“But gelato.” He was still aghast. “Not even once?”

“Nope.” I shook my head. “I mean, my mom’s family is Irish!”

Hayes tipped back his cup and gulped down the dregs of his beer. “Come on,” he said, pushing his chair back and grabbing his credit card from where the server had left it.

I stared up at him from the table. “You’re going to make me go get gelato, aren’t you?” I felt a smile sneaking out from behind my pursed lips.

“This is urgent, Franny,” Hayes said, folding his arms and squinting at me. “These are your roots! You can’t be Italian and never try gelato. That’s basically the same as never having pizza.”

“You’re not even Italian.” I gave him a sassy, disparaging look. “Who made you an authority on what I’m supposed to eat?”

He tilted his head at me, like he was trying to figure out just how serious I was. When I finally stuck my tongue out at him, he snorted again, that relaxed laugh still so unfamiliar to me that it made me grin every time.

“Wait a second,” I said, leaning back in my chair to give him my best analytical look. “You never eat sugar. What’s the twist?”

“I told you.” He extended his hand, and I took it, letting him pull me up out of my chair. “I just like to save dessert for special occasions.”

He gave my hand a squeeze and then dropped it, and as he stuck his wallet in his back pocket, I let his words soak in. He’d been saving it for a special occasion. For me.

Fifteen minutes later, we were standing in line inside an Italian bakery crammed with tiny wood tables and rows of perfectly sprinkled cookies behind the glass counter, their sweet smell wafting through the air. Old men in white paper hats and aprons worked quickly behind the counter, with serious expressions on their faces. Hayes looked at me expectantly. “Well?” he asked, his brows raised, hands open to the space around us.

“I love it,” I sighed, taking a minute to inhale the mix of sweet desserts with the lingering smell of espresso.

He smiled, revealing those dimples that made his whole face shine.

“And,” I said, “I’d been sure you were going to drag me to that trendy gelato place on Ludlow, so I am pleasantly surprised.”

He held out his hand for a high five, and instead of slapping his palm, I reached up and interlaced my fingers with his. Maybe it was just liquid courage again. But the alcohol was burning off, and this desire I’d felt to yank him closer and closer seemed to only get stronger. His cheeks burned, I could tell, their pink tint spreading to his dimples. But if he was flustered, he didn’t let on.