“Gavin?”

“Hmm?”

“I think Miranda Storme will eventually forgive you, too.”

“God, I hope so. I broke up with her in an email.”

His brother winced. “Bad move, dude. She still looks into you, though. You probably need to really dig deep. Tell her all your feelings and stuff. Girls like that.”

Gavin laughed. “I’m trying. But I’m dealing with a ticking time bomb. She knows I need to leave soon, so she’s afraid to trust me.”

Brando crinkled his brow. “I don’t get it. Why start something with her you may not be able to continue?”

“I’m gonna take her with me.” The truth smacked him like a wet towel. Until he uttered the words, he hadn’t known how he’d handle the problem of his job. He had a few weeks left to gain back her trust. Her love. Then he’d ask her to come with him.

Miranda never had the ability to travel and see the world. He imagined showing her various cultures and feasting on gourmet food. She’d probably love writing for an international magazine about her experiences. They’d build a new life on their own terms.

Yes. This was a win/win.

“Good plan. But I don’t think she’ll do the second review.”

Gavin grinned. “You’re probably right. See you back in there.”

“Gavin?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

His chest tightened and he tried to make sure his voice didn’t sound girly. “No problem.”

Gavin shut the door behind him.

…

He had saved a life.

Miranda sipped her Chianti in the new lounge and let the lyrics of Tony Bennett soothe her ears. The way Gavin reacted to the crisis gave her a glimpse of both the new and old Gavin. Smoothly in control, he was still able to wrest the lead in a situation and follow it through. That part never surprised her.

It was the other half. His true humbleness from the gesture. In the past, he wore his arrogance like a cloak, sure of himself in every area. The way he quickly hurried after his brother and didn’t linger on his current hero status told her he’d changed.

Which did not bode well for her decision to never see him again.

A familiar voice jolted her thoughts.

“Miranda Eats?”

Her gaze flew up to a face she would have rather avoided. Especially tonight. “Allison Speaks.” She practically growled the word of her die-hard competitor. The woman hated her and focused her mission on sabotaging Miranda’s career. Allison Wheaton, food critic extraordinaire and mortal enemy, stood before her. Her proper appearance even on a Friday evening bespoke a woman always on the hunt for the next great find. Her signature black consisted of a pencil skirt, proper pumps, and a silk blouse. Elegant, understated, sophisticated. Too bad her dark eyes were flat and mean as a shark about to bite.

“Slumming, Storme?”

“Following me again, Wheaton?” she drawled.

The woman drew herself up and flicked her a cold glance. “As if. We were at the Met and decided to stop for a drink.”

Interest stirred. “Pagliacci?”

“Yes. It was divine, as I thought.”

“How was the final arietta?” The opera was her second favorite, haunting and constructed for the real diehards of opera. Its earthy, raw nature bespoke its Italian heritage, and the tragic ending always gave her sleepless nights.

Allison lost her edge for a moment and sighed. “Breathtaking. Canio has a voice as dark and deep as bittersweet chocolate. And Nedda is able to linger and lengthen a note for what seemed like decades. I’m so ruined I needed other music to drown out her voice.”

Miranda made a mental note to get tickets no matter who she dragged with her. “Well, Tony Bennett should accomplish the feat.”

Her nose twitched. “Not really. I’m not sure how I feel about this brand new lounge. I see the overall concept to achieve but don’t think it works.”

Protectiveness roared up. “I think it’s exactly what’s needed in this area. A combination of old and new world we rarely see.”

“You trashed this place. What are you doing here?”

“None of your business. Go find your own restaurants to trash.” Her gaze settled on the man walking up behind her. “Are you still with that dirtbag?”

Allison sucked in her breath. Glints of rage spit out at her. “You’re just jealous he stayed with me after you threw yourself at him.”

Miranda clenched her fists and lowered her voice. “I told you over and over. He came on to me while you were in the other room. I kneed him in the balls and did you a favor by telling you. Even you’re better than this, Allison. And that’s not saying much.”

The famous French chef, known worldwide for his sauces and philandering, pressed a kiss to Allison’s shoulder and cut her a cold glare. “Darling, we should go. I don’t like to see you upset.”

Miranda snorted. “Good luck, buddy. She’s upset twenty-four hours a day.”

Allison stuck her nose in the air. “Check out Gourmet magazine’s issue this month. I’m featured.”

“No way. They’re supposed to run my featured interview this month.”

Triumph shone from her features. “Let’s just say I pulled a few strings and got them to change their mind. You’re on your way out, Storme, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Jealousy fought with her need to stay civil. How was it possible? Gourmet always booked months in advance, and she’d been counting on the publicity to raise stats for her new column. “You’re not going any place good, Wheaton, if you’re still with him.” She jerked her thumb at her companion, who stiffened. He hurried her rival out, soothing her with sugary words that meant nothing, and Miranda drained her glass. Adrenalin rushed through her, a normal response when confronting Allison. She stood up from the table and decided to hunt down Gavin to take her home. She was exhausted and she needed to do some rational thinking about her actions. Did she want to see Gavin again? Her body slammed to life with the answer of hell, yes. Her heart cringed in mortal fear. She’d go home, make some tea, and think in a quiet space.

Satisfied, Miranda threaded her way through the crowds toward the kitchen. Then stopped at the scene in front of her. A group of three men, including Gavin’s father, leaned over a small card table, smoking. One of those smokeless fans had been set up but it wasn’t doing its job, from the trickle of smoke surrounding them. Cards flew through their hands and snippets of their conversation drifted toward her.

“Nah, the rat pack from the fifties were better than the sixties. Can’t mess with Bogie, he was the master.”

A man dressed impeccably in a wool jacket, leather shoes, and fedora gripped his cigar in his teeth and managed to spit. “Bull. Sixties ruled. Sinatra took over as main leader, and Dean and Sammy came to play. That’s who the public really remembers.”

Gavin’s father raised his voice and threw a card in the middle. “Agreed. Ocean’s Eleven brought the whole buddy movie into the spotlight. No one is better than the second crew and that’s the end of it.”

The last member in the threesome lost his temper. Dressed in a wife-beater T-shirt, old man’s pants, and footgear that resembled slippers, his face reddened in fury. “Did you just say that to me? Did you? Ocean’s Eleven did not make the buddy movie popular! Marlon Brando and James Dean brought that element of coolness into the fifties. Anyway, Bogie has always been named the greatest actor. Sinatra couldn’t act to save his life.”

Gavin’s father stood up from the table. His whole body shook as if with fever, and Miranda held her breath, not sure what to do. Rage peppered his words. “You will never speak that way about Frank again. Get out! Out of my restaurant!”

Miranda mashed her hand against her lips, caught between giggling and breaking up a cockfight.

Gavin swooped in. Red stains splattered his apron and crusted his black pants. Sweat trickled from his brow and matted the lone curl that spilled across his forehead. Stress carved out the lines of his face and bracketed his mouth. Fascinated, the scene unfolded before her.

“Okay, boys, enough Grappa for tonight. Pop, sit down, Cosmo didn’t mean it. Did you, Cosmo?”

The other man gave a humph. “Tell him to stop slandering Bogey and I’ll stop with Frank.”

Gavin plucked the bottle of white liquid from the table, and stabbed out their cigars. “Pop, cut it out with torturing Cosmo. You’ve seen Casablanca and The Maltese Falcon a million times.”

“Maybe.”

The friction eased. He waved his hand frantically through the air as smoke wafted to the main dining room. “If anyone here lights one more cigar, you’re outta here. I don’t need a citation or face closing down the place for breaking the smoke laws. Bogey and Sinatra respected and cared about each other. Fighting over them is a crime.”

Cosmo grunted in agreement. “Giovanni is right. I apologize. We should never pit the rat pack against each other. It is a betrayal of all that was good.”

Vinnie and Gavin’s father nodded their head. The tension eased, and they were once again a group of friends playing cards. “Let’s switch to five card stud. Ante up, gentlemen. Giovanni, can we get some tiramisu for the table?”

“Sure, be right back.”

Gavin hurried forward with a worried expression. “Miranda, I’m so sorry. I meant to take you home, but one of the new waiters got into Tony’s station and there was a slight gravy fight I’m trying to help clean up.”

“A gravy fight?”

Gavin groaned. “Tony is very possessive of his ingredients. One of the customers complained it needed more heat, so the new waiter tried to sneak back and put in pepper. Tony caught him. A food fight ensued. I need some ingredients from the storeroom, and now I’m down a waiter since the new guy just took off.”