from my ears through his sleight of hand, I told Di I was going to treat her to a night out at a little French bistro on the Upper East Side. I opened Teddi’s, cooked for the lunch crowd, and then handed off the kitchen to Leon. Quinn was, of course, with those Irish-Italian movie star looks of his, greeting each table and doing his usual superb job of making everyone who entered Teddi’s feel like a big shot. After the lunch crowd slowed to a trickle, he and I sat at the bar for our good-luck sambucas. Restaurateurs—at least Italian ones—are a superstitious breed. Quinn grinned at me, his blue eyes absolutely dancing—doing a damn macarena—as he handed me my drink. Quinn is my first cousin on my father’s side of the family so we have the same last name. He has long black lashes, that by all rights—if there’s any justice in the universe—should have been mine. But no. I have to apply five coats of L’Oréal’s Voluminous in jet black just so you can see mine, and Quinn gets to bat his impossibly full lashes at every woman who walks through the door.
