A photographer snaps a photo of us as we exit Graham’s car and walk to the entrance of Borelli’s. I try to act natural, as if being on the arm of one of the most celebrated players in New York is an everyday thing.
He curls an arm around my waist tenderly, and my body responds by melting against him. “The photographer is a guy from Page Six,” Graham whispers in my ear. “My people gave him a tip that we’d be here.”
Ah, right. I kiss his cheek, then smile for the next photo, being sure my ring is visible.
Borelli’s is an elegant place, filled with tables and booths covered in crisp white linen. Dimly lit chandeliers dot the ceiling, and a pianist plays softly in the corner. There’s a back deck, with double doors that lead to a stone terrace with a long narrow fireplace, currently not burning since it’s nearly June. The place is packed, and it feels as if we’re on display, especially when the room quiets as we follow the maître d’ to a booth.
Graham nods at a few people, ones I don’t know. He lets me sit first, then slides in across from me. I search his face, trying to see if the smile he wears reaches his eyes. It does, and I feel my shoulders relaxing. It feels as if we really are on a date.
“You like this place?” he murmurs as the waiter leaves with our drink order. Sparkling wine for me and a bourbon for him.
I nod. “I’ve never been, but I love Italian.”
“You don’t have to mash your pasta?”
“Andrew was exaggerating. Annoying little brothers tend to do that.”
He laughs, highlighting the crinkles in the corner of his eyes and the dimples in his cheeks. “You just sighed. Why is that?” he asks.
I hadn’t even noticed. “Truthfully?”
“I always want the truth.”
“I was thinking how happy you look. You have cute little dimples when you smile.”
“‘Cute.’” An eyebrow rises.
I nod. “Hmm.”
He leans over the table. “Tell me—why did you kiss me in the car?”
“Does a woman really need to explain that? Should I apologize?”
His eyes lower to half mast. “No.”
Our drinks arrive, and I take a sip, noticing that his brow is furrowed.
“What?” I ask.
He takes a sip of his bourbon, seeming lost in thought as his eyes intently follow someone or something in the restaurant. There’s a vicious look on his face, and just when I’m about to turn around and see who is deserving of such a look, he refocuses, smiling broadly as he glances back at me. “Nothing. We need a crash course in getting to know details about each other.”
“Agreed.” My talk with Jane solidified that I know very little.
He grins boyishly. “Let’s pretend we’re speed dating and just go for it. Ready?”
I prop my chin up with my palm and place my elbow on the table as I gaze at him. “Sure. Me first. I need to know how you take your coffee, your middle name, and your birthday.”
“Black, Bernard, and my birthday was two weeks ago, which is why the earlier we’re married, the better. I turned thirty and can inherit. What about you?”
“I drink caffeine-free tea with honey. My middle name is Grace, and my birthday is January first. I was a New Year’s Day baby. Now, hmm, tell me five things you can’t live without.”
“Fast cars, football, hanging with Brody and Cas, a good whiskey, and travel. You go.”
“Books, my family, Babs, Mason, and Ciara. Where have you traveled to?”
“Everywhere as a kid in the summer with my parents. Europe, Asia, South America. One of my favorite places is Greece: the Acropolis in Athens, the laid-back islands, especially Santorini. That’s the one with the blue-domed buildings.”
“I’ve seen pictures in books. It’s beautiful.”
“The villages have these crazy paths and quaint shops. Cats are everywhere—which you’d like, not me. Time seems to just stop there. Brody and I used to run around on our own, swimming in the ocean, chasing each other around the alleyways. Someday, I’d like to own a house there, right on top of one of the mountains so I can see the ocean.”
“Those were happy times for you.”
“Travel was important to my mom, Hazel. She grew up on a farm in Upstate New York. She didn’t come from money like my dad. Her parents died when she was ten, and she was raised in foster care.”
“That’s her name on your wrist?”
He nods as he shoves up his shirt to show me the flock of birds on his forearm. “Yeah, I got this to remember her. The birds remind me of her because she flew away too soon.”
“How did your parents meet?”
“She was playing piano in a bar in Manhattan. He says he fell in love with her the moment he saw her.”
“What’s your favorite song ever? Not just today but for all time?” I wave my hands around for effect.
He smiles, flashing white teeth. “Oh, that’s easy. ‘Stairway to Heaven,’ by Led Zeppelin.”
“Nice. Why?” I take a sip of champagne.
“First, it’s kick-ass as shit—the guitar riff, the organ, the lyrics. My mom used to play it on the piano, and it sounds fucking amazing on piano . . . it grabs my heart every time I play it. You?”
I cock my head. “Wait a minute. You play it?”
A sheepish expression flits over his face. “Mom taught me. I’d come home from school and sit down next to her on the piano. It’s where I felt the closest to her.”
“Wow. You play piano. See, now that is something I needed to know. I wish I was that talented.”
He looks down, his lashes fluttering on his cheek for a moment, and it’s so entirely sweet and boyish that my heart squeezes. I like this side of him, the unsure look on his face, the slight embarrassment at my praise. “I have a baby grand at my place. I haven’t touched it in years, though.”
“You can play other songs?”
“Yes. What’s your favorite song—of all time?”
I study his face, trying to mesh the image of him as a tough football player with a man who plays the piano. “‘Hey Jude,’ by the Beatles. Do you like art?”
He pops an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t know a Rembrandt from a third grader’s masterpiece. You?”
“I appreciate it but can’t afford it.”
“I like books. Always have. Thrillers especially. I’ve read Pride and Prejudice a few times, mostly because my mom adored it.”
Funny. He’s the embodiment of Darcy for me, arrogant and broody, with hidden depths of compassion. “Good to know, since you’re buying a bookstore. Okay, so, what are you most afraid of?”
He leans back as he ponders my question. “You go first.”
“Oh no, is the wee little football player afraid of telling me his secret?”
“Didn’t know you were Scottish.”