The restaurant Dean has carried me to is a Greek diner. It’s not the dark, candlelit spot I’d imagined—the fluorescent lights on the ceiling are garish and the tables in the booths are too wide for an intimate discussion. But Dean seems to like it, and he has bonded with the host over their mutual Greek-ness within thirty seconds of walking in the door. They shake hands, exchanging a few words in a language I don’t understand (Greek?) and then the host leads us to a table in the back. He gives us one last look before walking away, winks at Dean, and says, “Omorfo korítsi.”
“What does that mean?” I ask Dean.
“He’s promising the waiter won’t spit in our food.” I roll my eyes. “Are you fluent in Greek?”
He tilts his head thoughtfully. “Sort of. Not really. My mother says I speak Greek like a kindergartener. But I get by.”
“Have you been to Greece?”
He nods. “My grandparents used to live in Alexandroupoli.” “Alexand…?”
“Alexandroupoli.” He flashes his white teeth at me. He has really nice teeth—the perfect size for his mouth, and clearly well-cared for but not artificially white. I’ve always respected a man who takes good care of his teeth. “It’s a small city, especially compared to… well, New York. But it’s right by the water. Used to be a fishing village. I loved it there.”
“You don’t go anymore?”
His dark eyes grow slightly distant. “My grandparents died when I was in college, so… no, not since then. I miss it.”
I get a sudden image of a future with Dean in which he takes me to this tiny city in Greece and we gaze together out at the expanse of beautiful, shimmering blue water. It’s silly though. This is our first date. Why am I imagining trips to Greece?
“How about you?” he asks as the waiter drops glasses of water on the table between them. “Are you fluent in Italian?”
“Sí,” I say. “Nonna speaks better Italian than English, and I spent a lot of time with her growing up. She’s the one who taught me how to cook.”
“Ah, yes,” Dean says. “The great chef. I have to admit, I’m curious to taste one of your creations.”
A smile spreads across my lips. “That can be arranged.”
“What’s your favorite thing to cook?”
“My favorite?” I consider the question as I play with my napkin. Dean’s shoe touches mine under the table, but I’m not sure if he realizes it or not. An accidental or intentional touch? “Probably pasta e fagioli.”
“What’s that?”
“Pasta and beans.” I grin at him. “It’s a poor man’s dish—I mean, it doesn’t even have any meat—but the way my grandmother taught me to make it, it tastes better than anything in a restaurant. It’s my ultimate comfort food.” I hesitate. “I could make it for you… next time.”
He arches an eyebrow. “So there will be a next time?”
His foot is deliberately touching mine now. There’s no mistaking it. “Yes, I believe so.”
“Good.” He flashes that great smile at me again and his dimple pops. “Also, you need to show me around the city. You’re a native New Yorker, aren’t you?”
I nod. “You said you moved here from Chicago, right?”
“That’s right—the Windy City,” he confirms. He sounds like he has more to say about that, but instead he says, “It was time for a change.”
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Bad breakup?”
He blinks a few times, flustered for the first time since I showed up at his office. “Busted.”
Of course, I’m curious to know every detail. Who is this mystery girl in Chicago who gave up a great guy like Dean? Or was he the one to pull the plug on the relationship? Does he ever think of her? Does he stare at her number on her cell phone screen, resisting the urge to place the call?
But I can’t say any of that. Instead, I murmur, “I can relate.” Dean lifts his water glass in the air. “To something better?” I clink my glass against his. “To something better.
