Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [43]
Painting a serene look on my face to hide the excitement I knew must have been lurking there, I nodded. “Pasta primavera. Sit down and eat before I shove you down and spoon-feed you.”
Part of me was hoping he’d threaten to do something about my bossiness again, just like he had yesterday.
I wasn’t that lucky.
“Why are you so determined to make me eat?”
“Why are you so determined to resist? In case you didn’t know it, the thin, pale look went out with Byron and Shelley.”
“With girlie names like Byron and Shelley, they deserved to be thin and pale.”
He didn’t smile, but again there was that twinkle in his eye. I liked his quick comebacks. I liked him. And he was in no way thin and frail-looking. Just lean. And hard. Like an uncoiled length of steel wire.
But I’m Italian. My family owns a restaurant. If a man’s not eating, I take it very personally.
“Well, Simon Lebeaux does not. It is much too sexy a name to fit a tragic romantic poet.”
“Lottie Santori, on the other hand, suits the bossy, mouthy broad scenario very well.”
My jaw fell open. He’d called me a broad. Furthermore, the man was smiling.
“With that charm, it’s no wonder you have ladies lining up here to keep you company.”
“Who needs ladies when I’ve got you?”
“Whoa, zing,” I said, unable to prevent a grin, especially since I’d just been thinking the same thing. I wasn’t a lady—and we both knew it. “Who would have guessed there was a smart-ass under that dour, frowning face?”
“I’d say takes one to know one but it sounds so third grade.”
I laughed, liking this side of him. He was relaxed, leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb as he watched me finish off the Alfredo sauce and toss it in with the pasta and veggies.
Without being ordered again, Simon sat at the table, watching as I brought two plates over and sat across from him.
“Mangia, mangia,” I said, as I’d heard my mother say several times a day every day of my life.
Still smiling, he dug in and ate the way a man should eat my fine Italian cooking. I’d learned at the apron strings of the best, and if he hadn’t devoured the huge plate of pasta I’d put in front of him, I’d have been highly insulted.
Realizing his approachable mood was providing an opportunity to learn more, I decided to take a chance on getting him to open up. “So what is it you’re writing?”
“A book.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “A story about a scary hotel?”
He smiled wryly. “No, definitely not.” He didn’t elaborate until I gave him a pointed stare, then he admitted, “I write destination guides for a publisher that caters to the tourist industry.”
“Cool.”
“Plus a syndicated column called ‘Tales of the Traveler.’”
I sucked in a surprised gasp. “Oh, my gosh, I’ve read that column! The Trib carries it.”
He nodded.
“I haven’t seen it for a while.”
Turning his attention to his plate, he forked a heap of pasta and muttered, “I’ve been on sabbatical.”
Recovering. He didn’t have to say the word, I knew it.
But I wasn’t about to push it, so I instead said, “So you do a lot of research, too. That’s something else we have in common.”
“Aside from our ebullient personalities?” He didn’t even crack a smile, but continued to eat as if he hadn’t made such a huge exaggeration.
“Yeah. Sure. Right.” Remembering some of the paperwork I’d found in a trunk in the attic this morning, I said, “Speaking of ebullient personalities, your great-grandfather was apparently a real piece of work.”
Simon finished his lunch, put the fork on his plate and leaned back in his chair. I resisted the urge to smile when I saw him glance toward the pot on the stove. “Why do you say that?”
Not even hesitating—much less asking—I stood, grabbed his plate, walked over to the pot and refilled it. “I found some paperwork today that showed how he got controlling interest in this hotel. There were some copies of correspondence he exchanged with his partner while he was sitting in a jail cell in Pittsburgh.”
“Oh?” He was interested. I could see it in his eyes as he accepted the plate and started eating again.
“Zangara needed money