“Please?” Will said.
“You’re a terrible one.” Mama Cannelli turned to Harper, her eyes sparkling. “You watch out for this one. He’s a charmer. He gets his way with everyone.” She turned back to Will and gave him a kiss on the cheek, one that clearly pleased him to no end. “Grazie, Mr. Franconi. It demands a simple preparation so as not to overwhelm the flavor. I will return shortly with the delicious treat.”
“I’m dying to know,” Harper asked after Mama had left them. “What was that?”
“It’s a surprise for you, too.”
She shot him a mock glare at keeping the mystery spinning out—something he was very good at—as the waiter arrived, introducing himself as Antonio. The Cannellis were friendly with Will, and he was very polite and considerate. No cocky finger-snapping. Maybe she’d seen too much TV, where rich people treated the help like second-class citizens who were not even worth a thank-you.
But Will wasn’t like that. At least, as far as she could tell. Because as they talked over their wine and beer—a little more about his cars, about the amazing weather they’d been having, about some of her best and worst clients over the years—he managed not to say much about himself at all.
Soon, Mama Cannelli arrived with her simple yet elegant creation. “I have taste-tested. Magnificent.” She kissed her fingers just as Will had earlier. “Any garnish would be a travesty.” She placed a small pot in the center of the table. Beside that she laid a plate of toasted bread slices and set a spoon by the pot. “Mother-of-pearl. We must not influence the flavors.” She threw out her hands expressively. “Now eat.” Then she leaned down to Will. “The ravioli tonight is on me. And a bottle of our best champagne.”
“That’s not necessary,” Will protested, but Antonio was already popping the cork.
“One cannot have caviar without champagne,” she declared. “And now I leave you alone with your beautiful lady.”
“You brought her caviar?” Harper examined the pot filled with tiny golden eggs.
“I found this about six weeks ago. It’s Ossetra caviar. The golden color is quite prized. And, as a bonus, the fishery is known for its conservation policies, given that the sturgeon is a threatened species.” He picked up the mother-of-pearl spoon, scooped up the caviar, dabbed it on the toasted bread, and brought the slice close to her lips.
“Taste,” he urged.
The action was intimate. Sexy.
Her heart began to beat loudly in her ears. Just as he wanted her to, Harper ate from his fingers, her lips touching his skin. But the flavor that exploded on her tongue was far more decadent than caviar.
The most delicious flavor by far was him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Will felt an ache grow in his gut as he watched Harper taste caviar for what he guessed was her very first time. Her cheeks flushed as she chewed, savored, and swallowed, her tongue slipping out to lick away the excess.
The delicacy had a rich, buttery, slightly salty flavor. Mama Cannelli was right on with the preparation—no adornment, no garnish.
Harper didn’t need fancy clothes or glittering jewelry, either. She shone all on her own. Shone so brightly that he wanted more and more from her by the second. Not just a dinner out. Not just one hot night.
Will wanted her to stay and fill the empty spots inside of him. And so that he might also be able to do the same for her.
He knew that he shouldn’t let himself want those things from her. Nor could he argue with the voice of reason that told him he should let her find some perfect guy who had never seen or done the things from Will’s hellish past. Maybe he could have lived with the things his father had made him do. But Will couldn’t forget the things he’d done all on his own after the old man went to prison. He should have left the Road Warriors behind and committed to the Mavericks right then, to Bob and Susan, to his new family. But he’d gone on making mistakes for years. Until things had happened —terrible things—for which he could never forgive himself.
But none of those truths were doing a damned thing to make his desire disappear.
After he fed her another slice and relished the caress of her lips on his fingers, she said, “You’re not having any.”
“It’s better feeding it to you.”
“I can’t eat it all myself.” She selected a slice of toast, ladled on a spoonful of caviar, spread it, and handed over the morsel.
She deliberately kept her hand too far away to feed him. But he couldn’t resist wrapping his fingers around her delicately boned wrist and pulling until she was close enough for him to catch the crisped bread between his teeth. Biting down, he took half, stroking her wrist with his thumb as he demolished the caviar.