probably a good time to catch her. If she wanted to lock up, she’d have to answer him first.
* * *
A FAMILY OF four were the only customers left in the restaurant at eight minutes to closing. As if any of them cared about that. A minute ago the older teen tried to order a custom pizza to go. Sara didn’t bother asking Carlo if he had time—he would’ve bitten her head off. If they’d been regulars she would’ve considered it. But she was fairly certain they were tourists.
She kept on wiping down tables while Carlo was wrapping up in the kitchen. The day had been particularly busy. The dining room floor needed a washing, but Carlo would do that, which was why he was anxious to close. As soon as table three paid, she’d start cashing out.
A long night at her laptop awaited her, and she doubted she’d get home before ten. She didn’t really mind because she was excited about finally getting started on her thesis. This morning she’d begun the lengthy interview process by meeting with her first subjects, Mr. and Mrs. Scarpetti. The couple currently lived in Brooklyn, but their families had come over in 1880 from Napoli, and Mr. Scarpetti remembered a lot of stories from the very early days. Some from when the Five Points area had been the nexus of what had been called the worst slum in the United States.
Despite the realities of living in squalor, sweet memories always bled through the tragedies. That was one of the reasons she’d made “The History of Little Italy, 1810-1940,” her thesis. Her focus was on collecting stories from families who’d been there since the early days, like hers, and comparing them to historical records. Giving their local history a face and name.
She’d wanted to transcribe the complete Scarpetti tapes tonight, but they’d talked for a long time. It would take her hours, and she wasn’t sure she had it in her.
When the bell rang over the door, Sara turned, ready to send away whoever was coming in this late. But once again, she was stopped in her tracks by Dominic.
So much for scaring him off.
It had been only three days since she’d seen him, but he looked like a different guy. Disheveled, hair sticking up oddly, his necktie askew, as if he’d come though a wind tunnel. When he caught sight of her, he ran a hand through his hair, although it didn’t do much good.
She acknowledged him with a brief smile. Only because he’d seen her look up. Then wondered about her own hair after hustling all day. She almost smoothed it back but caught herself. He was still staring directly at her when she lowered her gaze to the table she must’ve wiped down a hundred times already. A dozen more swipes couldn’t hurt.
It took him all of three seconds before he was standing across the table from her, though she refused to look up. “Are you alone?” he asked.
“Carlo’s in the back.” She had just enough sense to switch to another table, and then wiped it down for all she was worth, unsure what to say, and not wanting to look him in the eyes.
“Can I talk to you for a minute, Sara?”
“I’m the only one on the floor. Can’t you see we’re busy?”
He glanced around the nearly empty pizza parlor, amusement flickering on his face, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. “No problem. I’ll wait.”
Great. Maybe she should get it over with while she had witnesses.
“Look, I know it’s a long shot,” Dom said, “but I haven’t eaten all day. Any chance you have a slice on hand?”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the couple and their two kids getting to their feet. Now they cared about closing time? “A slice? This late? You know better than that.”
“Yeah, I suppose I do.”
“Anyway, Carlo closed the kitchen ten minutes ago.”
“So, anything? A pizza someone didn’t pick up?” Dom said. “I don’t mind buying the whole pie.”
His tie landed on the chair back. She blinked, but it was still there. “What are you doing?” she asked, shooting a gaze up at him.
“Sorry, sweetheart, not what you think,” he said, loosening his collar and grinning. “Only on Friday and Saturday nights and I charge a cover.”
“Why am I not surprised?” A sudden image of Dom, naked, lingered a moment too long and she felt the heat creeping up her throat. “Do you know how lucky you are there are customers here?”
“Believe me, I thought of that before I said anything.”
“Excuse me,” she murmured, dropping the rag on the table and squeezing past him. Dom might look the worse for wear, but he sure smelled good. Musky with a hint of spice. No cheap cologne for him.
Dad already had his money out. Mom was tucking a tip under her glass.
“How was everything?” Sara asked with a smile. “May I get you anything else?”
The couple exchanged looks and laughed.
“You mean I can I get that artichoke and shrimp pizza?” The older boy had made it to the door but turned back with a hopeful expression.
Sara wanted to jump off the nearest bridge.
“We don’t have time, Dillon. We need to get back to the hotel and pack.”
“Come on, Dad. Really?”
God only knew what it was in her expression that prompted his parents to come to her rescue, but she was grateful. Sara gave them an extra smile, wishing she could return their tip. “How would you like to take some tiramisu with you?” she asked. “On the house.”
The teen frowned. “Tira-what?”
