The Bachelor Takes a Bride (Those Engaging Garretts!) (4 page)

“That response shortchanges both of us,” he told her. “You, because you’re worth a lot more effort than that. And me, because it suggests I’m fickle and/or shallow.”

She lifted a shoulder—a dismissive half shrug. “I guess time will tell.”

* * *

Of course, Marco wasn’t the type to turn down a challenge.

He went back to O’Reilly’s on Wednesday and again on Thursday, but he stayed away over the weekend. His absence was for both strategic and practical reasons. Strategically, he wanted her to have some time to think about him and, hopefully, to look forward to seeing him again. Practically, he had his own responsibilities at Valentino’s and he knew that the pub would be too busy for them to talk.

Monday night, he left his family’s restaurant after the dinner rush, arriving at the pub just before nine o’clock. Jordyn looked up when he walked in, and her eyes met his from across the room. When she smiled, he knew that she was happy to see him—even if she wasn’t willing to admit it aloud.

“Smithwick’s?” she asked as he settled onto a stool at the bar.

“Sure.”

He watched her pour his beer, admiring the dark green vest with the O’Reilly’s logo above her left breast worn over a simple white T-shirt tucked into slim-fitting jeans. He wasn’t sure if it was a uniform, but it was her standard attire for working behind the bar.

“If you want food tonight, you should let me get your order in before the Brew Crew shows up.”

He’d forgotten that the baseball team played on Monday nights, after which the players would head to O’Reilly’s for food and drinks.

“It gets pretty busy then?” he guessed.

“It gets crazy,” she admitted.

Half an hour later, he saw that she wasn’t kidding.

There were two waitresses working the floor tonight, and they pushed together several tables to accommodate the group that arrived. It wasn’t just the ballplayers—some of the men had their wives or girlfriends with them, and a few had even brought their kids. The ones who were single flirted with the waitresses—or stopped by the bar to order their drinks directly from Jordyn and flirt with her instead.

Since it was a little crowded around the bar, he took his beer and joined his sister and brother-in-law at their table, listening to their recap of the game—an exciting, come-from-behind victory over the Badge(r)s, a team primarily made up of local law enforcement.

For the better part of two hours, they ate and drank and chatted. Pitchers of beer were emptied, platters of finger foods devoured. He was pleased to see Renata out with her husband, enjoying a break while their mother watched over her granddaughters. When they finally left, he made his way back to the bar.

Jordyn was shelving a tray of clean glasses when he returned to the stool he’d vacated earlier.

“I thought you left when Craig and Renata did.”

“No, but I did switch from beer to coffee about an hour ago,” he said, putting his empty mug on the bar.

She picked up the carafe from the heating element and refilled his cup. “Four.”

“The fourth time I’ve stopped in here to see you,” he noted.

“It is that,” she agreed. “It’s also one of the digits of my phone number.”

He grinned. “Progress.”

“I guess that’s a matter of interpretation.”

“Which digit?” he wondered. “The first? The last?”

She shook her head. “One of the five in between.”

“It’s a start,” he said.

And possibly, Jordyn realized as she moved away, a mistake.

What was she doing? Why had she given him the number? Was she actually flirting with him? Encouraging his attention?

Apparently she was. Even more surprising was that she actually looked forward to seeing him. He didn’t come into the bar every night—and she didn’t work every night. But every night that she did, she found herself wondering if he would walk through the doors, and just the possibility caused butterflies to flutter around in her tummy.

Saturday afternoon—twelve days and four more visits to the pub later—she’d given Marco five random numbers of the seven that comprised her phone number.

“After two more nights, I’ll have your complete phone number,” he noted, keying the eight into the memo pad on his smartphone.

“
If
you can figure out the order of the digits,” she agreed.

“You’re having fun toying with me, aren’t you?”

“I told you I wasn’t going to go out with you,” she reminded him. “But if you can figure out my telephone number from the random single digits I’ve been giving you, I might change my mind.”

“That’s probably the most encouraging thing you’ve ever said to me,” he told her.

She shrugged, uneasy with the truth of his statement, because she knew that she shouldn’t be encouraging him at all. No good could come of continuing to play this game with him, and yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

“As for figuring out your number, it won’t be too hard,” he told her. “From seven digits, assuming no duplicate numbers, there are five thousand and forty possibilities.”

She narrowed her gaze. “Did you just pull that number out of thin air?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s a simple matter of permutations and combinations—”

She held up a hand. “I always hated math.”

“Then you’ll have to trust that my calculations are accurate.”

“If they are, that’s a lot of dialing,” she warned.

“As you pointed out a few weeks back—I’m persistent.”

“That was your word,” she reminded him. “I said relentless.”

“I can be—when I want something badly enough.”

And for some reason, he’d decided that he wanted her, and she was finally beginning to accept that she wanted him, too. Or at least wanted to satisfy the yearning that stirred inside her whenever he was near.

“You might want to consider,” he continued, “that you’ve finally met your match.”

Shivers of excited anticipation danced along her spine as she acknowledged his words might possibly be true.

Chapter Four

T
wenty years earlier, the Northbrook area had been considered one of the more “undesirable” parts of Charisma, but over the past decade, concentrated efforts to renew the neighborhood had been enormously successful. The storefronts that had long been dormant and boarded up now housed an appealing assortment of offices, shops and cafés, so that almost everything they wanted or needed was now within walking distance of the neighborhood residents.

“What do you think?” Marco asked his grandparents, his deliberately casual tone in contradiction to the nerves that were tangled up inside him.

They’d said very little as they toured the empty space that had previously housed Mykonos. The Mediterranean restaurant had done a brisk business serving quality food until the owner’s wife was arrested for selling other services in the upstairs apartment six months earlier. Since then, the restaurant space had been vacant.

Salvatore Valentino looked around the kitchen—barely recognizable as such since the ovens, fryers, sinks and refrigerators had been taken out and sold by the landlord.

“It’s better than what we started with on Queen Street,” he acknowledged. “But it needs a lot of work to turn it into something worthy of the Valentino name.”

“But you can see the potential,” Caterina said, her tone slightly more encouraging.

“I’d like to make an offer on the property,” Marco told them.

“So make an offer,” his grandfather said.

Caterina elbowed her husband sharply in the ribs and muttered some unflattering words about her spouse in Italian. Then she reverted back to English to say, “Our grandson is asking for our approval.”

“Our grandson should know we trust him to do what is right for the business.”

“I appreciate that,” he told them. “But I want to make sure you’re aware of the risks.”

“Such as the fact that sixty percent of new businesses fail within the first three years?” Salvatore asked.

“That statistic is exaggerated,” Caterina said.

“How do you know?” her husband challenged.

She lifted her chin. “I watch CNN.”

“Statistics aside,” Marco interjected, eager to diffuse the argument he sensed was brewing, “we should have an advantage in that we’re not opening a new restaurant—we’re expanding an established business to a second location.”

“What’s your timeline?”

“At this point, it’s a guess—but I’m hoping no more than four to six months, if we enlist the family to do most of the renovations.”

“With you working regular hours at Valentino’s and overtime here?” Caterina guessed.

“I’m going to pull everyone in for this project,” he assured her. “Including Nonno.”

His grandfather’s face brightened perceptibly; his grandmother’s gaze narrowed. “His heart—”

Marco touched a hand to her arm, silently reassuring her that he understood her concerns. But he also understood that it was important for his grandfather to keep busy and feel useful. “We’ll keep a close eye on him,” he promised.

“Mi tratta come se fossi un bambino,”
Salvatore grumbled.

“A toddler has more sense than you do sometimes,” his wife shot back.

Then she turned to Marco. “What are you smiling about?”

“Just thinking how lucky I am to have both of you in my life.”

“Don’t you forget it,” Caterina said.

At the same time, Salvatore said, “Suck-up.”

His grandmother moved to the window, looking at the boutiques and shops across the street. “It’s a more upscale neighborhood than downtown.”

“It is,” he confirmed. “Which translates into the local residents having deeper pockets and eating out more often.”

“Will you change the prices?” Salvatore asked worriedly.

“Not on our traditional pasta dishes,” Marco promised. “But we’ll offer some higher-priced special entrées and a higher-end wine selection. Nonna and Rafe will create the menu, if I can convince him to run the kitchen here.”

“You should hire Lana as a hostess.”

Marco frowned. “Who?”

“Elena Luchetta’s granddaughter.”

“We’ve got a lot of work to do before we can start thinking about hiring anyone,” he said with more patience than he felt.

“But she’d be perfect,” Nonna insisted.

“Because she’s Italian?”

“
Sì
. And single.”

He sighed. “You’ve got to stop dangling all of your friends’ granddaughters under my nose like they’re bait.”

“I will when you finally snap one of them up,” she said unapologetically.

“There’s no need for the boy to rush into marriage,” Salvatore defended.

“I want great-grandbabies,” Caterina said.

“You have six,” Marco reminded her.

“No thanks to you,” she retorted.

“What are your plans for the upper level?” Salvatore asked.

Marco turned to him, grateful for the abrupt change of topic. “There are two bedrooms, a bathroom, small living area and kitchenette.”

“Private entrance?”

He nodded.

“Could generate some rental income,” his grandfather noted.

Marco had considered that possibility. “Or we could renovate it to offer private event rooms.”

“We already do that.”

He shook his head. “We host group events—bridal and baby showers, engagement and birthday parties. I was thinking of promoting the space for more intimate gatherings and private celebrations.”

“Intimate and private sounds like what got this place shut down,” Salvatore warned.

Marco choked on a laugh. “I was thinking of something like dinner for two—to celebrate wedding anniversaries or set the stage for marriage proposals.”

Caterina sniffed. “What do you know about proposals?”

“I know that if and when I finally meet the right woman, it would be nice to have a romantic—and private—setting in which to pop the question.”

“Or to celebrate a sixty-fifth anniversary,” Salvatore said, lifting his wife’s hand to brush his lips over the back of it.

“If we make it to sixty-five years,” she told him, a teasing glint in her eyes, “I don’t want a private dinner. I want a big party—
una grande festa
.”

“And I want whatever you want,” her husband assured her.

“Now who’s the suck-up?” Marco said.

His grandfather just grinned.

“So we’re going to put in an offer?”

“If you’re really sure you want to do this,” Caterina said.

“We’ve been planning it for two years,” he reminded her.

“I know. I just wish...”

“What do you wish?” he prompted gently.

“That you didn’t have so much time to devote to this endeavor.”

“I don’t understand,” he admitted. “Are you saying that you don’t want to expand?”

“No—I’m saying that you need
equilibrio
in your life. Not just work, work, work all the time. You need
romanticismo
.”

“Right now, I need to get in touch with the real estate agent,” he said.

“And we need to get over to the restaurant,” Salvatore reminded his wife.

Caterina nodded. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

He bent down to kiss both of her cheeks, gave his grandfather a quick hug, then walked them to the door.

Looking around the empty, dusty room, there was no denying that it needed a lot of work, but most of it was cosmetic. The wide storefront windows definitely needed a good cleaning, but he could already envision the gold-leaf lettering that would announce Valentino’s II.

It was also easy to picture the concrete pad between the door and the sidewalk as a summer patio, with wrought iron tables and chairs, and he made a mental note to look into whatever permits would be required.

Then she stepped into view, and everything else was forgotten.

* * *

Jordyn loved living in Northbrook. Almost everything that she wanted or needed was within walking distance, including Sweet Serenity Boutique & Spa, which is where she was heading for a mani/pedi appointment with her sisters. She enjoyed the monthly ritual they shared, not just for the pampering of her body but the time that it afforded them together.

Because in addition to being her sisters, Tristyn and Lauryn were her best friends. They might not always agree on everything, but they always had one another’s backs. When Lauryn got married, Jordyn was her maid of honor; when Jordyn was planning her wedding, she’d asked Tristyn to be hers; and whenever Tristyn was ready to exchange vows, it was understood that Lauryn would fulfill the role for her. In the meantime, they each had their own lives and responsibilities but they made a point of spending time together as much as possible—which was easier for Jordyn and Tristyn, considering that they lived together, and why they planned a girls’ day with Lauryn at least once a month.

Today they had planned to meet for brunch at the Morning Glory Café followed by manicures, pedicures and hot stone massages at Sweet Serenity. Because Jordyn had worked until closing at O’Reilly’s the night before, she’d opted to sleep in rather than join her sisters for brunch, promising to meet them at the spa at two o’clock.

The window display of Zahara’s caught her eye and halted her steps. Though her wardrobe was usually simple and functional, she was a sucker for fun jewelry, and the dangling cherry earrings were calling to her. A quick glance at her watch assured her that she didn’t need to rush.

Five minutes later, she walked out of the boutique with her silver hoops tucked into the zippered change compartment of her wallet and the red-and-green crystals sparkling at her ears. She might have resisted them if not for the fact that they went so perfectly with the cherry-red capris and simple white T-shirt she was wearing.

“Hey, Jordyn.”

She was just starting up the flagstone path to the entrance of the spa when she heard his voice behind her, and her heart started to race. Chastising herself for the frustrating and inexplicable reaction to his presence, she turned to face him.

“Hi, Marco. What brings you to the neighborhood? Or is this your usual destination for manscaping?”

He looked at her blankly. “What?”

She pointed to the sign in the window offering manicures, pedicures, facials, hair removal and body treatments.

To his credit, he recovered quickly, holding his hands out for her inspection. “Now that you mention it, I’m hoping to get something done about these ragged cuticles.”

Except that there was nothing wrong with his hands. They were broad and tanned, his fingers long and lean, his nails clean and neatly trimmed.

“Ask for Lori,” she suggested.

“I’ll do that,” he promised, and his smile—quick and easy—made her knees feel weak. “Actually, I was just in the neighborhood on business.”

She glanced across the street. “Business by any chance linked to the rumor about a new Italian restaurant opening up where Mykonos used to be?”

“You don’t strike me as the type of person who would pay much attention to gossip.”

“Which isn’t a denial but a deflection,” she noted.

“And proves that you’re as smart as you are beautiful,” he said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Jordyn saw that Tristyn and Lauryn had arrived. “And that’s another deflection.”

“A fact,” he assured her.

“What’s a fact?” Tristyn wanted to know.

“It’s a fact,” Marco said, encompassing both of the new arrivals with a smile, “that all of the Garrett women are smart and beautiful.”

“And you’re as handsome and charming as always,” Tristyn assured him.

He looked at Jordyn again. “See? Some women think I’m handsome and charming.”

“Some women are easily impressed,” she replied. “And we’re going to be late for our appointments.”

“Full-body massage,” Tristyn said, winking at Marco. “They give us a discount if we rub the oil all over one another.”

Marco’s eyes went wide—and then glazed over.

Lauryn laughed even as she smacked Tristyn in the arm.

“She’s kidding,” Jordyn assured him.

He blinked and refocused. “Oh. Right. Of course.” He took a step back. “Have a good day, ladies.”

* * *

Sweet Serenity Spa was located in a renovated three-story colonial revival home with different services offered on different floors. The lower level had eight pedicure stations in a circle around the outside of the room, usually separated by movable folding screens. Two of the screens had been removed so that the sisters could chat while they were pampered.

“So tell me about the hunky guy outside,” Lauryn said after they’d picked their polish and had their feet soaking in individual baths of warm, bubbling water.

“You mean Jordyn’s new boyfriend?” Tristyn asked.

Jordyn sighed. “He isn’t—”

“I’m
so
glad you’re dating again,” Lauryn said.

“I’m not dating Marco,” she said firmly.

Lauryn’s brow furrowed as she turned to their other sister.

“Well, he
wants
to be her new boyfriend,” Tristyn said.

“And I’m not looking for a boyfriend,” she told both of them.

“It’s been more than three years,” Lauryn reminded her gently.

“I’m well aware of how long it’s been.”

“Brian wouldn’t want you to grieve forever.”

“I’m not still grieving,” she denied.

“Then why won’t you go out with Marco?” Tristyn demanded.

“I’m just not interested in dating anyone right now.”

“I understand that in theory,” Lauryn said. “But the man knocking on your door is a mouthwateringly tempting reality.”

“And she’s the married one,” Tristyn pointed out.

Jordyn couldn’t deny that Marco was mouthwatering. And tempting. But she was more scared than she was tempted. Because in the few short weeks that she’d known him, she’d realized that she liked him. And if she spent more time with him, if she actually went out on a date with him, she might find that she
really
liked him. Then that liking might lead to her wanting more, and she wasn’t willing to risk anything more.

“How’s Kylie?” she asked, referring to Lauryn’s fourteen-month-old daughter in a not-so-subtle attempt to change the topic of conversation.

“She’s getting so big,” Lauryn said. “And so independent. Since she started to walk, she doesn’t like being carried anymore.”