Page 39 of Play the Last Card
“Are you kidding? Pasta is one of my five food groups.”
He rewards me with another laugh. “Good. You'll love this place then.”
The restaurant is on the outskirts of the city. Scott parks in a small alley, rounding the car to open the door and holds out his hand. I take it and he doesn’t let go as he shuts the door behind me.
He leads me into the small restaurant, my hand encased in his as he walks a step ahead. It’s a dimly lit, hole in the wall, only a few tables, authentic Italian restaurant. It smells like fresh bread, and red wine, and pasta sauce.
My eyes flutter close as the aroma takes over my senses.
Nan used to make fresh pasta on my birthday. The flour would be everywhere and by the time we were done we’d end up eating in the middle of the mess.
This place smells exactly like home.
It’s also completely empty of any other patrons.
“Mr. Harvey! Welcome.” An older man, white mustache and balding head, comes towards us. Scott pulls me into his side.
“Big Al, good to see you.” When I look up into Scott’s face I’m surprised to see his smile is wider than I’ve ever seen it before. So much so, there are small wrinkles forming next to his eyes.
Whoever this Big Al is, Scott seems to adore him.
“How’s Annabel?” Big Al claps Scott on the shoulder, laughing as he leads us to our table.
Scott squeezes my hand. “Still married, Big Al.”
The older man looks at me, winking. “His mother is the one that got away. I always told her that I was better for her than Mason but alas, she claimed she loved him.” He looks back at Scott as he shakes his head and says, “Your father can’t even cook!”
Scott pulls my chair out and I sit, laughing at the exchange. Big Al tells us he’ll bring over some wine and menus.
“So.” I lean my elbows on the table, dropping my chin to rest on my hands. “Big Al?”
“This is my parent’s favorite restaurant in Boston. They eat here every single time they’re in town, even if the only time they have available is three in the afternoon.”
I’m in serious danger of heart failure if he keeps saying things that make it skip beats. “Oh. That’s … well, that’s adorable.”
Scott hums and nods, eyes roaming over my face. He lifts a hand, stretching out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “They’ll probably drop dead from shock when I tell them I brought you here.”
Another skip, this time accompanied with something lodging high in my throat. I swallow, staring at him. “You’ve told them about me?”
“I told them I met a girl in a bar.”
“You’ve probably met a hundred girls in bars.”
“Sure. But none that I’ve told my parents about.”
Cue melting.
Cue me becoming a puddle on the floor, at his feet.
I lean over the table and take a sip from my water silently begging the heat in my face to calm down. The way he said it. The intense sincerity of his words. I completely, wholeheartedly believe him.
I stare at him, the green swirling in his eyes as the rest of the room blurs around us. It’s becoming a habit of mine, blocking out the world when he’s around. Pretending that no one else exists apart from him and I whenever he stares at me like this.
I break away from his gaze, watching as Big Al navigates the small number of tables in the space carrying our wine.
“What are they like? Your parents?” I ask him.
He doesn’t hesitate. The smile on his face is brighter than I’ve probably ever seen it, reaching his eyes and creating those little crinkles in the creases. His love for them is written all over his face.