Page 15

“Not at all.” I fell into step beside him, our shoulders brushing. The neighborhood buzzed—couples arm-in-arm, conversation, and laughter all around.

He stopped before a small storefront. Vesuvio. Simple sign. Soft light spilled from the window, the scent of garlic and rich tomato sauce hitting me as Kevin pulled open the door.

“Kevin!” A short, round man with flour dusting his apron greeted us. Thick Italian accent. “Good to see you! You’ve been away too long.”

“Mirco! It has been.” Kevin’s smile was genuine, easy. “I’ve got a reservation for two.”

Mirco’s eyes flickered to me. Recognition dawned, but his professional demeanor didn’t waver. Zero fuss. “Of course, of course. The table you requested is ready.”

He wove us through the packed, intimate space. Low chatter hummed, soft Italian music drifted underneath. Warmth radiated from the wood panels and glowing lamps. We followed him to a corner booth, tucked away, partially screened by a wrought-iron wine rack.

“Your server will be with you in a moment.” Mirco set down menus. “Enjoy, gentlemen.”

He bustled off. I slid onto the worn leather banquette, raising an eyebrow at Kevin. “Special table?”

He shrugged. A hint of color rising on his cheeks again, even in this low light. “Might have called ahead and asked for something... out of the way.”

Contentment bloomed in my chest as I picked up the heavy menu. “Most places try to seat me by the window so the passersby can see that someone from the Blizzard is having a meal in their establishment.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m usually sitting up front when I’m here.” Kevin met my gaze across the small table, his expression serious. “Tonight’s about us. Not about being Blizzard players.”

My throat tightened. “Appreciate that.”

Our server arrived, took our drink order. Kevin selected a bottle of Sangiovese.

I was transfixed on Kevin, taking in every aspect of him, from how the candlelight reflected in his eyes to how his sweater clung to his shoulders and chest.

“What?” He caught me staring. That half-smile quirked his lips.

I traced the condensation on my water glass. “It’s nice being here. Seeing you like this. Off the ice. Away from our places.”

His smile widened. He reached across the table to brush his fingers against mine. Goosebumps formed up my arm. “Same.” His eyes sparkled. “Gotta admit, though, I like all the versions of you so far.”

The wine arrived. The server poured, swirled, offered the cork. Kevin did the honors of sampling the selection. Once he approved, I got a taste. He’d picked an excellent one. Rich, dark cherry notes, along with some rosemary and sage.

I settled back against the banquette. “So you’re a regular? Mirco seems to adore you.”

“Found it my first week in the city. Came in alone, starving after unpacking all day.” His eyes lit up. “I got the carbonara. Swear to god, I almost proposed.”

I nearly choked on my wine, laughing. “High praise. Especially from a Minnesota boy raised on hotdish.”

“Hey now, don’t knock the best comfort food. Excellent food is universal.” He lifted his glass, the dark liquid catching the light. “And excellent company.”

We ordered. His legendary carbonara, naturally. Veal saltimbocca for me. Mirco swept by again, depositing a platter overflowing with cured meats, olives, sharp cheese. “On the house! For my friends!”

Waiting for the entrees, the easy silence as we nibbled sent comfortable vibes through me. But something nagged, needing to be said. I set my glass down.

“Can I ask you something?” My fingers ran along the stem of the glass.

“Anything.”

“This.” I gestured around us. “Being out. Together. You okay with it? I hope I didn’t do something to push you into this.”

He considered it, gaze thoughtful. Watching him think was becoming a favorite pastime. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “Honestly? It’s more than okay.” His eyes held mine. “Remember what I told you? I’ve never been closeted, just private.”

“I know.” Relief washed through me. “Just needed to be sure⁠—”

“That you weren’t forcing me.” His smile softened the interruption. “You’re not. If I wasn’t ready for this, I wouldn’t have suggested dinner out.”