Barbara McMahon - Bella Rosa Proposals

Angelo told himself he was relieved. The last thing he wanted at the moment was to take a trip down memory lane. So what if the place of his birth didn’t ring any mental bells? Why would it? He’d barely spent three years here. He and Alex had spent more than a decade with their apathetic mother in a Boston apartment building, and those memories were good and buried. That was how he preferred it. As far as he was concerned, his life had begun the day a scout from a small private college in upstate New York had come knocking at his foster family’s door. It hadn’t been the big leagues, but it had helped pave the way to them.

Lost in good memories, he took a moment to recognize the woman who emerged from the pastry shop at the corner. It was Atlanta.

She was wearing jeans, the faded boot-cut variety, and a ridiculously prim apple-green sweater set that did nothing to diminish her sex appeal. She might as well have been outfitted in skin-tight leather pants and a low-cut leopard-print blouse given the way his body reacted.

She’s not interested, he reminded himself. She’d made that abundantly clear. He was just starting to turn in the opposite direction when she spied him and offered a tentative wave. He waved back and though he intended that to be the end of the encounter, his feet had other ideas. They started off in her direction.

“Good morning,” he said when he reached her.

“Buongiorno.”

“Show off. You listened to Berlitz tapes before you came,” he accused, finding it easier to distance himself from real emotions by hiding behind teasing humor.

For her part, Atlanta looked almost relieved.

“Actually, I had to learn a little Italian for a movie I did a few years back. I liked the language, so I brushed up on it before traveling.” As she spoke, she tucked the little white pastry bag behind her back.

“What have you got in there?” he asked, craning to one side.

“N-nothing.” She looked and sounded nervous. Not nervous, he amended. Guilty. But he’d be damned if he could figure out why.

“Did you knock over the pastry shop or something?”

Her mouth fell open and she sputtered a moment before finally managing a full sentence. “Why on earth would you say that?”

“Because you’re acting suspicious.” He retrieved the bag from her hands. “It’s like you’ve got the Hope diamond stuffed in there or something.”

She snatched it away before he could open it. “It’s just a cannolo.”

“A cannolo?” All that subterfuge for a damned pastry? He said as much.

She sighed. “Okay, two. I couldn’t resist. They were fresh-made this morning.”

“Mmm. Nothing like a freshly made cannolo.” Angelo’s mouth watered a little, but it wasn’t the pastry alone that had whetted his appetite. “Were you planning to share with someone?”

“No. I bought them for me.” She laughed and some of her nervousness leaked away. “I guess that’s why I seemed so guilty. I can’t believe I bought one cannolo, much less two and just for myself.”

“What’s so wrong with that?”

“I planned to eat them both. In one sitting.” The last part was confessed in a near whisper with her gaze glued to the tips of her shoes.

“Is that a crime?”

“Yes.” She shook her head then and her gaze reconnected with his. “No. Of course not. Unless you’re Darnell.”

“Darnell?”

“My sadistic personal trainer. Since I’ve been away from Los Angeles he’s text-messaged me nearly every day to ask if I’ve been working out and sticking to my diet.”

Though he knew he’d regret it, Angelo allowed his gaze to slip south. The woman had a killer body. It was perfectly proportioned, even if parts of it were a little less full these days. “I don’t think you need to worry about a diet right now.”

“I’ve lost a little weight,” she admitted. “I call it the stress diet.” She touched a finger to her chin, the pose intentionally thoughtful. “You know, maybe I should patent it and start hawking it to young starlets as a backup plan in case my career never recovers.”

“That would be a waste of your talent. Besides, I like women with some curves.”

“Some curves.” She nodded. “But there’s a fine line, which is why Zeke wouldn’t let me…”

She flushed and didn’t finish, but Angelo figured he could fill in the blanks easily enough. It sounded as if the guy had done a real number on her. Let it go, he told himself. Leave it alone. He had enough problems of his own to concentrate on without taking on Atlanta’s, especially since she’d made it abundantly plain she was not interested in sharing a cannolo or anything else with him.

He hitched one thumb over his shoulder and took a step backward. “I should be going.”

“Yes. I should, too.”

“You wouldn’t want those cannoli to get stale.” He motioned toward the bag as he backed up another step.

“No.” She forced out a laugh. “It was nice seeing you, Angelo.”

He stopped. “Was it?”

His point-blank question caused her to blink. “I…I feel bad about yesterday. About…about how things ended between us.”

“Well, as you said, it was time for them to end. The game was over and all,” he drawled.

Atlanta winced. “That came out…”

“Wrong?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Actually, I appreciate your honesty.”

She blinked again, this time looking more piqued than perplexed. “I doubt that. You were clearly mad.”

Royally ticked was more like it. But he smiled now. “Whatever. Water under the bridge.”

“Then why bring it up?”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

Damn. She had him there. He glanced past her up the block. A coffee shop caught his attention. He told himself it was only the promise of his first cup of java that caused him to say, “I want a cannolo.”

“What?”

“A cannolo. I’ll buy the espresso if you’ll share your cannoli. It doesn’t even have to be a whole one. I’ll settle for a bite or two.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You want a cannolo?”

“That’s what I said.” He held his breath, half expecting her to state the obvious and tell him to go buy his own.

Instead, to his surprise, she said slowly, “I guess that’s a reasonable trade.”

The coffee shop was small with limited seating inside and only half a dozen wrought-iron tables and chairs on its speck of a cobblestone patio. Most of the tables indoors were unoccupied, but it was too nice a day to sit inside. Outdoors, only two were empty. They took a seat at one of them and waited for the server to come for their order. Angelo went with espresso, the stronger the better in his opinion, especially given the rough start to his day. Atlanta opted for a cappuccino.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” she announced when their beverages arrived.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

She pointed to the rich froth that topped her cup. “This is steamed whole milk and the espresso isn’t decaffeinated. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I allowed myself to have either?” She didn’t wait for Angelo to answer. “And a cannolo!” She pulled one of the pastries in question from the paper bag. “I would be eating two if you hadn’t talked me into being nice and sharing.”

She tried to hand him one of the tempting pastries, but he refused to take it. “I’ve changed my mind. I want you to eat them both. And I want to watch.”

“God, no! Please, Angelo. Save me from myself.” Though the drama of her words was definitely for effect, he sensed a nugget of truth—and perhaps of fear—in them.

He leaned back in his chair. “What’s to save, sweetheart? Everyone’s entitled to a little indulgence from time to time.”