“Yes, boss,” I say sarcastically.
We say goodbye, and I throw my phone onto my bed. I give my closet one last glance before grabbing my sparkly, black clutch from the shelf and slamming the door to the damn thing.
A man must have created walk-in closets. No one else would employ that level of torture on a woman once she’s filled it.
With my hair still wet and knotted on top of my head, I glance at the clock and note that I have all of forty-five minutes to get ready before I have to go spy on Mr. Quentin and his Black-Haired Bimbo. Cazzo. I tug the dress over my head, covering my sexy, black lingerie, and smooth it down my thighs.
I twirl in front of the mirror. Damn. My butt looks kinda good in this baby.
I should wear it more often. Although I’m not sure the knee-length, tight fabric would be conductive to climbing trees to spy on sex trysts.
I blow-dry my hair with one hand and apply my foundation with the other. Overall, it’s kind of awkward, so I drop the blow-dryer before I apply my mascara. I’m blessed with thick, dark lashes that are naturally curly, but hey.
Mascara is a girl’s best friend.
After wine and cupcakes.
And shoes.
Speaking of shoes… I put my Louboutins on and stare at myself in the mirror. I was right. This looks too expensive. Like I’m trying. Which I am, but I’m not.
Jesus.
I sit on the edge of my bed and push my hair from my face, looking at myself in the mirror. What’s my real issue with this date? Because Nonna did it? Because it’s one of her harebrained schemes to have me married by the age of thirty? Because I don’t have time for it because of work? I have paychecks to sign and files to look through and cases to approve and a murderer to find.
Or is it because the person I’m going on a date with isn’t the person I want it to be?
I resist the urge to slap my cheek to knock some sense into me. The person I want it to be? Is that supposed to be Drake? Sure thing—the man makes my body come alive like a fucking box of fireworks in the middle of a bonfire, but I can’t stand him. I want to wring his neck with my heels and shoot my cute little Glock into his foot in a repeat of my sixteen-year-old self.
So why the hell am I not comfortable with this date?
If this were multiple choice, I’d tick off all of the above. And scribble out the last before filling it in and scribbling it out and filling it and scribbling it out…
I stand, grab my favorite red lipstick—recently recovered from one of my Chucks—and apply it smoothly. Any more thinking and I’m going to be canceling with a phantom stomach bug or something. Which, come to think of it, doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Although, if I just suffer through this one date, Nonna will get off my back for at least two weeks.
And, oh God, those two weeks would be worth it…
I snatch my keys from the counter, shove my wallet into my clutch with my phone, and make my way out to my car before I change my mind.
I can’t shake the terrible feeling I have about this date, but that probably comes from Nonna’s track record. She, unfortunately, believes that any man who is Italian will be a good enough husband. Now I know my generation is a touch shallower than hers, but come on. I want to be attracted to and turned on by a man.
Anyone who brings me cupcakes is a bonus.
Why does my mind keep going back to Drake?
Fuck you, brain. Fuck you ten bazillion times.
I spend the next few minutes repeating that mantra in my head as I drive back toward Melanie’s place. The realtor opposite is still bathed in light, and I park outside the coffee and bookstore while I wait for whoever is in the building to vacate.
Three raps on my window precede the door opening and my blond friend sliding in. “Suzie Carter. Single mom, twenty-six, moved to Holly Woods six months ago when her baby daddy got locked up for arson. Got a job working for Quentin and Jones almost immediately and has been seeing Barry Quentin ever since.”
“You star.” I scribble that down on my pocket-sized notepad. “How does no one who she is?”
“She’s pretty quiet. Keeps herself to herself. Apparently, she doesn’t want to bring any bad juju to the town her daughter is in love with.”
“Makes sense.” I snap my notebook shut and pull my phone out.
Mel moves to open the door and get out, but I grab her arm when the door to the realtor opens.
“Sit,” I hiss, tapping the camera con on my phone screen. I position myself in such a way that I could be texting or something.
“Smart,” Mel hums approvingly as I snap a photo of Barry with his arm tight around his assistant.
“Shh.” I angle the phone slightly to get a better lighting. Early April is the awkward time of year where it’s not quite dark and not quite light at this time. Thankfully, it’s almost always the lighter side.
Which is exactly how I get the shot of Barry Quentin planting a smacker onto Suzie Carter.
“Holy shit,” Mel breathes.
“Welcome to my world.” It’s all I need to say as I tuck my phone into my purse again, watching as Barry and Suzie get into his car for what is presumably a “late night at the office.”
Again with the originality. You’d think there’d be some better excuses than that by now.
“Thanks, Mel,” I say, smiling at her. “Any idea who Portia’s secret boyfriend is?”
“No. But one of my girlfriends goes to pottery glass with her down at Marcie’s place, and their class is tonight, so she’s gonna ask some questions since Portia won’t be there.”
“Okay. I have to go deal with Nonna’s latest date.”
“Thought you looked hot.” Mel winks teasingly, then she gets out of my car and shuts the door.
I roll my eyes as I head down the street to the restaurant. Giovanni’s is the quintessential Italian restaurant, from the one hundred percent Italian family that runs it to the Italian-style décor and totally Italian menu. It’s my favorite place to have a date, and I think Nonna books it for that reason.
“Ahhh, Signorina Bond,” my favorite server, Alonso, greets me. “You are here for Nonna, si?”
“Si,” I sigh. “Your lack of surprise astounds me, Alonso.”
He grins, switching to his native Texan accent. My twenty-five-year-old friend totally puts on the accent for the benefit of the customers, but he’s as country as they come. “I’m still askin’ for that date, Noelle. She’s a tough customer!”
I laugh. “She sure is. Maybe when you start datin’ women, she’ll let you take her precious grandbaby on a date. Until then, she’s offerin’ you Brody!”
Alonso laughs. “I assume you’re with the handsome gentleman, Giorgio.”
“So she tells me.”
“May I say you look stunning tonight?”
“You may. But I’m still not settin’ you up with Brody,” I tease him, knocking him with my elbow.
“Damn,” he shakes his head. “What I’d do to make that man gay.”
I cover my mouth with my hand to hide a very unladylike snort. “Will you show me to my table? It’s one of Nonna’s famous appuntamenti al bio.”
“Ahh. Her blind dates. She did good with this one, my friend. Very good. He is over here.” He takes my elbow and guides me to the back of the restaurant.
And, uh, yeah. Nonna did good. She clearly took my moaning seriously, because this man is hot. Like, Italian-Texan hot. “Hello I have the genes and complexion of an Italian man mixed with the hardworking sexiness of a Texan” hot. Dark hair, dark eyes, light-olive skin, plump lips…
“Signor, this is Noelle, your date for this evening,” Alonso says with a little flair, encouraging Giorgio to stand and kiss my hand.
I smile. “Giorgio, it’s lovely to meet you.”
“And you, Noelle. Your grandmother did not say you are so beautiful.” He smiles widely, sitting opposite me.
My cheeks flush slightly. “Nonna didn’t tell you a lot, I’m sure,” I reply. “But thank you.”
“Can I get you some wine?” Alonso asks, looking between us.