John’s eyes darted down to Zack’s lips. For a breathless moment, Zack thought he was going to kiss him.

But then John let go of Zack’s jacket and took a step back. “Sorry, I forgot where I was for a moment.”

“Don’t apologize,” Zack murmured. “You don’t have to stop.”

“Trust me, I do. I have plans for tonight that don’t involve public indecency charges.” He cleared his throat. “Shall we get a drink here first, or would you like to go straight to dinner?”

Zack weighed his options. He could handle his liquor, and considering how nervous he was, a stiff drink might do him some good. On the other hand, he had a tendency to get too honest when he drank. He didn’t want to spend the second half of the date babbling about how gorgeous John was, or worse, talking about his family. He’d done that once to a coworker and had never been invited to happy hour again.

“Let’s have dinner,” Zack answered. “If that’s all right with you, of course. I’m starving.”

“Me too.” John waved toward a row of small, well-lit restaurants. “How do you feel about Italian food?”

“Very positively, though I have to warn you, no one has ever been able to top my Nana Gemma’s cooking.”

John started walking. “I had a feeling you were at least part Italian, judging from your features.”

“On my mom’s side,” Zack said, falling into step beside him.

“What’s on your dad’s side?”

Zack shrugged. “Pale Europeans. I’m like six different kinds of white, mixed together into a vague beige color. I think I have some Irish ancestry, but your guess is as good as mine.”

“I rather like Ireland,” John mused. “And England. And Scotland, for that matter, but not so much Wales, strangely enough.”

“I take it you’ve been?” Zack said in a casual tone that he hoped masked his abject curiosity.

“A few times, yeah. My family liked to travel a lot when I was a kid, and later, before I went to college, I took a gap year and went backpacking through Europe. If I ever claim to be original, feel free to throw that in my face.”

“I’m jealous. I’ve never been outside of America.”

“Not even to Italy?”

“Not even to Italy.”

John gave him a sidelong look. “Maybe we’ll change that someday.”

Zack maintained a neutral expression even as his stomach did somersaults. “Yeah, maybe.”

John must have seen right through him, however, because he turned the full wattage of his smile on him. “This is where we’re heading.”

John pointed to a modest-looking restaurant with a red facade, wide windows, and a hand-painted sign above the door that read Ingegnosità.

“It means ‘ingenuity,’” John answered before Zack could ask.

“That’s an odd name for a restaurant.”