Shelby smiled warmly at the handsome Italian chef. “I’d love to know what you put in the marinara sauce.” Mario waggled his finger. “Not even for you, bella. My great-great grandmother would never let me past the gates of heaven.” “We can’t let that happen. How about a trade? I’ll bring you four dozen of my chocolate-chunk caramel cookies, and you give me four jars of that sauce?” With a smile, Mario nodded. “This is an excellent idea.” They agreed to trade on Tuesday, and Shelby picked up her wineglass with a satisfied sigh. She might be in a financial and emotional pinch, but the best things in life were sometimes easy to come by. She directed her attention to Trevor, wondering if, with his privileged upbringing, he’d taken that kind of thing for granted. “How nice of you to notice I’m still here,” he said, drumming his long, elegant fingers against the table. Impulsively, she covered his hand with hers. “Sorry. I get carried away by great food. Occupational hazard.”
