past her friend and frowned. “You are alone?”
“I usually am,” Rachel reminded her.
“But it’s Valentine’s Day,” her friend said again.
“I know. And I didn’t mean to take you away from your customers. I just wanted to get some pasta to take home—”
“Where you can eat alone?”
Rachel couldn’t help but smile at the distress in Gemma’s tone. “It’s not illegal, you know.”
“Maybe it should be.”
But eating alone was Rachel’s status quo, and she liked it that way. She was a smart, successful woman. She didn’t need a man to make her life complete. She firmly and honestly believed that—most of the time. But she couldn’t deny that the prospect of sitting alone in her empty condo eating penne with sausage and peppers from a plastic take-out container on Valentine’s Day made her feel just a little bit pathetic.
“I’ve been on my feet all day,” Rachel told her friend. “I just want—”
“To sit down,” Gemma interrupted again. “Yes, you should sit down and have a nice glass of wine.”
She nodded. “Actually, a glass of wine would be nice.”
“Long day?”
“The longest.”
Her friend nodded her understanding. “Tony refused to book any reservations past nine o’clock—otherwise, we’d be here all night.”
“I guess you don’t get to go out for dinner on Valentine’s Day, either.”
Her friend blushed. “We celebrated earlier. He made me breakfast in bed, and then... Well, let’s just say we were almost late for work.”
“Good thing he’s the boss,” Rachel noted.
“Only at the restaurant,” Gemma said.
Rachel had to laugh. She’d gone to high school with both Gemma Battaglia and Tony Palermo. Tony’s grandparents—Salvatore and Caterina Valentino—were the original owners of the restaurant when it first opened its doors almost fifty years earlier. It was, and continued to be, a family restaurant.
Tony had started bussing tables and washing dishes when he was ten years old, then he’d moved up to serving customers and helping with kitchen prep. Now he was the proprietor and head chef. Gemma had worked as a waitress in high school and for several years after, then she became a hostess and was now married to Tony. And so blissfully happy that she wanted all of her friends to be the same.
“Marco is working the bar tonight,” Gemma said, referring to her youngest brother-in-law. “You tell him what you want to drink while I put your order in. Penne with sausage and peppers?”
She nodded, and her friend hurried off.
Rachel took a seat at the bar and requested a glass of valpolicella. She unbuttoned her coat as Marco poured the wine and set the glass on a napkin in front of her.
“How did you get stuck working Valentine’s Day?” she asked.
“I volunteered,” Marco admitted.
She raised her brows. “No plans with Tammy?”
“We broke up.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “How about you? Why are you here instead of dancing the night away—and maybe getting lucky—with a handsome man who’s not nearly good enough for you?”
“I’ll consider it lucky if my feet will take me home again.”
“If they won’t—” he lifted her hand, touched his lips to the back of it “—I will.”
She smiled at the twenty-two-year-old. “You better be careful, Marco, or one of these days, I just might take you up on that offer.”
“I keep hoping.”
Rachel knew him too well to take him seriously, but she couldn’t deny that his casual flirtation was a nice boost to her ego.
“I should be out of here by ten,” he said now. “We could go back to my place and—”
“Stop flirting with my friend,” Gemma, back from the kitchen, chastised her brother-in-law.
His gaze didn’t shift away from Rachel. “Why?”
“Because she’ll break your heart.”
“She does every single time I see her.”
Gemma shook her head at him and said to Rachel, “I’ve got some counter space for you in the kitchen.”
“It would be easier if you just let me take it home.”
“It will taste better if you’re among friends,” Gemma insisted.
Rachel took the second glass of wine Marco poured for her and followed the hostess to the kitchen.
A stool was waiting at the end of a stainless steel workstation that was covered with a linen cloth and set up to replicate the tables in the dining room, complete with a lit candle inside a hurricane shade.
“Okay, this is better than eating out of a take-out container,” Rachel admitted.
“Of course it is,” Gemma agreed, as the pantry chef set a plate of salad and a small basket of artisan breads in front of Rachel. “I need to check on the dining room, but I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
As the kitchen staff continued with their rhythms and routines, Rachel dug into her salad. She was about halfway through the appetizer when Gemma returned to the kitchen.
“We can squeeze another chair in here,” she was saying. “I’m sure Rachel would enjoy having some company.”
“I appreciate the offer, but—”
“Then you won’t insult me by turning it down,” Gemma said.
The male voice sounded somewhat familiar, but Rachel couldn’t place it—until she lowered her fork and looked up, into Andrew Garrett’s green eyes.
* * *
Andrew appreciated that Gemma had the best of intentions and a good heart, but he really just wanted to take some pasta home and be alone. Or so he thought until he saw the pretty brunette from the flower shop seated at a makeshift table in the kitchen.
When she glanced up, the widening of her deep blue eyes reflected a surprise that mirrored his own. “Oh, um, hi.”
He smiled. “Hi, yourself.”
The hostess’s gaze shifted from one to the other. “You know each other?”
“Sort
