“It’s called Michelangelo’s. Great Italian place. It’s really small, but a lot of places in New York are. With so many people here, space is really at a premium.” Summer made an effort to keep her distance, physically, from Fenrir, after that hug. Had it really been that long? Surely she was not that starved for touch.
Better safe than sorry.
He nodded, his hands finding the slits in the front of his trousers. He left them there, finding the action comfortable. Pockets, probably. And built into the pants. Clever! He noticed her standing a bit far away, but thought nothing of it. Regardless he gave her her space. “Do you venture there often?”
“About once a week. I wouldn’t say they know me by name, but they certainly know my face! It’s a lovely thing, I’ve found, to go somewhere that you’re greeted and welcomed when you walk in the door.” Her smile was soft, reminiscent.
As if cued, a large, rotund, red-faced man in a white apron spotted them and waved vigorously. “My friend!” he called to the pair. “You have company! This is exciting!” As they came up to him, the burly cook dragged Summer into an enveloping hug, then thrust his hand out to Fenrir and boomed, “You are a lucky man, sir! This lady, she has discriminating taste!”
Before Fenrir could offer much of a response to Summer he was outdone by a rather booming accent. He looked to see who could cause such volume and his eyes were met by a stout man. He seemed to be dressed as a cook, and seemed to know Summer very well. Fenrir grinned to himself as he watched the little scene play out. He looked down at the outstretched hand and accepted it, giving it a firm shake. He nodded. “I should imagine she is. With beauty such as hers, she must attract many suitors.” He flashed a smile to her, dropping the man’s hand after the handshake was done.
Summer put her hands to her cheeks, feigning a blush. Michelangelo bustled the two of them to a table, patting Summer on the shoulder, and said, “I’ll get you a candle, more romantic.”
“Um,” Summer started, but it was too late. She looked across the table at Fenrir. “He thinks you’re my date.” She covered her eyes with her hand. “I’m sorry. He’ll be digging at you all evening now.”