She pul ed her thoughts back together, embarrassed to be caught dreaming over a future that didn’t belong to her.
“Dylan Hunter. Have you planned what to say?”
“Besides hel o?”
“I’m sure you have questions, but I think it’s important to explain about the amnesia because . . .” She caught him grinning at her and broke off. “What? It’s good to be prepared.”
“It is if you know what you’re preparing for. We don’t.”
He caught her hand, making her jolt with surprise and pleasure, adjusting his steps to hers. Anyone looking at them would think they were any couple strol ing to dinner.
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But they weren’t.
“Relax,” he murmured. “We’l make it up as we go along.”
“I don’t know if I can,” she confessed.
He stroked her knuckles with his thumb, tiny circles she felt in the pit of her stomach. “You’re doing fine so far.”
She had a feeling he wasn’t just talking about their search for Lucy Hunter.
The red awning of Antonia’s Ristorante stretched over the sidewalk, glowing from the lights outside and in. The bel over the door jangled as Iestyn opened it for Lara to precede him inside.
Red vinyl booths and crowded four-top tables, a scarred wooden floor, and an open pass-through window. Voices hummed. Dishes clattered. Smel s floated on the air, a rich broth of garlic, onions, clams.
Lara inhaled appreciatively and heard Iestyn suck in his breath behind her.
She turned at once, her nerves jumping, but he only opened the door wider, stepping back to let an older couple leave.
Inside, a few tables were clearing. A black-haired busboy who couldn’t be more than fifteen stopped with a tray ful of dishes.
His face lit with pleasure when he saw them. “Zack!
Man, why didn’t you tel me you were . . .” His dark eyes flickered. His face flushed. “Sorry. I thought you were somebody else.”
“Who?” Lara asked.
The boy jerked one shoulder in a shrug. Apology.
Dismissal. “Sit anywhere,” he said. “Hailey wil take your order.”
They found a booth near the kitchen, with a view of the chalkboard menu.
“Zack?” Lara repeated quietly when they were seated.
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Iestyn rubbed at the front of his shirt, over the burn.
“Who knows?”
“You don’t recognize the name?”
He shook his head.
Their waitress—young, blond, with a face ful of freckles—
arrived at their table. “What’l you have?”
“Do you have bottled water?” Lara asked.
“This isn’t the Galaxy. You can drink out of a glass here.”
Iestyn smiled. “You can even order wine.”
Wine was a bad idea. Wine belonged to celebrations and candlelit dinners, the whole ordinary dating world she’d never real y been part of. But just for tonight, she was tempted to go with the flow, to pretend they were out to dinner to enjoy each other’s company, to imagine that they could have a future together.
She swal owed. “Maybe . . . a glass of white?”
“A bottle of the pinot grigio,” Iestyn said. “A bottle of Sam Adams. And the swordfish for me.”
“I hear the lobster fra diavolo is good,” Lara said to the waitress.
“Wel , yeah, it is, but . . .”
“I’m not making it,” a raspy female voice shouted through the pass. “You can have the steamed lobster or the clam linguini.”
Lara bit her lip, wavering between offense and amusement.
“She’l have the lobster,” Iestyn said.
“One swordfish, one lobster.” A strong-featured Italian woman, with one of those faces that looked the same at forty and at sixty, appeared briefly in the pass, her mouth a hard red slash, her dark eyes snapping in satisfaction.
“Coming up.”
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“Cole slaw, fries, or baked potato with that?” their waitress asked.
“Cole slaw, I think.”
When their waitress was gone with their order, Lara met Iestyn’s eyes, resisting the urge to giggle.
“If that was Dylan Hunter’s wife,” he said, “more has changed than I thought.”
“Don’t mind Nonna.” The busboy appeared with a basket of bread and a bottle of olive oil. “Mom’s out of the kitchen tonight, so she’s feeling feisty.”
“Nonna?” Lara repeated.
His smile was quick and charming. “My grandmother Antonia.”
Lara squeezed her hands together under the table. “So the regular chef—your mother—would be Regina Hunter.”
The boy drizzled oil and herbs onto a thick white plate.
“That’s right.”
“Your father is Dylan Hunter.”
“So?”
“So?”
“Where is he?” Lara asked.
The question earned her a measuring look from those big, dark Italian eyes and another charming smile. “At work.”
“What kind of work does he do?”
The boy’s smile faded.
Iestyn’s foot pressed hers under the table. “Good bread.”
“Glad you like it,” said the boy and escaped.
Lara frowned. “Why did you stop me?”
“Because you were scaring him.” Iestyn’s long, strong fingers tore a hunk from the loaf of bread. “And because I want to enjoy our dinner.”
She didn’t understand him. Everything inside her was alight and alive with impatience. If this was the end, she F o r g o t t e n s e a 241
