Happy Mother's Day: Ready for Romance / Ready for Marriage. Debbie Macomber
told her it was nearly eleven. She’d been so involved in her research she hadn’t noticed the time.
“I’ve been in here all morning,” she explained, pinching the bridge of her nose. The words were beginning to blur in front of her eyes. Some of the reading was dull, but there were several cases she found intriguing.
He disappeared and returned a moment later with a steaming cup of coffee. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Take a break before you go blind.”
“Has Evan shown up yet?” The coffee tasted like ambrosia.
Damian sighed. “Not yet. But Evan comes and goes at will, or at least he has for the past few months.”
“Well, he left me some work to do, so he must’ve been in yesterday.” She paused. “What about him and Ramona?” She sincerely hoped those two were enthralled with each other.
“It’s too soon to tell, but maybe there’s some hope there.” Good. Damian sounded as if he really meant it.
“I want Evan to be happy,” she said, not sure why she needed Damian to know that.
“Exactly.” Damian smiled and got up to walk over to the polished bookcase. He pulled down a well-used volume. “Let me give you some advice,” he said, tucking the book under his arm.
“Sure.”
“Don’t skip lunch.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
He left then and Jessica smiled and closed her eyes. After a moment she returned to her research. A long time passed before her smile faded.
As promised, Jessica took her lunch hour and returned to find Evan searching for her. He sat down next to her in the library and reviewed her notes, asked a series of intelligent questions and made comments every now and then about her progress. More than once he praised her efforts. He made a few notations himself, and they spent the better part of an hour discussing different aspects of the Earl Kress case.
After Evan had gone, Jessica was exhilarated. Damian had revealed a keen insight into his brother’s personality by assigning Evan to this important case. Evan was dynamic, sharp and dedicated to representing this former athlete to the best of his ability.
Several hours of research remained, and although it was late, Jessica decided to trudge on until she was finished.
“It’s six o’clock and time for you to go home,” Damian said from behind her in the tone she recognized. It was the one he used when he wouldn’t listen to a word of argument. The one that swayed juries.
“I’ll be finished in a bit.”
“You’re finished now.”
“Damian.”
“Don’t argue with me, Jessica. It won’t do any good.”
She closed the book she was reading and stood up. Every movement of her body spelled reluctance.
“Did you take time for lunch?”
“You’re beginning to sound like my guardian!”
“I see you didn’t eat, otherwise you wouldn’t be snapping at me.”
“I did so—and I’m not snapping!”
“That does it!”
Was he about to fire her for insubordination? Jessica stared up at him, wondering what would happen next.
“We’re going to dinner,” he muttered.
“Dinner! But Damian, you’ve already—”
“Pizza,” he said, “the deep-dish variety. There’s a small Italian restaurant around the corner. I swear it’s one of the best-kept secrets in Boston.”
“Pizza,” Jessica repeated slowly and her stomach growled in anticipation. “Well, if you insist, and it seems that you do.” She reached for her purse.
They walked to the restaurant, which was nestled in the basement of one of the older buildings. The marble floors were badly worn, and the architecture showed that the place had been built in the early thirties. Jessica had passed the building a hundred times and barely given it a second’s notice.
“How’d you hear about this restaurant?” she asked.
“From the security guard. He eats here regularly and recommended it to me. I’ve never tasted better Italian food.”
The proprietor greeted Damian as if he were a long-lost cousin, kissing him on both cheeks and speaking in Italian as he nodded approvingly at Jessica.
“What did he say?” she asked when they were seated at a table covered with a red-and-white-checked cloth. A candle flickered from inside a small vase, and shadows danced across the opposite wall.
He shrugged. “I don’t know the language that well.”
“In that case you did a good job of faking it.”
“All right, if you must know, Antonio assumed we’re lovers,” Damian said casually, opening the menu.
“You corrected him, didn’t you?” she demanded, putting a hand to her chest. She could feel the color rush into her face.
“No.”
“Damian! You can’t let that man believe you and I …”
“You’re probably right, I shouldn’t. Especially when it’s my brother you’re in love with, not me.”
Jessica set the menu aside and leaned forward until her stomach pressed against the edge of the table. They needed to get this straight, once and for all. “I’m not in love with Evan,” she whispered heatedly.
“All right, all right.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m convinced,” he said, without looking at her. Whatever was offered on the menu had apparently captured his full attention.
“Fine,” she said, picking up her own menu. She was about to suggest the sausage pizza when a basket of warm bread was brought to their table. The lovely dark-haired woman who’d delivered it caught Damian’s face between her hands and kissed him soundly on the lips. Jessica must have looked shocked, because the older woman laughed delightedly. “You don’t need to worry—I won’t steal Damian away from you,” she said, then added something in Italian.
Damian seemed to go pale at the woman’s words. Jessica’s own knowledge of Italian was scant, but she knew what bambino meant.
“Damian, tell me what she said.”
He was silent while the same woman poured them each a glass of wine and brought a plate of antipasto. Then he sighed. “Lucia says you seem nice and sturdy.”
“What? Anyway, she said more than that.”
“Jessica, I already explained I only know a little bit of Italian.”
“You know more than me. She said bambino. Doesn’t that mean ‘baby’?”
Damian sighed again. “Yes. Lucia said you’ll make a good mother to my children.”
“Oh.” Jessica glanced at the woman, who was standing on the other side of the room, busy ladling minestrone soup into two ceramic bowls, which she then brought over to them.
“I guess we aren’t going to get that pizza,” Damian muttered after the soup was served.
Antonio returned with the bottle of Italian wine and replenished their glasses with exclamations of pleasure. Damian thanked him in Italian, then they spoke for a minute or two.
“When did you learn to speak Italian?” Jessica asked.
“I didn’t. I picked up a smidgen here and there