Working with him on a chocolate festival would help her find out if he still liked her. Since returning to town, she’d seen him all of once: at Sarah’s funeral. He hadn’t been anything but friendly and compassionate, not that she would have expected or wanted anything else at the time.
She wasn’t sure how well O’Connor’s was doing. Beer sales were his gold standard, she knew from past visits. His takeout food likely wasn’t going to cut it. Everyone knew the menu was tired. And his outdoor dining was coming to a close as winter wrapped her cloak around the Hudson River Valley.
Convincing him should be a piece of cake. Dark chocolate, of course.
Chapter 2
Hank stared at the books spread out on the corner table before him. The irony of the table he’d chosen wasn’t lost on him. He was literally backed into a corner. No ands, ifs, or buts about it. He’d been in finance before he’d taken over the pub, so he knew from experience that no amount of creative financing was going to keep him afloat. Only one thing would work: getting more customers in.
Thank God he’d hired his best friend to take over as bartender. Hank needed to focus on his impossible task—keeping the pub open—and Vinnie had proven a reliable draw. People came in because they liked him, and because they were loyal to his family’s now-closed restaurant, Two Sisters. The boost in business wasn’t enough, but it was something, and having his friend around boosted his spirits.
Which was why he had to make damn sure Vinnie never found out that he couldn’t afford his salary and was paying for it out of his personal savings.
Vinnie Scorsese and he went back to kindergarten at St. Mary’s of Perpetual Peace, where they became friends over sharing their lunch. Vinnie had brought lasagna and Hank leftover bangers and mash, both from their family’s restaurants. They’d been inseparable from then on.
They weren’t supposed to like each other, what with Hank being Irish American and Vinnie Italian American and the fact that their families had competing restaurants in the same small town. There were still enough ethnic jokes and sore feelings between the two communities that it caused a stir when two people like them formed a solid bond.
New York was a weird place that way. New York City was full of old neighborhoods dating back to the early immigrants, something that had leaked into Orion, and their parents’ generation had opinions as strong—and occasionally as close-minded—as their forefathers. He figured it was what made New Yorkers such characters.
His dad was a strict traditionalist. An Irish pub needed to serve Irish beer, Irish whiskey, and Irish coffee—never a glass of prosecco or a Tuscan Chianti—and foods like Irish stew, brown bread, shepherd’s pie, and bangers and mash. Irish music and bands were the only kind of music to play over the speakers.
Hank was less hard-line about those things, but he loved O’Connor’s for many of the same reasons his dad did. It was a true neighborhood bar, the kind of place where people formed connections. During his time working in Manhattan, he’d gone to the same bar three times in two weeks, and the bartender still hadn’t recognized him.
O’Connor’s was never going to be like that.
Vinnie got that. He understood that people didn’t just come in for food or drinks: they wanted a bit of comfort. A touch of home. Hank’s dad was supposed to be retired, but he was still making plenty of noise about Hank’s decision to hire Vinnie, who kept playing old Dean Martin and Louis Prima songs in an Irish pub. Too bad. The customers loved it, especially when Vinnie sang along in his spectacular voice, and Hank’s first publican rule was to give the people what they wanted.
Maybe he should turn on some Dean Martin himself today. The restaurant was feeling pretty flat after another weak lunch crowd—sure, it was Tuesday, and they’d never been the best, but still…
It would take a freaking miracle to keep the pub open longer than two months.
Then the air changed, and the hairs on Hank’s arms rose as if the wind were calling them to attention.
His gaze swiveled to the door, taking in their beautiful, long-legged visitor.
Alice Bailey.
He’d been giving her space after Sarah’s funeral. Between losing a close friend and opening a shop, he’d figured she had a ton on her plate. So he’d stayed away, figuring he’d check in with her after they opened. Yet she’d come to him. The very act seemed like its own sign, and he let his eyes cruise over her features.
Hank’s mouth went dry. Even with her navy mask on, she was a knockout. Her big expressive brown eyes were lit up with her usual good humor, her short curly hair framing a sweetheart-shaped face. Her trim body was clad in jeans topped off with a long-sleeved white T-shirt that said in gold, “Dark Chocolate: You Are Our Only Hope; The House of Hope & Chocolate; Orion, New York.” The Star Wars reference reminded him of talking movies with her over beer the night of their kiss.
He missed seeing her mouth, he realized.
Too bad she’d been working around the world last year because he would have pursued her hard, something he hadn’t thought possible after his divorce. Now he had nothing to offer her but gloomy moods and debt.
Still, he thought about that kiss all the time.
Her very existence demanded it somehow, whether she was halfway around the world or halfway up Main Street. He’d often thought of her, especially on the dark, lonely nights of the early pandemic. Part of it was because she was Alice—the kind of person whose vibrancy left a mark—and part of it was because she was the last woman he’d kissed before the world was upended.
“Alice!” Vinnie was already gesturing open-armed in that totally charming Italian way of his. “Welcome! Come in. Come in. The kitchen is closed, but I’ll make you a burger if you’re hungry.”
“I’d never ask for such a favor, Vinnie,” she said, waving her hand in response in that down-to-earth way of hers that was so appealing. “I’m here to talk to Hank. But first, seriously, Vinnie… How is it that every time I see you walking past our shop you’re wearing such fine threads? Milan has nothing on you, my friend.”
Vinnie strolled out from behind the bar, tugging on the red suspenders over his black shirt, which went perfectly with the black and white pin-striped slacks and shiny black shoes. He spun in a circle on his toes like an extra in a Bruno Mars video, making Alice clap. “If you ever see me wearing sweatpants, you might as well put me down. Covid isn’t going to stop me from dressing like a gentleman. Although it is stopping me from raising your hand to my lips in welcome, senorina, so we’ll just have to mime it instead. If you’ll follow my lead…”
Hank found himself laughing as Vinnie playfully extended his hand to Alice at the proper social distance, and she held out hers in turn. Together they managed to complete the romantic mime, Vinnie pretending to lift her hand to his mask. “Bellissima.”
“Grazie,” she responded in perfect Italian, and then Vinnie launched excitedly into more Italian, with Alice gesturing with her hands like they were on the streets of Rome.
Alice was proficient in numerous languages, he knew. She spoke Italian to Vinnie, Spanish to their other good friend, Baker Malloy, who ran the Coffee Roastery, and he’d walked past Alice’s shop one day and heard her through the open door, slipping in and out of German and French with her business partner, Clifton Hargreaves.