He was gorgeous.

Even standing in his kitchen whisking eggs, Marco couldn’t have looked sexier.

“You’re a nurturer.”

She didn’t realize she’d said that aloud until he looked up at her. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s in your nature to take care of people,” she explained. “You anticipate their needs, try to fulfill them.”

“You got that from watching me make French toast?”

She smiled. “I’ve seen you with your nieces, heard you with your siblings.”

“Sounds like you’ve been keeping a pretty close eye on me.” He nudged her. “Sounds like you might even like me a little.”

“I might. A little.”

“And why does that worry you?”

She didn’t deny it. “Because you’re looking for a committed, long-term relationship. And I don’t know that I can give you anything more than this one day.”

“That’s okay—because I do.” He gave her a confident look and went back to stirring.

She felt a stirring of her own. She’d been alone for a long time, and numb for most of that time. But now, with Marco, she was feeling things she didn’t think she’d ever feel again. And wanting things …

Dangerous things …

* * *

Those Engaging Garretts! The Carolina Cousins!

The Bachelor Takes a Bride

Brenda Harlen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BRENDA HARLEN is a former attorney who once had the privilege of appearing before the Supreme Court of Canada. The practice of law taught her a lot about the world and reinforced her determination to become a writer—because in fiction, she could promise a happy ending! Now she is an award-winning, national bestselling author of more than thirty titles for Mills & Boon. You can keep up-to-date with Brenda on Facebook and Twitter or through her website, www.brendaharlen.com.

For me, writing is truly a labor of love.

Every day that I sit down at my computer, I feel fortunate to be doing a job that gives me so much pleasure and satisfaction—and I want to dedicate this book (my thirty-fifth project for Harlequin) to some of the people who have helped make that possible:

To Gail Chasan, who long ago decided that she wanted Once and Again for Special Edition—and who has since found a home for many more stories.

To Susan Litman, who discovered McIver’s Mission as a contest judge in 2002 and has been with me for every single book I’ve published since then. I realize I am incredibly lucky to work with an editor who supports me and my writing and always finds ways to make my stories better.

To Carly Silver, who may be the newest member of the Harlequin Special Edition editorial team but has already provided invaluable assistance as a title guru—thank you!

To everyone in the art and marketing departments for helping to ensure that the books have polish and appeal.

While all of these people have played a part in transforming my stories from manuscript to bookstore, even then, the journey is not complete. A book is only a collection of pages (or coded words in a file) until a reader opens it up. For that reason, I would like to extend my sincere appreciation to all of the readers who have taken my characters and stories into their homes and hearts—I am truly humbled and grateful.

The last dozen years have been an exciting adventure in my publishing career and I look forward to sharing many more with all of you!

I’d also like to acknowledge and thank Maria Rosati and Mike Boccalon for their assistance with the Italian dialogue in this story. Any errors are my own.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

As Marco Palermo squinted through the windshield of his small SUV—as if squinting might somehow improve visibility—he realized that he might as well have been blindfolded.

Though it was early May and not yet eight o’clock, the sky was black and the rain was pouring down so hard the windshield wipers couldn’t clear it away fast enough for him to see more than three feet beyond his vehicle’s headlights. Why anyone would choose to be out in such weather was a mystery to him, and yet here he was, at the behest of his sister—because he never could refuse her anything.

“I have an insatiable craving for tiramisu,” Renata had said, explaining the reason for her call. “I’d come to the restaurant myself, but Anna and Bella are in their pj’s and ready for bed.”

The restaurant was Valentino’s—an establishment in Charisma’s downtown core that had been started by their grandparents nearly half a century earlier; Adrianna and Isabella were Renata’s daughters, ages five and three years respectively, and Marco loved them both to bits. A definite benefit of doing this favor for his sister was getting to spend some time with his adorable nieces.

“Tiramisu, huh?”

“It’s not me—it’s the baby,” she said, referring to the third child she was carrying.

He figured pregnancy cravings were the responsibility of the baby’s father, and he knew that his brother-in-law wouldn’t hesitate to drive through a torrential downpour to get his wife anything she wanted or needed. The fact that Renata had called Marco suggested that her firefighter husband was at work and unable to cater to her every whim, as Craig was usually happy to do.

“Well, the baby’s going to have to wait at least half an hour,” Marco told her. “Because I’m not at the restaurant right now.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I just assumed...”

“That I spend twenty-four hours a day at Valentino’s?”

“Something like that,” she admitted.

“It’s Saturday night,” he said, reminding her of the one night a week he forced himself to take away from work to ensure that it didn’t become all consuming. He could—and often did—take more days and nights, because a well-established restaurant pretty much ran itself even without one of his siblings or cousins on-site to oversee every little detail.

“Ohmygod—I didn’t think...you have a date. I’m interrupting a date. I’m so sorry.”

“Relax, Nata. I’m just working at home tonight—you’re not interrupting anything.”

“It’s Saturday night,” she repeated his words back to him. “Why don’t you have a date?”

He shook his head. The abrupt change of topic and the demanding yet concerned tone in her voice were so typical of his sister, he didn’t know whether to chuckle or sigh.

“I’ll be there with your tiramisu in half an hour,” he said. “You can grill me in person then.”

“And I will,” she assured him.

He had no doubt, but all he said was, “Don’t let the girls go to bed before I get there,” then he disconnected the call.

And so he’d abandoned the blueprints on his desk, picked up his keys, dashed through the rain to his car and headed to Valentino’s.

Why don’t you have a date?

He considered various responses to Renata’s question as he drove the familiar route, hoping to come up with something that was believable and reassuring. The truth—that he was tired of dating the wrong women—wouldn’t satisfy his sister. She would insist that he not give up, because the right woman was out there, waiting for him as much as he was waiting for her. But he was getting tired of waiting.

All of his siblings were in settled relationships. Nata and Craig had been married for almost eight years. His oldest brother, Tony, had been married to his high school sweetheart, Gemma, for nine. And Gabe, his other brother, had recently—finally—gotten engaged to Francesca, the woman he’d started to fall in love with more than two years earlier but for whom he’d only recently acknowledged his feelings. His sister and brothers had each found the right people to share their lives with and were happy and settled. Marco yearned for the same thing.

When you find her, you’ll know. Nonna’s words—spoken to him at Gabe and Francesca’s engagement celebration—echoed in the back of his mind.

Caterina loved to tell the story of her first meeting with Salvatore, which happened to be on their wedding day. “It was like lightning—a surge that tingled through my veins. I had worried about what marriage to a stranger would bring, but I knew then that I would love him forever.”

Marco figured sixty-one years was pretty close to forever. And from what he could see, his grandparents were still very much in love with each other. Sure, they argued—sometimes loudly and passionately—and they often made up the same way. The key to a long and happy marriage, Nonna told him, was to never go to bed alone or angry.

So he didn’t question the conviction in her words, because that was how it happened in his family—starting with his grandparents, then his parents, and his sister and both of his brothers. No, he didn’t doubt it would happen that way, but he was starting to worry about the when—or even if—it would happen for him.

He’d dated a lot of perfectly nice and undeniably attractive women, but none of them had been the right woman. He’d wanted them to be; each time he’d embarked on a new relationship, he’d had high hopes that this woman would turn out to be the woman who would make him fall head over heels in love forever after. But it had never happened. Not yet.

So he was waiting, albeit a little less patiently with each year that passed. He wasn’t ready to give up, but he wasn’t holding his breath, either. And if he didn’t actually experience a lightning moment of recognition, he would settle for a tingle of attraction—or even a spark of static electricity.

He backed into his usual parking spot behind the restaurant and turned off the engine. As he did, thunder crashed and the skies opened up again, the strong and steady thrumming of the rain on his windshield washed away by an absolute deluge. He unhooked his belt but didn’t reach for the door handle—he wasn’t leaving the shelter of his vehicle until the downpour eased up.

After a couple more minutes, when the rain finally began to slow, he saw the take-out door of Valentino’s open and a woman step out. She exited from under the red-and-white-striped awning with her pizza box in hand and hurried across the parking lot. Despite the ongoing storm, something about her snagged his attention and wouldn’t let go.

Her hair was short, dark and wet from the rain. She didn’t wear a coat, and her dress showcased some nice curves as she moved surprisingly fast in the heels she wore on her feet. Lightning flashed, illuminating the sky for what might have been a heartbeat if not for the fact that his heart literally skipped a beat.

His eyes continued to track the mystery woman’s path to her vehicle. She opened the driver’s side of a light-colored compact car and ducked inside, setting the pizza box on the empty passenger seat before closing the door, extinguishing the interior light.

He’d barely caught a glimpse of her, yet he felt an ache beneath his breastbone, a yearning that suggested she might be the one. Finally.

The initial sense of jubilant relief was supplanted by frustration as he watched her taillights disappear in the night.

He might have finally found her—but he didn’t have the first clue as to who she was or when and where he might see her again.

* * *

When Marco entered the restaurant through the same take-out door a few minutes later, he found his sister-in-law, Gemma, behind the counter.

Usually a hostess in the dining rooms, Gemma was happy to fill in wherever she was needed. And since their cousin Maria was currently on an extended holiday/honeymoon with her new husband—because it wasn’t just his siblings but also his cousins who were happily pairing up—they were short-staffed at the take-out counter.

Gemma glanced up when she heard the bell over the door and smiled at him. “What are you doing in here on a Saturday night?”

“Renata says the baby wants tiramisu,” he told her.

“She couldn’t even stand the scent of coffee when she was pregnant with Adrianna and Isabella,” Gemma noted. “Makes me think Nonna is correct in her prediction that this one’s a boy.”

“Well, she does have a fifty percent chance of being right.”

“She predicted that both Adrianna and Isabella would be girls,” Gemma reminded him. “And that Christian and Dominic would be boys.”

“She also predicted that you and Tony would have half a dozen babies.”

His sister-in-law laughed. “Well, I can promise you that’s not happening.”

“But speaking of Nonna’s predictions,” Marco said, “did you notice the woman who walked out that door?”

“Lots of women walk out that door. And sometimes they come in. Sometimes men, too.”

He rolled his eyes. “I was referring to the last customer who left with a pizza box in her hands.”

“You mean Jordyn Garrett?”

“You know her?”

“Yeah—she’s Rachel’s husband’s cousin.”

Rachel Ellis—now Garrett—had been a friend of Gemma’s since high school, and Rachel and her husband, Andrew, were regular customers at Valentino’s, along with Maura, Andrew’s daughter from his first marriage. The previous November, they’d added another daughter, Lily, to their family.

“What else do you know about her?” he asked.

“I know that she left her phone on the counter,” Gemma said, glancing at the slim case on the ledge in front of the cash register.

“How do you know it’s hers?”

“Because I saw her set it down when she got out her wallet to pay for the pizza.”

The device hummed quietly, a light in the corner blinking.

“Maybe you should answer that,” she suggested.

“Why me?”

“Because I’m going to the kitchen to get the tiramisu for Nata.”

“Throw in a couple of cannoli for the girls,” he suggested.

“Of course,” she agreed, already moving past the pizza ovens and slipping through the door to the main kitchen.

Leaving him alone with Jordyn’s phone and its blinking light.

He touched the screen, expecting to see a password request, which would, of course, prevent him from accessing anything on her phone. But there was no password protection—the screen immediately illuminated to reveal the recent communication to the phone’s owner—assumed to be Jordyn—from someone identified at the top of the screen as Tristyn.

12 med wings would go good with the pizza and wine :)

He stepped behind the counter and peeked through the window into the take-out kitchen.

“Hey, Rafe—how long would it take for a dozen wings?”

“Ten minutes,” his cousin said, already with tongs in hand to count them out and toss them into the fryer basket. “You want ’em extra hot?”

“Medium,” he said. He figured it wouldn’t take Jordyn long to realize she’d left her phone behind, and when she came back for it, hopefully the wings would be ready for her.

“Your taste buds getting soft in your old age?” Rafe teased, dropping the basket into the hot oil.

“They’re not for me.”

He returned his attention to her phone—feeling a little like the prince left at the ball with no clue to Cinderella’s identity except a single glass slipper. The phone wasn’t nearly as sexy as a shoe, but at least it was something.

The bell over the door rang and he glanced up to greet the new customer, but the words died in his throat when she walked in. Obviously it had taken less time than he’d anticipated for Jordyn to realize she’d left her phone—the phone that was currently in his hand.

In the bright light of the take-out area, he could see her clearly now: smooth, creamy skin; a delicate heart-shaped face; and short, dark hair dripping with rain. Her eyes were dark green and framed by thick, long lashes.

He’d thought the dress she wore was black, but he could see now that it was a deep shade of purple. But he’d been right about her curves—the sleeveless sheath style hugged her feminine shape in all the right places. The wedge heels on her feet made it difficult to accurately estimate her height, but he guessed that she was about five feet five inches tall.

Her fingernails were neatly trimmed and unpolished, her makeup subtle. Earrings dangled from her ears, colorful purple and silver beads on different lengths of chain jingled as she moved, suggesting a playful side that contrasted with the simple dress and no-fuss hairstyle.

She was simply and spectacularly beautiful, and in that moment, the possibility that had been teasing the back of his mind—and nudging at his heart—since that first quick glimpse through the rain became a certainty.

“Nonna’s going to love hearing that she was right.”

Neatly arched brows drew together. “I beg your pardon?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. My mind was wandering.”

“A wandering mind and sticky fingers,” she noted.

“Huh?”

She gestured to the phone in his hand. “That’s mine.”

“Oh. You left it on the counter.”

“Apparently.”

He held it out to her.

When she reached for it, her fingertips brushed against his—and he felt it again, an arrow of heat straight through his heart. She snatched her hand away quickly, making him suspect that she’d felt the same thing—or at least something.

“That’s it?” she said. “No explanation for reading my text messages? No apology?”

“You left the phone on the counter—I was only trying to figure out who it belonged it to.”

“Me,” she said again.

“And you are?”

“Hoping to get home before my pizza’s cold.” And with that, she turned away.

“Wings up,” Rafe said, setting the take-out container on the ledge.

“Wait,” Marco called out to her.

She paused at the door.

“You forgot your wings.”

“I didn’t order any wings.”

“There was a message on your phone—from Tristyn. A dozen medium.”

She scrolled through the text conversation on her phone, frowned. He offered her the foam container.

“I didn’t pay for those.”

“Consider them an apology for reading your message.”

“You wouldn’t have to apologize if you hadn’t read my message,” she pointed out.

“And you’d be going home without the wings,” he countered.

She took the container from him, making sure that there was no contact between them in the transfer. “Thank you.”

“Marco,” he told her. “Marco Palermo.”

“Thank you, Marco.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome...”

“Jordyn,” she finally said, confirming the identification his sister-in-law had made as she moved toward the door.

He reached the handle before she did, pushed it open for her. “Enjoy your pizza and wings, Jordyn.”

“We always do,” she assured him.

He stood at the door and watched as she made her way back to her vehicle.

“Jordyn came back for her phone,” he told Gemma, when he turned and saw her standing at the counter with a take-out bag in hand.

“I caught the end of your conversation,” she admitted. “Actually, most of your conversation.”

His heart was so filled with happiness it was overflowing, and he couldn’t hold back the smile that curved his lips. “She’s the one—I’ve finally found her.”

His sister-in-law sighed. “Caro, why do you do this to yourself?”

“Maybe because I see how happy you and Tony are, and I want to know the same thing.”

“You will fall in love with the right woman at the right time, but if you keep throwing yourself headfirst over cliffs looking for it to happen, you’re only going to get hurt again.”

“There was a spark,” he insisted.

“It wasn’t a spark—it was a flame,” Gemma said. “You just crashed and burned, and you don’t even know it.”

He was disappointed by her response. He knew that she cared about him—she’d been part of his family for so many years he’d thought of her as a second sister even before she became his sister-in-law—so he didn’t understand why she was determined to burst his happiness bubble.

Or maybe he did. And maybe there was some foundation to her concern that he’d been trying too hard to find the right woman. Certainly, his recent relationship experience would substantiate her point.

But the alternative—to passively sit back and wait for his soul mate to land in his lap—was inconceivable to him. Sometimes destiny needed a helping hand, and he was more than willing to give it.

But first he had tiramisu to deliver.

Chapter Two

The rain had lessened to a drizzle by the time Jordyn got home to the Northbrook town house that she shared with her sister. Tristyn met her at the door, offering a towel in exchange for the food boxes so that Jordyn could dry off.

“Maybe the weather was an omen,” Jordyn said, kicking off her shoes. “As soon as I saw the forecast, I should have canceled the date and stayed home.”

“Or at least taken a jacket or umbrella,” her sister teased.

“Neither would have made this evening any less of a disaster.”

“Was it really that bad?” Tristyn asked, setting the food on the table.

Jordyn draped the towel over the back of her chair and picked up the glass of wine her sister had poured for her. “I don’t think there are words to adequately describe it.”

“What did he do?”

“Well, he opened the conversation by asking if I’d ever thought about changing my name.”

Tristyn frowned as she lifted a slice of pizza from the box. “Why would you want to change your name?”

“Because it’s misleading. Apparently when Carrie offered to set him up with me, Cody initially refused because he thought I was a guy.” And, he promised her in a mock deep voice accompanied by a leering grin, he was strictly and exclusively heterosexual. She shuddered at the memory.

“I get that sometimes, too, but never on a date.”

“Well, the criticism of my name wasn’t the worst of it—after that, even before I’d had a chance to peruse the wine list, Cody asked me what kind of birth control I used.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” She peeled a slice of pepperoni off of her pizza slice, popped it into her mouth.

“How did you respond to that?”

“I think my jaw hit the table, because he actually apologized for the bluntness of the question—not the question itself, just the delivery of it.”

Tristyn shook her head.

“Apparently he’s got a six-year-old son from a short-term relationship with a woman who lied to him about being on the Pill. Now half of his paycheck goes to child support and he’s saddled with the kid every other weekend.”

Tristyn choked on her wine, obviously shocked by the statement.

Jordyn held up her hands. “His words—not mine.”

“I should have realized,” her sister acknowledged.

“And the whole time he’s talking, he’s looking at my breasts instead of my face.”

“Well, you do have exceptional breasts.”

“I’m flattered you think so,” she said drily.

“And that dress really does emphasize your curves.” Her sister looked down at her own chest, sighed. “Even with Victoria’s very best secret giving me a boost, I can’t fake cleavage like yours.”

“Does that make it okay for him to stare at my chest all through dinner?”

“Of course not,” Tristyn immediately denied.

“Not that I actually stayed through dinner,” she admitted, helping herself to a wing. “When I waved my hand in front of his face—for the third time—to draw his attention upward, he didn’t even apologize. He just said, ‘You’ve probably realized by now that I’m a breast man—and I’m so glad Carrie hooked us up tonight.’”

“He didn’t.”

“Oh, yes, he did.” She licked pizza sauce off of her thumb. “And when I assured him that we weren’t hooking up, he promised that he would change my mind before dessert.”

Tristyn grimaced.

“I’m just glad I met him at the restaurant, so that when I walked out, I didn’t have to wait for a cab.”

“I’m so sorry,” her sister said sincerely. “Carrie told me he was a terrific guy.”

“Obviously Carrie needs to raise her standards.”

“I just wanted you to go out and have a good time. You’ve been a recluse since—”

“I work with the public,” she interjected, because she knew what her sister was going to say and didn’t want to hear it. “I think that’s pretty much the opposite of a recluse.”

Tristyn’s gaze was sympathetic. “But you don’t date.”

“After tonight, do you really need to ask why?”

“There are a lot of really great guys out there,” her sister insisted.

“Probably,” she acknowledged. “But you’ve dated most of them, and that’s a whole other category of awkward.”

“I haven’t dated that many men,” Tristyn protested.

Jordyn’s only response was to pick up the bottle of wine and top up their glasses.

“And why should I feel pressured to go out and meet guys who don’t interest me when I’m perfectly content with my life?”

She reached down to rub Gryffindor, who had followed the scent of food into the kitchen and rubbed himself against her leg in a silent bid for attention—or scraps. Not that she ever fed him from the table, but the battle-scarred cat she’d rescued from the streets seven years earlier was eternally optimistic.

“You should not be content hanging out with your sister on a Saturday night,” Tristyn said.

“Which begs the question of what you’re doing home on a Saturday night.”

Her sister shrugged. “I didn’t feel like going out.”

“Are you ill?”

“I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“Like what?”

“I had lunch with Daniel yesterday.”

“He’s trying to lure you over to GSR,” she guessed, referring to Garrett/Slater Racing—the company their cousin had founded in partnership with his friend Josh Slater.

Tristyn nodded.

“And?” she prompted.

“I’m tempted,” her sister admitted.

“But?”

“I love working at Garrett Furniture, being part of the business that Granddad founded.”

Gryff, finally giving up on the possibility that he would get anything more than affectionate but inedible scratches, wandered off again.

“Then tell him no.”

“But it would be really exciting to be part of the business that he’s building, too.”

Jordyn sipped her wine. “You’re not usually so indecisive. What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’m not sure I could work with him,” Tristyn confided.

“Daniel?”

Her sister shook her head. “Josh.”

“Well, well, well,” Jordyn mused, as her sibling pushed away from the table and carried their plates to the dishwasher.

“Not for the reason you’re thinking.”

“Not because the man looks likes sex on a stick?”

Tristyn choked on a laugh. “Sex on a stick?”

She shrugged. “Just because I’m not interested in taking anything home from the market doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy browsing.”

Her sister finished loading the dishwasher, then wrapped the leftover pizza.

“You were saying that your objection to potentially working with Josh has nothing to do with the fact that you want to rip his clothes off and have your way with him,” she prompted.

“I do not want to rip his clothes off.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve had sex,” Jordyn admitted. “But I seem to recall it’s easier if you’re naked.”

Tristyn huffed out a breath. “He’s arrogant and obnoxious and thinks he knows everything.”

Since those were uncharacteristically strong words for her sister, Jordyn let it go. For now.

“So you’re not going to take the job?”

“I haven’t decided.” She returned to the table and picked up her wine. “Maybe Daniel could set you up with Josh.”

Jordyn’s brows lifted. “You want me to go out with a guy you just described as arrogant and obnoxious?”

“You could tame him. You don’t take any crap from anyone.”

“And then you’d have an excuse to ignore your attraction to him,” she guessed, seeing right through her sister’s plan. “Because it would be too weird to go out with a guy who’d gone out with your sister.”

“We’re not talking about me—we’re talking about you.”

“But your life is so much more interesting than mine.”

“Because I get out and meet new people.”

“I met someone tonight,” Jordyn said.

“Your date from hell doesn’t count.”

She should have nodded her agreement and let the topic slide—but she wasn’t thinking of Cody. She was thinking of Marco. In fact, she hadn’t stopped thinking about Marco since she’d seen him standing behind the counter at Valentino’s with her phone in hand.

She should have been outraged by his audacity—instead, she’d found herself intrigued by the man. And because her sister had a lot more experience with the opposite sex than she did, she wanted her assessment of the brief interaction.

“Actually, I met someone after,” she said now. “When I was at Valentino’s.”

“Really?” Tristyn somehow managed to sound both skeptical and intrigued. “Who did you meet at Valentino’s?”

“Marco.”

Her sister’s lips curved. “Ahh—the sweet and sexy bartender with the melted-chocolate eyes and the dimple at the corner of his mouth?”

Now it was Jordyn’s turn to be surprised. “You know him?”

“I’ve seen him at Valentino’s,” Tristyn admitted. “Shared some conversation.”

“Along with lingering glances and fleeting touches?”

“I might have flirted with him a little,” her sister acknowledged, because flirting was as natural to her as breathing. “But it never went any further than that.”

“Why not?”

Tristyn shrugged. “No chemistry. Although I’m guessing you had a different experience, or you wouldn’t have mentioned his name.”

“I’ve always thought chemistry was overrated,” she hedged.

“As a woman with much more dating experience than you, I have to disagree,” Tristyn said. “I don’t think a relationship can work without at least some degree of chemistry.”

Jordyn wasn’t sure what she believed when it came to matters of the heart, since her own had been shattered more than three years earlier.

“So—what did you feel?” Tristyn prompted. “Butterflies? Tingles? Heat?”

“Just...curiosity.”

“Considering that’s probably more than you’ve felt in a long time, I’d say it’s a good start.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t see how a three-minute conversation with a guy is the start of anything.”

“That depends on what you plan to do next.”

“My only plan right now is to take my glass of wine into the living room to watch the Ryder to the Rescue episode that I missed last night.”

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” her sister agreed.

* * *

Marco rapped his knuckles against the wood before he turned the knob and opened the door of his sister’s two-story colonial in western South Meadows, only a few blocks from where they’d grown up and where their parents still lived.

His mother always chided her kids for knocking before they walked into the house that she insisted was still their home, despite the fact that none of them lived there anymore. Renata didn’t subscribe to quite the same open-door policy, but she usually made sure the front entrance was unlocked when she was expecting company. With two busy kids, it was hard to predict what she might be in the middle of when the doorbell rang—or how long it would take her to answer the summons.

Five-year-old Anna’s face lit up when she saw him in the doorway. “Uncle Marco!”

“Unca Mahco!” Bella, her three-year-old sister, echoed the greeting.

He set the paper bag containing the desserts on the seat of the deacon’s bench inside the door so that he could catch the two little girls who flung themselves at him. As Renata had said, they were both in their pajamas—coordinating outfits with ruffled cuffs and hems: Anna in purple and Bella in pink.

“We haven’t seen you in forever,” Anna lamented.

“Fo’eva,” Bella agreed.

He squeezed them both tight. “Has it really been that long?”

“Uh-huh,” Anna said solemnly, and her sibling nodded.

He usually stopped by to see his sister and her family at least once a week, but he’d been so busy working on plans for the new restaurant that he’d been unaware more than three weeks had passed since his last visit. Until now. And he felt a sharp tug of guilt to realize his nieces had noted the absence.

“What’s in the bag?” Anna asked. “Did you bring us a surprise?”

“A ’pwise?” Bella echoed, looking at him hopefully.

“It’s tiramisu for your mom,” he told them.

His nieces wrinkled their noses in identical expressions of displeasure.

“And a cannoli for each of you—if you go sit up at the table.”

They raced to the kitchen to comply with his request.

Nata took two small plates out of the cupboard, setting one in front of each of her daughters so that Marco could distribute the pastry.

“I wike cannowi,” Bella told him.

“I knew that about you,” Marco agreed, kissing the top of her head.

“Your uncle Marco spoils both of you,” Renata said.

He lifted his brows as he handed her the bowl of tiramisu.

“Uncle Marco spoils all of us,” she amended.

“Sit,” he told her, nudging her toward a chair.

“I was going to get you a cup of coffee.”

“I can get it,” he said, moving over to the counter. He selected a pod, inserted it into the machine, then pressed the button to start it brewing.

“Can we have milk?” Anna asked her mother.

“Of course.” Renata started to rise from the table.

“I’ve got it,” Marco told her, easily locating the girls’ favorite plastic cups and filling them with milk, then pouring a glass of the same for their mother.

“Thank you,” they chorused, when he set the drinks in front of them.

Marco carried his mug of coffee to the table and sat down beside his sister.

“So how are you feeling these days?” he asked her.

“Hungry.” She dipped her spoon back into the bowl.

He chuckled. “I guess that means the morning sickness has passed.”

She nodded.

“Mommy’s got a baby in her belly,” Anna said, in case he’d somehow forgotten that fact. “And it’s gonna grow really big and she’s gonna get really fat.”

“Wike dis,” Bella said, stretching her arms out in front of her as far as they could reach to demonstrate.

“Well, hopefully not quite that big,” Renata said drily.

“But Daddy says that just means there’ll be more of her to love,” Anna added.

Marco had to give his brother-in-law points for that response, because he knew his sister was already self-conscious about the weight she’d gained and she was only four months into her pregnancy.

“And soon, you’ll have another sister or a brother to love,” he said, hoping to shift their attention away from their mother’s belly and to the baby she carried.

“I wanna sisda,” Bella said. “I don’ wanna be da widda sisda anymo.”

“I wanna brother,” Anna countered, rolling her eyes in the direction of her younger sibling. “Sometimes one sister is one too many.”

“I want both of you to go wash the powdered sugar off of your faces and hands, and then brush your teeth,” Renata said.

“We aweady bwush our teef,” Bella sad. “Befo Unca Mahco comed.”

“Which was also before you ate the cannoli he brought for you,” her mother pointed out with patient firmness.

“Oh.” Bella sighed as she slid off the chair to follow her sister upstairs to the bathroom they shared.

Nata pushed her mostly empty bowl aside and rubbed her tummy. “Hopefully that will settle him down for a while.”

“Him?”

She shrugged. “Nonna hasn’t been wrong yet.”

“Are you hoping for a boy?”

“I know I should say that I just want a healthy baby—and I do. But if I had a choice, yeah, I’d like a boy this time.”

“Well, you and Craig make beautiful babies, so if it’s not a boy this time, there’s no reason you can’t keep trying.”

“Even if this one is a boy, we’re probably going to go for one more.”

“You’re a brave—or maybe crazy—woman.”

His sister laughed. “Probably both.”

He heard the water running in the bathroom upstairs, proof that the girls were brushing their teeth again.

“Can I tuck them in when they’re ready?” he asked.

“They made you feel guilty about not visiting for so long, didn’t they?”

“It hasn’t been that long,” he protested.

“More than three weeks.”

“But who’s counting?”

“We missed you,” she told him.

“Rebecca—the new waitress—asked for a couple of weeks off in July to go home to Minnesota because she hasn’t seen her parents since Christmas.”

“Because they live in Minnesota,” she said, stating the obvious.

“Maybe I should move.”

His sister chuckled. “As if. When you moved out, Mama cried for three days, and you felt so guilty, you almost moved back home again.”

“No one knows how to guilt a man like his mother,” Marco agreed.

“We done bwushed our teef,” Bella called down.

“Uncle Marco’s on his way up to tuck you in,” Renata told her daughters. Then, to him, “They’re going to want a bedtime story.”

“I haven’t forgotten the routine in three weeks,” he assured her, already heading for the stairs.

He sat on Anna’s bed, between both of the girls tucked under the covers, and read them a bedtime story. They giggled at the different voices he gave to the characters and responded with gasps and sighs in appropriate places. When the story was finished, they were both fighting to keep their eyes open. He slid off the bed, returned the book to its shelf, kissed Anna’s forehead, then scooped Bella up and carried her across the room to tuck her into her own bed.

He loved sharing the nighttime routine with his nieces—and with his nephews, when he was at Tony and Gemma’s house. But it was always a little sad to go home to his too-quiet apartment afterward and crawl into an empty bed.

It wouldn’t be much of a hardship to find a woman to share his bed for one night or even a few. The harder part was finding the woman he wanted there for the long term. He wasn’t one of those commitment-shy guys who was only looking for a good time—he wanted to fall in love and get married and read bedtime stories to his own kids at night. But until that happened, he had be content spending time with his nieces and nephews.

When he returned to the main level, Renata was in the living room folding a load of laundry with the news on TV.

“Are they asleep?”

“You know they won’t fall asleep until their mom kisses them good-night.”

She pushed herself up from the sofa. “Then I’d better go do so.”

While she was upstairs, he busied himself washing up the plates and cups the girls had used.

“You’re going to be a great father someday,” Renata said when she came back downstairs. “And a great husband to some lucky woman.”

“You’re only saying that because I’m tidying up your kitchen.”

“And because you brought me tiramisu.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“The right woman is out there,” his sister said.

He nodded. “I know.”

“I just don’t want you to get discouraged—wondering when you’re finally going to meet her.”

“I already did.”

She considered that as she picked up a towel to dry the dishes he’d washed. “So when are the rest of us going to meet her?”

“Not for a while.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want some time and space to get to know her better before the family scares her away.”

“We’re not scary,” she protested.

“Are you kidding? I was born into this family and I’m terrified by major holiday events with the whole clan.”

“If she’s going to be the mother of your future children, she’s got to meet us someday.”

“Someday,” he agreed.

Nata sighed. “Are you at least going to tell me her name?”

“No.”

“Does she really exist?”

“Of course she exists.”

“That’s what you said about Tessa Wheeler, your make-believe girlfriend in high school.”

He glanced away. “She was real.”

“A real person,” his sister acknowledged. “But she wasn’t really your girlfriend—she didn’t even know you existed.”

“I was a sophomore,” he pointed out in his defense.

“And while I would certainly hope you’d outgrown manufacturing fantasy girlfriends, you should appreciate how your refusal to give me a name is cause for concern.”

“If I’d made her up, don’t you think I would have made up a name for her?”

“And what name would that be?” she challenged.

Renata was nothing if not relentless, and he knew she wouldn’t quit badgering until he gave her something. He decided her name was harmless enough.

“Jordyn,” he finally said.

Her brows lifted. “Jordyn Garrett?”

He frowned. “Where did that come from?”

“Ohmygod—I’m right. It is Jordyn Garrett.”

“I never said it was Jordyn Garrett.”

“But you didn’t say it wasn’t.”

“How do you know her?” he finally asked.

“Duh. She’s a bartender at O’Reilly’s and Craig plays on the Brew Crew, the team they sponsor.”

He’d forgotten that his brother-in-law played recreational baseball—but he should have remembered that his sister knew almost everyone in Charisma.

And the way she was worrying her bottom lip right now made him suspect that she knew something that she wasn’t telling him.

“What’s your objection to my interest in Jordyn?”

“I like her,” Renata assured him, though her tone was cautious.

“But?” he prompted.

“But she’s always seemed a little...guarded,” she decided. “And I don’t want you to get your heart broken.”

Again.

Although she didn’t say the word, they both knew she was thinking it. As he was, too. But this time, he was confident there wouldn’t be a sad ending but a happy beginning, because Jordyn Garrett was the woman he’d been waiting his whole life for.

Now he just had to help her see that she’d been waiting for him, too.

Chapter Three

Jordyn dreamed of him—and woke up feeling restless and out of sorts because of it.

She didn’t remember the details of the dream, except that her heart had been pounding with anticipation and her body aching to feel things that she hadn’t felt in a very long time. And she’d awakened thinking of Marco. The sweet and sexy bartender with the melted-chocolate eyes and the dimple at the corner of his mouth. It might have been her sister’s description, but she couldn’t deny that it was an accurate one.

She hadn’t dreamed of anyone but Brian in a lot of years. More significantly, she hadn’t even dreamed about her former fiancé in more than a year, which she figured was a sign that her heart was finally healing. But his disappearance from her dreams worried her, too, because she didn’t want to forget about him. She didn’t want to forget how completely in love they’d been or how her heart had been decimated by his death. And she especially didn’t want to be attracted to another man, to even consider moving on with her life with someone else or hope for the future that she’d once believed she would have with Brian.

She’d told Tristyn that her date with Cody the night before had been a disaster—but the fact that it had been such a disaster was also a relief to Jordyn. Her experience with Cody reassured her that she wasn’t missing out on anything by not dating and reinforced her belief that she’d rather spend her free time alone than with a man who obviously wasn’t right for her. Because no man who wasn’t Brian was right for her.

Then she’d walked into Valentino’s and come face-to-face with Marco Palermo. And she’d felt...something.

She wasn’t sure what it was—maybe a spark of awareness or possibly a tingle of desire—she only knew that it was more than she’d expected or wanted to feel.

She’d pushed it aside, refusing to delve too deeply inside herself. So she’d met a guy and she’d felt a tug of something—so what? It didn’t have to mean anything, because she wasn’t ever going to see him again.

Except that she instinctively knew that wasn’t true. Whatever she’d felt, she was certain that he’d felt it, too, and she didn’t doubt that their paths would cross again—probably sooner rather than later. And when they did, she’d be ready to let him down easy. There was no other option.

Tristyn was drinking coffee and reading the news on her tablet when Jordyn finally ventured into the kitchen after her shower. She brewed herself a cup of French vanilla, added two teaspoons of sugar and a generous dollop of cream, then took a seat across from her sister.

“How much wine did I drink last night?”

Tristyn looked up from her tablet. “No more than I did. Why?”

“I feel like crap this morning, and I had some weird dreams.”

“Any special guests in those dreams?” her sister teased.

Jordyn scowled at her over the rim of her coffee mug.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

She sipped her coffee and willed the caffeine to jump-start her system—or at least her brain.

“It’s a good sign,” Tristyn said gently.

“What’s a good sign?”

“That you’re thinking about him.”

She swallowed another mouthful of java.

“Brian’s been gone for more than three years.”

Three years, two months and sixteen days. But of course she didn’t say that aloud, because she knew that Tristyn would get that familiar little line that appeared between her brows whenever she was worried about something. And her family had worried about her enough already.

Instead she only nodded.

“It’s time for you to put yourself out there again.”

“Isn’t that what I was doing with Cody last night?”

Tristyn shook her head. “Cody was a setup that was never going to work, because you had it in your mind before you even sat down at the restaurant that you weren’t going to let it go any further than dinner.”

It was both a curse and a blessing to have a sister who knew her so well.

“Maybe that’s why meeting Marco made more of a lasting impression on you,” Tristyn continued.

“Or maybe I made it into a bigger deal than it was,” Jordyn said, considering that he’d never asked for anything more than her name.

“Maybe you did,” Tristyn allowed. “But you won’t know for sure until you see him again.”

* * *

It was almost two weeks later before she did.

Ten days to be precise. And not a single one of those days passed without her thinking about him at least once. After the first week, she considered stopping by Valentino’s—just to see if he was working—but she’d ignored the impulse.

Because if he was working—what then?

It was her inability to answer that question that kept her away from his family’s restaurant. But it didn’t stop her from thinking about him.

On Tuesday night, just a couple hours before closing, he walked into O’Reilly’s.

She was wiping down the bar when she looked up and saw him come through the door.

Even from across the room, she felt the hum of something between them—or maybe, nearing the end of a double shift, she was just overtired.

He nodded to her as he took a seat farther down the bar.

“Hey, Jordyn,” Bobby Galley called out, snagging her attention. “What’s your number?”

For the first six months that she’d worked at the bar, every night that Bobby came in, he would ask for her number. And every night, she would refuse.

The familiar banter grew tiresome after a while, until one night, when he asked for her number, she said, “One hundred and forty-six.” He’d blinked, wary of this unexpected response, and she’d told him it was the number of times he’d asked her out and she’d turned him down. Not that she’d actually counted, but her recital of the random number sounded credible.

After that, it had become something of a game. Although he hadn’t stopped asking, he had given up hope that she would ever answer him with her actual phone number.

She took a moment to consider the request. “Thirty-eight,” she finally told him.

“I know that’s not your age,” he said. “I’m hoping...maybe...it’s your bra size?”

She shook her head. “Wrong again—it’s the number of months that I’ve been serving you from behind this bar.”

“Which only proves that we both need a change of scenery,” Bobby said. “Let me take you away from here.”

“If by ‘away’ you mean ‘Hawaii’—keep talking, Bobby. If you meant something else, then I’ve got other customers to serve,” she said, and moved toward Marco.

“What can I get for you?”

“A draft beer.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that,” she said, indicating the array of faucets bearing the labels of a dozen different brands.

“I’ll try a Smithwick’s,” he decided.

She picked up a pint glass and angled it beneath the tap.

* * *

As he waited for his beer, Marco glanced around, noting that despite the lateness of the hour, about half a dozen tables were filled and there were few empty stools around the bar. He suspected that the popularity of the seating in that area had more to do with the pretty woman working the taps than the two small screens showing sports highlights, especially when the Bar Down—a popular choice for die-hard sports fans—wasn’t too far down the road.

“How were your wings the other night?”

“They were great—thanks.”

“How are the wings here?”

“You checking out the competition?”

He shook his head. “I’m sure there’s some crossover between our customers, but I wouldn’t consider O’Reilly’s and Valentino’s to be in competition.”

“Our sweet-and-spicy honey barbecue are my favorite,” she said, setting a menu beside him. “But the dry-rub salt and black pepper are popular, too.”

“If I order the honey barbecue, will you share them with me?”

“No.” She smiled. “But thanks.”

“You’re good at that.”

She selected a clean glass and began pouring a Harp for another customer. “What am I good at?”

“The brush-off.”

“I work in a bar.” She lifted a shoulder. “It’s a necessary job skill.”

“So I shouldn’t take it personally?”

“I didn’t say that.” But the words were softened by another smile that made his heart do a slow roll inside his chest as she carried the draft to the end of the bar.

“Did you want those wings?” she asked when she returned.

“Do they come with your phone number?”

“No.”

“Not even the first digit?”

“No.”

“The last digit?”

One side of her mouth quirked at the corner. “No.”

“So the only thing I get if I order the wings is the pleasure of sitting here and making conversation with you for a little while longer?”

“That’s not true,” she denied. “You also get the wings.”

He smiled. “Sold.”

“Honey barbecue?”

“Sure,” he agreed.

She keyed his order into the computer that linked to the kitchen. “Anything else?”

“Not right now.”

She nodded and moved away to check on her other patrons, exchanging a few words here and there, smiling or laughing on occasion.

“What brings you in to O’Reilly’s?” she asked.

“I was looking for you.”

“Well, now you’ve found me.”

His smile was quick. “Can I keep you?”

“You wouldn’t want to,” she told him. “I’m very high maintenance.”

“In my experience, most high-maintenance women don’t realize they’re high maintenance.”

“See—I’m challenging your perceptions already.”

“About more than you probably realize,” he acknowledged.

“How did you find out where I worked?”

“You don’t believe it’s a coincidence that I decided to stop in here for a beer?”

“No.”

He grinned at the blunt response. “My sister, Renata, told me I’d probably find you here.”

“Renata and Craig,” she realized. “He’s the firefighter who plays third base for the Brew Crew.”

He nodded.

“Small world.”

“And strange that our paths never crossed until recently.”

“Or maybe not so strange considering that we probably work similarly unusual hours,” she countered.

The blonde waitress who was taking care of the tables sidled up to the bar. “I need two pints of Guinness, a glass of white and a G&T, extra lime.”

“Excuse me,” Jordyn said to Marco, and busied herself filling the order.

“It’s hard to have a conversation when you keep moving away or we keep getting interrupted,” he commented when the waitress had gone.

“I’m working,” she reminded him.

“I know,” he acknowledged. “And if you give me your number, I’ll gladly relinquish this stool to another customer.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I won’t tell Bobby,” he promised.

“I’m not worried about Bobby.”

“Then what are you worried about?”

“I’m not worried. It’s just that...” Her explanation trailed off and she shook her head. “I don’t know.”

He feigned surprise. “You don’t know your number?”

The hint of another smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I don’t want you to know my number.”

“Why not?”

“Because then you’ll call and ask me to go out with you, and I’ll either feel really bad for saying no or I’ll say yes and afterward wish that I’d said no.”

“There is a third option,” he told her. “You could say yes, have a fabulous time, fall head over heels in love with me, and want to spend the rest of your life as my wife and the mother of my babies.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I work fifty hours a week serving beer to mostly male customers in a pub. Trust me, there isn’t a pickup line I haven’t heard.”

“That’s probably true,” he acknowledged. “But I would hope you’d learned to distinguish between the guys who just want a quick roll between the sheets and the ones who are sincerely interested in getting to know you better.”

“And then I’d recognize you as one of the sincere ones?” she asked doubtfully.

“You would,” he confirmed.

“I’m flattered by your interest,” she told him. “But I’m not going to go out with you.”

“You don’t believe I’m sincere,” he realized.

“Even if you are, I’m not looking to fall head over heels in love, get married and have babies.”

“My grandmother says that love often sneaks up when we least expect it.”

“I’m sure she’s a wise woman,” Jordyn said. “But she doesn’t know me.”

“Not yet.”

She huffed out a breath. “You’re relentless—I’ll give you that.”

“Persistent,” he decided.

“I really don’t date customers.”

“Is that your boss’s rule or a personal philosophy?”

“A personal philosophy,” she admitted. “Although the statement would be equally true without the ‘customers’ part.”

“You don’t date?”

“Aside from one recent and ill-advised setup, no,” she confirmed.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s more hassle than it’s worth.”

“Maybe you just haven’t been dating the right guy,” he suggested.

She looked away, but not quickly enough that he could miss the pain that moved in those beautiful green eyes.

She nodded to a man seated at the end of the bar and poured him another beer. She delivered his glass, taking a few minutes to chat and smile as they exchanged beverage for money, then took a few more orders before she returned.

She picked up the plate of wings from the pass-through window and delivered them to Marco, along with a refill of his beer.

“So what’s with you and Bobby?” he asked.

“Nothing. He’s just a regular customer.”

“And the number you gave him?”

“It’s a game we play,” she admitted. “Random numbers that he tries to guess the significance of.”

“Since you’ve made your phone number off-limits, what number would you give me?”

She held his gaze for a minute, considering. “Three,” she decided.

“Three,” he echoed, as he selected a wing from his plate. “Is that the number of dates we’ll have before you let me see you naked?”

She rolled her eyes, but the color that rose in her cheeks suggested she wasn’t as unaffected by the idea as she was pretending to be. “The number of times you’ll come in here to hit on me before deciding to turn your attention in another direction.”

“That response shortchanges both of us,” he told her. “You, because you’re worth a lot more effort than that. And me, because it suggests I’m fickle and/or shallow.”

She lifted a shoulder—a dismissive half shrug. “I guess time will tell.”

* * *

Of course, Marco wasn’t the type to turn down a challenge.

He went back to O’Reilly’s on Wednesday and again on Thursday, but he stayed away over the weekend. His absence was for both strategic and practical reasons. Strategically, he wanted her to have some time to think about him and, hopefully, to look forward to seeing him again. Practically, he had his own responsibilities at Valentino’s and he knew that the pub would be too busy for them to talk.

Monday night, he left his family’s restaurant after the dinner rush, arriving at the pub just before nine o’clock. Jordyn looked up when he walked in, and her eyes met his from across the room. When she smiled, he knew that she was happy to see him—even if she wasn’t willing to admit it aloud.

“Smithwick’s?” she asked as he settled onto a stool at the bar.

“Sure.”

He watched her pour his beer, admiring the dark green vest with the O’Reilly’s logo above her left breast worn over a simple white T-shirt tucked into slim-fitting jeans. He wasn’t sure if it was a uniform, but it was her standard attire for working behind the bar.

“If you want food tonight, you should let me get your order in before the Brew Crew shows up.”

He’d forgotten that the baseball team played on Monday nights, after which the players would head to O’Reilly’s for food and drinks.

“It gets pretty busy then?” he guessed.

“It gets crazy,” she admitted.

Half an hour later, he saw that she wasn’t kidding.

There were two waitresses working the floor tonight, and they pushed together several tables to accommodate the group that arrived. It wasn’t just the ballplayers—some of the men had their wives or girlfriends with them, and a few had even brought their kids. The ones who were single flirted with the waitresses—or stopped by the bar to order their drinks directly from Jordyn and flirt with her instead.

Since it was a little crowded around the bar, he took his beer and joined his sister and brother-in-law at their table, listening to their recap of the game—an exciting, come-from-behind victory over the Badge(r)s, a team primarily made up of local law enforcement.

For the better part of two hours, they ate and drank and chatted. Pitchers of beer were emptied, platters of finger foods devoured. He was pleased to see Renata out with her husband, enjoying a break while their mother watched over her granddaughters. When they finally left, he made his way back to the bar.

Jordyn was shelving a tray of clean glasses when he returned to the stool he’d vacated earlier.

“I thought you left when Craig and Renata did.”

“No, but I did switch from beer to coffee about an hour ago,” he said, putting his empty mug on the bar.

She picked up the carafe from the heating element and refilled his cup. “Four.”

“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.

Chapter Four

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 you change the prices?” Salvatore asked worriedly.

“Not on our traditional pasta dishes,” Marco promised. “But we’ll offer some higher-priced special entrées and a higher-end wine selection. Nonna and Rafe will create the menu, if I can convince him to run the kitchen here.”

“You should hire Lana as a hostess.”

Marco frowned. “Who?”

“Elena Luchetta’s granddaughter.”

“We’ve got a lot of work to do before we can start thinking about hiring anyone,” he said with more patience than he felt.

“But she’d be perfect,” Nonna insisted.

“Because she’s Italian?”

“Sì. And single.”

He sighed. “You’ve got to stop dangling all of your friends’ granddaughters under my nose like they’re bait.”

“I will when you finally snap one of them up,” she said unapologetically.

“There’s no need for the boy to rush into marriage,” Salvatore defended.

“I want great-grandbabies,” Caterina said.

“You have six,” Marco reminded her.

“No thanks to you,” she retorted.

“What are your plans for the upper level?” Salvatore asked.

Marco turned to him, grateful for the abrupt change of topic. “There are two bedrooms, a bathroom, small living area and kitchenette.”

“Private entrance?”

He nodded.

“Could generate some rental income,” his grandfather noted.

Marco had considered that possibility. “Or we could renovate it to offer private event rooms.”

“We already do that.”

He shook his head. “We host group events—bridal and baby showers, engagement and birthday parties. I was thinking of promoting the space for more intimate gatherings and private celebrations.”

“Intimate and private sounds like what got this place shut down,” Salvatore warned.

Marco choked on a laugh. “I was thinking of something like dinner for two—to celebrate wedding anniversaries or set the stage for marriage proposals.”

Caterina sniffed. “What do you know about proposals?”

“I know that if and when I finally meet the right woman, it would be nice to have a romantic—and private—setting in which to pop the question.”

“Or to celebrate a sixty-fifth anniversary,” Salvatore said, lifting his wife’s hand to brush his lips over the back of it.

“If we make it to sixty-five years,” she told him, a teasing glint in her eyes, “I don’t want a private dinner. I want a big party—una grande festa.”

“And I want whatever you want,” her husband assured her.

“Now who’s the suck-up?” Marco said.

His grandfather just grinned.

“So we’re going to put in an offer?”

“If you’re really sure you want to do this,” Caterina said.

“We’ve been planning it for two years,” he reminded her.

“I know. I just wish...”

“What do you wish?” he prompted gently.

“That you didn’t have so much time to devote to this endeavor.”

“I don’t understand,” he admitted. “Are you saying that you don’t want to expand?”

“No—I’m saying that you need equilibrio in your life. Not just work, work, work all the time. You need romanticismo.”

“Right now, I need to get in touch with the real estate agent,” he said.

“And we need to get over to the restaurant,” Salvatore reminded his wife.

Caterina nodded. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

He bent down to kiss both of her cheeks, gave his grandfather a quick hug, then walked them to the door.

Looking around the empty, dusty room, there was no denying that it needed a lot of work, but most of it was cosmetic. The wide storefront windows definitely needed a good cleaning, but he could already envision the gold-leaf lettering that would announce Valentino’s II.

It was also easy to picture the concrete pad between the door and the sidewalk as a summer patio, with wrought iron tables and chairs, and he made a mental note to look into whatever permits would be required.

Then she stepped into view, and everything else was forgotten.

* * *

Jordyn loved living in Northbrook. Almost everything that she wanted or needed was within walking distance, including Sweet Serenity Boutique & Spa, which is where she was heading for a mani/pedi appointment with her sisters. She enjoyed the monthly ritual they shared, not just for the pampering of her body but the time that it afforded them together.

Because in addition to being her sisters, Tristyn and Lauryn were her best friends. They might not always agree on everything, but they always had one another’s backs. When Lauryn got married, Jordyn was her maid of honor; when Jordyn was planning her wedding, she’d asked Tristyn to be hers; and whenever Tristyn was ready to exchange vows, it was understood that Lauryn would fulfill the role for her. In the meantime, they each had their own lives and responsibilities but they made a point of spending time together as much as possible—which was easier for Jordyn and Tristyn, considering that they lived together, and why they planned a girls’ day with Lauryn at least once a month.

Today they had planned to meet for brunch at the Morning Glory Café followed by manicures, pedicures and hot stone massages at Sweet Serenity. Because Jordyn had worked until closing at O’Reilly’s the night before, she’d opted to sleep in rather than join her sisters for brunch, promising to meet them at the spa at two o’clock.

The window display of Zahara’s caught her eye and halted her steps. Though her wardrobe was usually simple and functional, she was a sucker for fun jewelry, and the dangling cherry earrings were calling to her. A quick glance at her watch assured her that she didn’t need to rush.

Five minutes later, she walked out of the boutique with her silver hoops tucked into the zippered change compartment of her wallet and the red-and-green crystals sparkling at her ears. She might have resisted them if not for the fact that they went so perfectly with the cherry-red capris and simple white T-shirt she was wearing.

“Hey, Jordyn.”

She was just starting up the flagstone path to the entrance of the spa when she heard his voice behind her, and her heart started to race. Chastising herself for the frustrating and inexplicable reaction to his presence, she turned to face him.

“Hi, Marco. What brings you to the neighborhood? Or is this your usual destination for manscaping?”

He looked at her blankly. “What?”

She pointed to the sign in the window offering manicures, pedicures, facials, hair removal and body treatments.

To his credit, he recovered quickly, holding his hands out for her inspection. “Now that you mention it, I’m hoping to get something done about these ragged cuticles.”

Except that there was nothing wrong with his hands. They were broad and tanned, his fingers long and lean, his nails clean and neatly trimmed.

“Ask for Lori,” she suggested.

“I’ll do that,” he promised, and his smile—quick and easy—made her knees feel weak. “Actually, I was just in the neighborhood on business.”

She glanced across the street. “Business by any chance linked to the rumor about a new Italian restaurant opening up where Mykonos used to be?”

“You don’t strike me as the type of person who would pay much attention to gossip.”

“Which isn’t a denial but a deflection,” she noted.

“And proves that you’re as smart as you are beautiful,” he said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Jordyn saw that Tristyn and Lauryn had arrived. “And that’s another deflection.”

“A fact,” he assured her.

“What’s a fact?” Tristyn wanted to know.

“It’s a fact,” Marco said, encompassing both of the new arrivals with a smile, “that all of the Garrett women are smart and beautiful.”

“And you’re as handsome and charming as always,” Tristyn assured him.

He looked at Jordyn again. “See? Some women think I’m handsome and charming.”

“Some women are easily impressed,” she replied. “And we’re going to be late for our appointments.”

“Full-body massage,” Tristyn said, winking at Marco. “They give us a discount if we rub the oil all over one another.”

Marco’s eyes went wide—and then glazed over.

Lauryn laughed even as she smacked Tristyn in the arm.

“She’s kidding,” Jordyn assured him.

He blinked and refocused. “Oh. Right. Of course.” He took a step back. “Have a good day, ladies.”

* * *

Sweet Serenity Spa was located in a renovated three-story colonial revival home with different services offered on different floors. The lower level had eight pedicure stations in a circle around the outside of the room, usually separated by movable folding screens. Two of the screens had been removed so that the sisters could chat while they were pampered.

“So tell me about the hunky guy outside,” Lauryn said after they’d picked their polish and had their feet soaking in individual baths of warm, bubbling water.

“You mean Jordyn’s new boyfriend?” Tristyn asked.

Jordyn sighed. “He isn’t—”

“I’m so glad you’re dating again,” Lauryn said.

“I’m not dating Marco,” she said firmly.

Lauryn’s brow furrowed as she turned to their other sister.

“Well, he wants to be her new boyfriend,” Tristyn said.

“And I’m not looking for a boyfriend,” she told both of them.

“It’s been more than three years,” Lauryn reminded her gently.

“I’m well aware of how long it’s been.”

“Brian wouldn’t want you to grieve forever.”

“I’m not still grieving,” she denied.

“Then why won’t you go out with Marco?” Tristyn demanded.

“I’m just not interested in dating anyone right now.”

“I understand that in theory,” Lauryn said. “But the man knocking on your door is a mouthwateringly tempting reality.”

“And she’s the married one,” Tristyn pointed out.

Jordyn couldn’t deny that Marco was mouthwatering. And tempting. But she was more scared than she was tempted. Because in the few short weeks that she’d known him, she’d realized that she liked him. And if she spent more time with him, if she actually went out on a date with him, she might find that she really liked him. Then that liking might lead to her wanting more, and she wasn’t willing to risk anything more.

“How’s Kylie?” she asked, referring to Lauryn’s fourteen-month-old daughter in a not-so-subtle attempt to change the topic of conversation.

“She’s getting so big,” Lauryn said. “And so independent. Since she started to walk, she doesn’t like being carried anymore.”

“Which probably isn’t a bad thing, considering that you’re going to be carrying another baby in a few months.”

“Not for another eight months,” she reminded her sisters. “Which is why Rob and I agreed not to tell anyone about the pregnancy yet.”

“We’re not anyone,” Tristyn protested. “We’re your sisters.”

Lauryn picked up the glass of spring water infused with cucumber and lime, and sipped. “He’s a little worried about having another child so soon,” she admitted. “Since Kylie was born, I’ve only been working part-time hours at the Gallery, and business isn’t great at the Locker Room.”

The Gallery was Garrett Furniture’s showroom where Lauryn had been a sales supervisor prior to her maternity leave, and the Locker Room was her husband’s sporting goods store downtown.

“How are the renovations on the house coming along?” Jordyn asked, hoping the shift in topic might ease the furrow in her sister’s brow.

But Lauryn only sighed. “They’ve stalled,” she admitted. “Rob’s been spending so many hours at the store, it doesn’t seem fair to expect him to tackle another job when he gets home.”

What wasn’t fair—at least in Jordyn’s opinion—was that her sister was living in a dump. Tom and Susan Garrett had given their daughter and her husband a generous cash gift for their wedding, with the understanding that the money would be used for a down payment on a house.

Lauryn had found what she wanted in Ridgemount—a simple craftsman-style house with pretty gardens and a modest backyard. Rob had agreed that the house was perfect, but he’d been reluctant to tie up all of their money in real estate when he was trying to make a go of his business. Instead, he’d convinced her that they could buy a fixer-upper for much less money and use the additional funds to purchase inventory for his fledgling business.

It was a solid plan—except that the fledgling business was now apparently a struggling business, and he’d done almost nothing to fix up the fixer-upper. In fact, the only reason the nursery had been fixed up before Kylie was born was that Jordyn had enlisted the help of Andrew and Nathan—two of their cousins—to get it done.

“I like that color.” Lauryn gestured to the polish that was being applied to her sister’s toenails in an obvious attempt to steer the conversation away from another uncomfortable topic. “What’s it called?”

“Cherried Away.” Jordyn pushed her hair behind her ear to show off her new purchase. “It matches my earrings.”

“I wish I was brave enough to wear color like that,” Lauryn said, her gaze shifting to her own toes.

“French pedicures are classic,” Tristyn assured her.

“Says the woman sporting Buxom Bronze on her feet and a quaternary Celtic knot tattoo on her ass.”

Tristyn grinned. “I get a lot of compliments on that tattoo.”

“We don’t want to know,” Jordyn told her.

“Maybe I do,” Lauryn said. “I’m an old married woman who needs to get her thrills vicariously through her single sisters—and since you won’t share anything about Marco—”

“Because there’s nothing to share,” Jordyn insisted.

“At least, not yet,” Tristyn said.

Thankfully, they were called upstairs for their massages, saving Jordyn from having to deny what she really wanted.

* * *

An hour later, the sisters walked out into the late-afternoon sunshine, and Jordyn’s gaze shifted to the empty property across the street.

“Did either of you hear anything about a new restaurant opening in place of Mykonos?”

“There have been rumors floating around for a couple of months,” Tristyn confirmed. “Is that why Marco was in the neighborhood?”

“He didn’t say, but that’s my guess.”

“You didn’t ask him?” Lauryn wondered.

“I did. He was evasive.”

“We could use a good Italian place nearby,” Tristyn said. “We’ve got three cafés, two diners, a deli, bakery, vegetarian bistro, pizza place, Asian fusion cuisine, Southern barbecue and Indian buffet, but nowhere to get a good plate of pasta.”

“The Spaghetti House isn’t very far,” Jordyn reminded her.

“I said ‘good plate of pasta.’”

“All this talk of food is making me hungry,” Lauryn said.

“Me, too,” Jordyn agreed. “Let’s head over to Marg & Rita’s before it gets too busy and we have to wait for a table.”

But Tristyn shook her head. “It’s my turn to pick where we’re going for dinner,” she reminded her sisters.

Which was technically true. Their monthly “girls’ day” that usually involved the spa and/or shopping was always followed by dinner and drinks, and they alternated who got to choose the restaurant. Except that they’d become addicted to the signature drinks at Marg & Rita’s and hadn’t gone anywhere else in the past five months.

“We always go to Marg & Rita’s,” Lauryn said.

“Not always,” Tristyn denied.

Jordyn sighed. “Let me guess—you’re in the mood for Italian food tonight?”

“My mouth is watering for Valentino’s seven-layer lasagna.”

“I thought you were trying to cut down on carbs.”

Tristyn waved a hand dismissively. “That plan went out the window with the banana-pecan waffles I had this morning.”

“Now that you mention it, Italian sounds really good,” Lauryn agreed.

“I want fajitas,” Jordyn insisted, because she did. And because she wanted no part of whatever plan she suspected her sisters were concocting to throw her into Marco Palermo’s path.

“Sorry,” Tristyn said, not sounding sorry at all. “We can do Marg & Rita’s next month, when it’s your turn to pick. Although maybe by then, you’ll be craving Italian, too.”

Jordyn ignored the innuendo and crossed her fingers that Marco wouldn’t be working tonight.

Chapter Five

“You’re late,” Gemma said when Marco walked into the kitchen at Valentino’s just after four o’clock Saturday afternoon.

“And I might feel guilty about that if not for the fact that it’s supposed to be my night off.”

“You have a night off?” This came from Rocco, a fifteen-year-old neighborhood kid who was the grandson of one of Nonna’s oldest friends and one of their weekend dishwashers.

Marco cuffed him playfully in the back of the head. “It’s interesting how everyone likes to harp on the fact that I have no life outside of the restaurant but then, when I’m not supposed to be here, I get called in anyway.”

“You’re right,” Gemma agreed. “I’m sorry. But Rebecca’s roommate called to say that she was sick, and I could hear her retching in the background.”

Marco grimaced. “And what are the specials tonight?”

“The pasta is gnocchi with tomato-cream sauce and fresh basil, the pizza is grilled vegetable on a whole-wheat crust. Sydney is working the front of the dining room. You get the back.”

“Lucky me.”

“You only need to stay through the dinner rush,” Gemma promised. “After that you can get back to...whatever.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” he told her, pretending that “whatever” was something other than a Yankees–Red Sox game on television.

He understood why she’d called. Within half an hour, both he and Sydney were beating a steady path from the kitchen to the dining room and back again. He’d forgotten how much he’d once enjoyed this interaction with the customers, hearing their rave reviews of the food, answering their inquiries about his grandparents and other family members. There was one screwup: the sous chef put fusilli instead of rotini with Mrs. DiCenzo’s chicken Parm, but the error was quickly rectified and the customer’s displeasure alleviated by a complimentary serving of tiramisu.

He was delivering two large pizzas to a family of six—regular Saturday-night customers—when he saw them walk in. Jordyn and her sisters. And, as usual when he saw the stunningly beautiful middle Garrett sister, his heart skipped a beat.

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