surprised—I never thought you were interested in his work.''
Wait staff bustled around the dining room, decorated in casual creams and decadent jewel tones. The line at the take-out counter stretched farther toward the door. Raphael was late.
I shifted, uncomfortable. Honestly? There was nothing I wanted more than to be a part of the family business. Making matches, finding true love, doing something meaningful with a gift passed on through generations.
But I couldn't. Not since that night when I was fourteen and talking on the phone with Marisol during a thunderstorm.
Life hadn't been the same since.
And fourteen years later, I still hadn't figured out what to do with myself.
''Let's just say I was persuaded,'' I said evasively, hoping Maggie wouldn't question my lame response.
''Am I interrupting?'' Raphael asked, standing at a respectful distance.
''Not at all,'' I said. ''You remember Maggie?''
''We've met a few times.'' He nodded in that old-fashioned-gentleman kind of way I found charming. ''Pleasure to see you again, Ms. Constantine.''
Maggie waved away his formalities and motioned him into the booth. ''Call me Maggie.''
Raphael nodded again.
Maggie filled his water glass as he set his napkin on his lap. ''I'll let you two get to your lunch. If you speak to your father, please give him my best.''
''I will.''
As soon as she was out of sight, Raphael used his napkin to wipe a spot from his glass. ''What?'' he asked when he saw me arching my eyebrow at him.
''You just can't help yourself, can you?''
''Do you think she'd let me in the kitchen with my Mr. Clean?''
''No.''
He leaned back against the cushioned booth and scratched at the stubble on his cheeks. ''Charming place.''
''You say that as though you have issues.''
''Do not jump to conclusions, Uva.''
''Mmm-hmm,'' I said.
He laughed. ''Don't start with the ‘mmm-hmms.' I'll confess I would do things differently.''
''Such as?''
''The colors, first. So feminine. I'd decorate more neutrally.''
''More boring, you mean.'' I loved Raphael with all my heart, but the man knew nothing when it came to décor.
He ignored me. ''I'd renovate so the take-out line had its own entrance—too distracting to the sit-down diners.'' Scanning the menu, he added, ''And I'd add a few more items to the menu as well. More flavor. And expand the healthy options, so men like your father would have more options.''
That was a valid point. My health-nut father rarely chose anything other than the Mediterranean chicken salad. ''It's a wonder you ever go out to eat.''
''Which is why I rarely do. What's this?'' he asked, poking the files on the tabletop.
''Possible matches.''
''For whom?''
''You.''
His eyes widened; then he winced, looking accusingly at the speaker above his head. ''The music would also have to go.''
Classical definitely wasn't Raphael's style.
A server came and took our orders. Raphael chose a fish-and-chips basket, made with the freshest cod and handmade fries, and I picked a gourmet BLT that had the most delicious roasted red pepper mayonnaise.
I grabbed the top file and flipped it open. ''Marcia Bigelow, aged fifty-one. She's a seventh-grade science teacher. Loves autumn, chocolate-chip cookies, and taking cruises.''
''Not piña coladas, getting caught in the rain, and making love at midnight on the dunes of the Cape?''
My cheeks heated. Lyrics of a song or not, I couldn't picture Raphael in that light. My father yes (despite the sand), him no.
Tells you a lot about my childhood.
''Don't mock. On paper she seems like a great candidate.''
''Who are the others?''
We went through the other two files, and he decided to try a date with Marcia.
Maggie bustled around, flitting from one table to another, from the cash register to the kitchen. No wonder she was so trim.
''How long till spring training?'' I asked Raphael.
''One hundred and seventeen days.''
I smiled. There wasn't a man who loved baseball more than him.
''Spring training?''
Wait staff bustled around the dining room, decorated in casual creams and decadent jewel tones. The line at the take-out counter stretched farther toward the door. Raphael was late.
I shifted, uncomfortable. Honestly? There was nothing I wanted more than to be a part of the family business. Making matches, finding true love, doing something meaningful with a gift passed on through generations.
But I couldn't. Not since that night when I was fourteen and talking on the phone with Marisol during a thunderstorm.
Life hadn't been the same since.
And fourteen years later, I still hadn't figured out what to do with myself.
''Let's just say I was persuaded,'' I said evasively, hoping Maggie wouldn't question my lame response.
''Am I interrupting?'' Raphael asked, standing at a respectful distance.
''Not at all,'' I said. ''You remember Maggie?''
''We've met a few times.'' He nodded in that old-fashioned-gentleman kind of way I found charming. ''Pleasure to see you again, Ms. Constantine.''
Maggie waved away his formalities and motioned him into the booth. ''Call me Maggie.''
Raphael nodded again.
Maggie filled his water glass as he set his napkin on his lap. ''I'll let you two get to your lunch. If you speak to your father, please give him my best.''
''I will.''
As soon as she was out of sight, Raphael used his napkin to wipe a spot from his glass. ''What?'' he asked when he saw me arching my eyebrow at him.
''You just can't help yourself, can you?''
''Do you think she'd let me in the kitchen with my Mr. Clean?''
''No.''
He leaned back against the cushioned booth and scratched at the stubble on his cheeks. ''Charming place.''
''You say that as though you have issues.''
''Do not jump to conclusions, Uva.''
''Mmm-hmm,'' I said.
He laughed. ''Don't start with the ‘mmm-hmms.' I'll confess I would do things differently.''
''Such as?''
''The colors, first. So feminine. I'd decorate more neutrally.''
''More boring, you mean.'' I loved Raphael with all my heart, but the man knew nothing when it came to décor.
He ignored me. ''I'd renovate so the take-out line had its own entrance—too distracting to the sit-down diners.'' Scanning the menu, he added, ''And I'd add a few more items to the menu as well. More flavor. And expand the healthy options, so men like your father would have more options.''
That was a valid point. My health-nut father rarely chose anything other than the Mediterranean chicken salad. ''It's a wonder you ever go out to eat.''
''Which is why I rarely do. What's this?'' he asked, poking the files on the tabletop.
''Possible matches.''
''For whom?''
''You.''
His eyes widened; then he winced, looking accusingly at the speaker above his head. ''The music would also have to go.''
Classical definitely wasn't Raphael's style.
A server came and took our orders. Raphael chose a fish-and-chips basket, made with the freshest cod and handmade fries, and I picked a gourmet BLT that had the most delicious roasted red pepper mayonnaise.
I grabbed the top file and flipped it open. ''Marcia Bigelow, aged fifty-one. She's a seventh-grade science teacher. Loves autumn, chocolate-chip cookies, and taking cruises.''
''Not piña coladas, getting caught in the rain, and making love at midnight on the dunes of the Cape?''
My cheeks heated. Lyrics of a song or not, I couldn't picture Raphael in that light. My father yes (despite the sand), him no.
Tells you a lot about my childhood.
''Don't mock. On paper she seems like a great candidate.''
''Who are the others?''
We went through the other two files, and he decided to try a date with Marcia.
Maggie bustled around, flitting from one table to another, from the cash register to the kitchen. No wonder she was so trim.
''How long till spring training?'' I asked Raphael.
''One hundred and seventeen days.''
I smiled. There wasn't a man who loved baseball more than him.
''Spring training?''
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