“The fourth time I’ve stopped in here to see you,” he noted.
“It is that,” she agreed. “It’s also one of the digits of my phone number.”
He grinned. “Progress.”
“I guess that’s a matter of interpretation.”
“Which digit?” he wondered. “The first? The last?”
She shook her head. “One of the five in between.”
“It’s a start,” he said.
And possibly, Jordyn realized as she moved away, a mistake.
What was she doing? Why had she given him the number? Was she actually flirting with him? Encouraging his attention?
Apparently she was. Even more surprising was that she actually looked forward to seeing him. He didn’t come into the bar every night—and she didn’t work every night. But every night that she did, she found herself wondering if he would walk through the doors, and just the possibility caused butterflies to flutter around in her tummy.
Saturday afternoon—twelve days and four more visits to the pub later—she’d given Marco five random numbers of the seven that comprised her phone number.
“After two more nights, I’ll have your complete phone number,” he noted, keying the eight into the memo pad on his smartphone.
“If you can figure out the order of the digits,” she agreed.
“You’re having fun toying with me, aren’t you?”
“I told you I wasn’t going to go out with you,” she reminded him. “But if you can figure out my telephone number from the random single digits I’ve been giving you, I might change my mind.”
“That’s probably the most encouraging thing you’ve ever said to me,” he told her.
She shrugged, uneasy with the truth of his statement, because she knew that she shouldn’t be encouraging him at all. No good could come of continuing to play this game with him, and yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
“As for figuring out your number, it won’t be too hard,” he told her. “From seven digits, assuming no duplicate numbers, there are five thousand and forty possibilities.”
She narrowed her gaze. “Did you just pull that number out of thin air?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s a simple matter of permutations and combinations—”
She held up a hand. “I always hated math.”
“Then you’ll have to trust that my calculations are accurate.”
“If they are, that’s a lot of dialing,” she warned.
“As you pointed out a few weeks back—I’m persistent.”
“That was your word,” she reminded him. “I said relentless.”
“I can be—when I want something badly enough.”
And for some reason, he’d decided that he wanted her, and she was finally beginning to accept that she wanted him, too. Or at least wanted to satisfy the yearning that stirred inside her whenever he was near.
“You might want to consider,” he continued, “that you’ve finally met your match.”
Shivers of excited anticipation danced along her spine as she acknowledged his words might possibly be true.
Twenty years earlier, the Northbrook area had been considered one of the more “undesirable” parts of Charisma, but over the past decade, concentrated efforts to renew the neighborhood had been enormously successful. The storefronts that had long been dormant and boarded up now housed an appealing assortment of offices, shops and cafés, so that almost everything they wanted or needed was now within walking distance of the neighborhood residents.
“What do you think?” Marco asked his grandparents, his deliberately casual tone in contradiction to the nerves that were tangled up inside him.
They’d said very little as they toured the empty space that had previously housed Mykonos. The Mediterranean restaurant had done a brisk business serving quality food until the owner’s wife was arrested for selling other services in the upstairs apartment six months earlier. Since then, the restaurant space had been vacant.
Salvatore Valentino looked around the kitchen—barely recognizable as such since the ovens, fryers, sinks and refrigerators had been taken out and sold by the landlord.
“It’s better than what we started with on Queen Street,” he acknowledged. “But it needs a lot of work to turn it into something worthy of the Valentino name.”
“But you can see the potential,” Caterina said, her tone slightly more encouraging.
“I’d like to make an offer on the property,” Marco told them.
“So make an offer,” his grandfather said.
Caterina elbowed her husband sharply in the ribs and muttered some unflattering words about her spouse in Italian. Then she reverted back to English to say, “Our grandson is asking for our approval.”
“Our grandson should know we trust him to do what is right for the business.”
“I appreciate that,” he told them. “But I want to make sure you’re aware of the risks.”
“Such as the fact that sixty percent of new businesses fail within the first three years?” Salvatore asked.
“That statistic is exaggerated,” Caterina said.
“How do you know?” her husband challenged.
She lifted her chin. “I watch CNN.”
“Statistics aside,” Marco interjected, eager to diffuse the argument he sensed was brewing, “we should have an advantage in that we’re not opening a new restaurant—we’re expanding an established business to a second location.”
“What’s your timeline?”
“At this point, it’s a guess—but I’m hoping no more than four to six months, if we enlist the family to do most of the renovations.”
“With you working regular hours at Valentino’s and overtime here?” Caterina guessed.
“I’m going to pull everyone in for this project,” he assured her. “Including Nonno.”
His grandfather’s face brightened perceptibly; his grandmother’s gaze narrowed. “His heart—”
Marco touched a hand to her arm, silently reassuring her that he understood her concerns. But he also understood that it was important for his grandfather to keep busy and feel useful. “We’ll keep a close eye on him,” he promised.
“Mi tratta come se fossi un bambino,” Salvatore grumbled.
“A toddler has more sense than you do sometimes,” his wife shot back.
Then she turned to Marco. “What are you smiling about?”
“Just thinking how lucky I am to have both of you in my life.”
“Don’t you forget it,” Caterina said.
At the same time, Salvatore said, “Suck-up.”
His grandmother moved to the window, looking at the boutiques and shops across the street. “It’s a more upscale neighborhood than downtown.”
“It is,” he confirmed. “Which translates into the local residents having deeper pockets and eating out more often.”
“Will