New Year Hearts

"A guy on line three insists on speaking with you," the hostess said.

"We're in the middle of the dinner hour and swamped with orders."

"It's Lorenzo Rossi."

"The meteorologist from the six o'clock news? Why? Is he forecasting another thunderstorm?" Julie asked. "Two weeks ago he panicked the entire community when he raised an alarm about a dangerous storm with potential flood warning, and his forecast was incorrect. We closed early, and the storm bypassed our area."

"Give him credit. He gets the weather right some of the time." The hostess giggled, which was odd. Usually, she was proper and polite, but Julie attributed the giggling to the fact that Lorenzo Rossi was drop-dead gorgeous.

"Shall I tell him to phone back after we close at ten?" the hostess suggested.

Rapidly, Julie considered her options.

Perhaps he was calling to promote her restaurant on TV? After The Pasta Junction's recent less-than-stellar review by the new food critic in Bloomingfield, the positive endorsement from Lorenzo might be a bonus.

"Put him through," Julie said.

"Anything you say, boss."

Julie grinned and accepted the call.

"Julie Elliot?" Lorenzo's voice was deep and familiar, sounding exactly like the man she watched at the end of the day on the television station's website. Instantly, her mind conjured up his handsome face, the black wavy hair and his vivid blue eyes. Similar to his fellow newsmen who wore sport coats and dress pants, Lorenzo clicked it up a notch and wore classic, three-piece suits. And his tone—strong and masculine, with a slight Italian accent.

Julie cupped the phone to her ear. "Yes, this is she."

"My name is Lorenzo Rossi."

"What can I do for you, Mr. Rossi?"

"I'm calling about New Year's Day. Your restaurant is one of the few places in town that are open."

"Christmas and New Years are special occasions. I'm happy to give families and friends the opportunity to dine out together." Plus, the decision to remain open on those holidays had proved profitable. "We'd love to have you join us here at The Pasta Junction. I'll switch you back to the hostess to make a reservation."

"I'd like to book a first-wedding-anniversary dinner."

"The front desk will confirm the number of people in your party."

"Also, I want to serve a special dessert, my grandma Gloria's Italian Cassata."

"My pastry chef can accommodate you." Although the chef had recently quit too, and the restaurant had begun outsourcing their desserts. She didn't have the heart to tell Mr. Rossi that bit of news. She didn't have the heart to tell herself it would cost $2000 to train a new chef.

"Do you know what a cassata is?"

Julie bristled. "A cassata is an Italian cheesecake."

"You're recognized for making genuine homemade pasta."

"Correct."

"Because of your commitment to authenticity, I expect you'll be able to replicate my grandmother's cassata recipe."

"Can you supply us with the recipe, Mr. Rossi?"

"Gladly." Silence prevailed for a beat. "I remember her cheesecake overflowed with chocolate. May I set up an appointment to discuss it?"

He requested an appointment to discuss a cheesecake?

She stared at the phone. "Certainly."

"Excellent," he said. "People rave about your professionalism."

"That's our motto. Professionalism."

Now why had she professed such a thing? Professionalism wasn't the motto, although it was a goal she tried hard to achieve.

However, he could easily reserve online, and email her the recipe. She told him as much, giving him the restaurant's website.

"I've checked it, but I'd still like to meet with you."

Julie's gaze wandered to Antonio as he chopped garlic for another shrimp dinner. An overabundance of garlic would overpower the meal, she thought. Frazzled, she cradled the phone and took a step forward to stop him.

"Miss Elliot?"

Julie nodded into the phone, a silly gesture because Mr. Rossi couldn't see it. "Yes?"

"Will tomorrow morning be agreeable? I need to be at the television studio by noon."

"Mornings are best for me too." And he apparently wasn't giving her any choice. Still, she prided herself on excellent customer service and quickly agreed. He expected professionalism, and she would comply.

"Nine o'clock?" he asked.

"Sure. I'll show you several catering menus, and you can choose which meal will suit your party best."

"Thank you, Miss Elliot." He hesitated. "I assume it's Miss—"

"It is." She'd never married, never really dated, except the one occasion when she'd fallen hard for a guy who'd made it a habit to dine alone at her restaurant. He'd flirted with her, and at first she'd enjoyed the attention. Then she'd found out he was married and studiously ignored him until he'd gotten the hint and not come around anymore.

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