Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 69536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
“I haven’t. I haven’t been able to. I don’t expect you to understand.”
Again, I understand more than she knows.
A hint of what feels kind of like jealousy spikes into my gut. I hardly know this woman. She’s beautiful, yes, but I have no reason to feel anything for her other than physical attraction.
Plus, why would I worry about a fiancé? She hasn’t seen or talked to him in five years. He could be married with a kid by now.
“We’ll find him,” I say dryly.
“Thank you. I’d like to see him before I see my parents.”
“Whatever you want.”
My only job is to take care of her, see to her needs, and the Wolfes are paying me handsomely for it.
We make it to Denver by five p.m.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
“I don’t really get hungry anymore.”
Again, I understand more than she knows.
“Still, you have to eat. Does anything at all sound good?”
“Whatever you like is fine.”
“Italian food,” I say. “Though it’s always disappointing, as no one makes it the way my mother can.”
“Your mother’s Italian?”
I can’t help a chuckle. “My name is Antonio Moreno.”
“Right. Yes. But your mother could still be…something else.”
“Her maiden name is Giovanni. First name Marina.”
“Marina Moreno?”
I chuckle again. “Yup. My father’s name is Antonio Senior, and my sister’s name is Emilia, but we call her Emily. I have a little brother too. Giovanni, from my mom’s maiden name, but we call him Johnny.”
“I see.”
Not exactly sure why I’m giving her my family history. She certainly didn’t ask for it. But yes, I do love Italian food, and even though it’s never as good as my mother’s, it’s still what I always go for.
“So Italian?” I say again.
“Sure. That’s fine. I’ll have spaghetti and meatballs or something.”
“Lasagna is my favorite. But no one makes it like—”
“Your mother can. Right.”
I sigh. Maybe I shouldn’t try to get her to talk. After all, there was a time when I didn’t talk to anyone either.
“You know Denver better than I do,” I say. “What’s the best Italian place in town?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I went to college in Boulder, and I haven’t been back since…”
Damn. I’m so not good at this. You’d think I’d be better, having been through my own trauma.
“Not a problem. That’s what Google is for.” I hand her my phone. “Find something for us.”
She takes the phone and starts typing.
“Anything?” I ask.
“Yeah. There’s a place two miles from here called Fornetti’s. It has mostly five-star reviews.”
“Fornetti’s it is. Put it in the GPS.”
Ten minutes later, I’m handing the rental car off to a valet.
We enter the restaurant, and I gape a little. I was expecting a quaint place with checkered tablecloths and taper candles in empty straw-covered Chianti bottles with Dean Martin crooning “That’s Amore” in the background. Instead, we walk into an elegant dining room with tuxedo-clad waitstaff, classic white table coverings, and no Dean Martin. Just soft string music provided by a violinist who walks table to table.
“Wow.” Aspen widens her eyes as well. “I didn’t realize it was this nice of a place. I’m not sure I’m properly dressed.”
“You look great.”
No lie there. She may only be wearing skinny jeans, loafers, and a sweater, but she looks amazing. Hot, actually, but I need to keep that thought way in the back of my mind.
I’m wearing jeans, military boots, and a button-down shirt. I guess we’ll find out quickly if they let us in.
“Good evening, sir,” the host, also tuxedo-clad, says. “Do you have reservations?”
“I’m afraid not. We just got into town. Do you have a table for two available?”
“Actually, yes, you’re in luck.” He makes some markings on a chart in front of him. “Sandra, could you show them to table twenty-five?”
Sandra, who looks about twelve but is still wearing a tux, grabs two menus. “Of course. Follow me please.”
Table twenty-five turns out to be in the back. Dark and secluded.
I hold the seat out for Aspen.
Sandra hands us the menus. “Jeremy will be your server. He’ll be with you shortly.”
I open my menu and inhale. Damn, the prices.
But it’s all on the Wolfes. They’ve told me more than once never to worry about costs. Reid reiterated as much this morning about Aspen. I’m to spare no expense to show her what she needs to see. I assume that means dining.
“What looks good?” I ask.
“My God…” Aspen’s eyes are wide.
“I know, but don’t worry about the cost.”
“The Wolfes have already spent so much money on me.”
“They owe you. For what their father did to you. Please don’t worry about any of it.”
She looks down at her menu but doesn’t say anything.
Lasagna of course is on the menu. And it’s not inexpensive. That’s what I’ll order. It’s what I always order.
Jeremy, also in a tux with slicked back blond hair, arrives to take drink orders.
“Nothing for me,” I say. “I’m driving. Aspen?”