She pondered. “Chicken potpie?”
“The owner’s a friend of mine.” He pulled out his phone. “I’ll tell him we’re on the way.”
Thirty minutes later, as a valet whisked away the Lamborghini, Nico escorted her into the restaurant, which was decorated in an old French country style, with worn brick walls and heavy timber braces across the ceiling. The owner himself escorted them to a prime table beside the tall, rustic French fireplace, which, since it was July, was filled with a cluster of lit candles instead of a roaring fire.
“I am glad to see you again, Mr. Ferraro,” the man said warmly. “I’ll never forget how you moved heaven and earth to settle our real estate dispute.”
Nico felt embarrassed. “I pointed you in the right direction, that’s all. The right lawyer...”
“Not only that, you paid for it. We never would have survived lockdown if not for your investment.”
Honora was looking between them with big eyes. Nico was ready for this conversation to be over. He cleared his throat. “You make the best steak in New York.”
“Thank you.” The owner beamed at him, then turned to Honora. “My chef is already preparing your chicken potpie, madame.”
“You’re too kind.” Now she was the one to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”
“No trouble, no trouble at all, madame. For a friend of Mr. Ferraro, our menu has no end. But I fear it will take a bit of time to prepare. I am so sorry. I’ll bring an appetizer while you wait.” He bowed, then turned to Nico. “Your usual Scotch?”
“I’ll have sparkling water tonight.”
“Of course. And the lady?”
“The same,” she said, surprised. The man departed with another bow. She looked at Nico. “Are you trying to impress me? If you are, it’s working.”
He shrugged. “I did the restaurant a very small service, and invested a little money. It was nothing...”
“I mean that
you’ve stopped drinking.” Their eyes met across the small candlelit table.
“You suggested I stop,” he said gruffly. “I was smart enough to take that advice.”
“Why would you care what I think?”
His voice was quiet. “Your opinion matters a great deal.”
Honora’s eyes were wide as waiters brought sparkling water to the table, along with an amuse-bouche of fig, walnut and goat cheese wrapped with prosciutto.
As Nico sipped the water, Honora reached for one of the appetizers, then froze. Leaning forward across the table, she whispered, “People are staring at us.”
Looking around, he saw well-heeled patrons at the other tables watching them, some surreptitiously, others openly. Turning back to Honora, he shrugged. “It happens. Don’t worry about it.”
She looked down at her white sundress and sandals in dismay. “Is it because I’m not dressed up?”
“People are always interested in the women I date,” he said matter-of-factly.
Her blush deepened as her lips parted. “But you and I...we’re not dating!”
“They don’t know that.” Looking at her in the candlelight, he added quietly, “And neither do I.”
Biting her lip, she looked up at him with big eyes, her lovely face stricken. She leaned back in her chair. Her hand seemed to tremble as she reached for her water glass and took a long drink.
“This place is beautiful inside,” she said finally. “It feels almost medieval.”
“Not quite. That wall over there—” he nodded towards an exposed brick wall “—dates back to when the city was New Amsterdam. I celebrated making my first million here, after I moved to New York. The architecture reminded me of Europe. I liked it.”
“Because you were born there?” At his surprised look, she smiled. “The housekeeper told me. I have been in your life for over ten years, even if you didn’t notice.”