“Six. We always eat at six. You know that, my sweet cannoli. Nervous. So cute.”

As Bianca studied her, Angi pasted on a smile—not a nervous one either. But her finger trembled slightly as she texted him the time and told him he didn’t have to worry about bringing anything. Her mother had sat at the kitchen table and was furiously scribbling on a pad of paper, probably coming up with questions she planned to ask Gabe that would no doubt embarrass Angi to no end.

She hadn’t talked to him since the concert, although she’d emailed him several ideas for updates to In Bloom from an exhaustive internet search of successful small-town flower shops. After tonight, she was going to owe him a lot more than sage advice on stocking the right inventory.

Neither Angi nor her brothers brought dates to the family home very often. The last time Marco had invited a girlfriend to a family dinner, the poor woman had left in tears after their mother had grilled her about why she refused to eat bread if she could handle gluten.

It was a lesson learned for all three of Bianca’s children.

Sure, her mom had made an offhand comment about Gabe and Angi dating, but now it was real. When her father was alive, he’d made it clear that few men could ever live up to the standards he’d set for his daughter.

“Here is my list,” Bianca said, ripping off a piece of paper. “You’ll need to go to the store right now so the cheesecake has time to set and I can get started on chopping the mushrooms for the marsala sauce.”

“What marsala sauce?” Angi asked, gazing at the list of items her mother had requested. “I defrosted an enchilada casserole overnight.”

“We aren’t feeding your new boyfriend a reheated taco pie for his first time having dinner with us. You have to show him what an amazing cook you are. You know what they say about the way to a man’s heart.”

“I’m not trying to impress him with my culinary skills,” Angi argued. “Besides, he knows I can cook.”

“Gabe says Mom’s spaghetti and meatball tacos are his favorite thing.”

Bianca narrowed her eyes. “What is this spaghetti taco? We don’t serve tacos at the restaurant.”

Not exactly true since Angi had put the popular recipe she’d developed for the inn as a special on the Il Rigatone menu last week. She felt a familiar sense of guilt wash over her.

She’d specifically chosen to feature the dish on a night when her mother had gone in for a checkup earlier. Bianca was always tired after her doctor’s appointments so Angi knew her mom wouldn’t make a surprise visit to Il Rigatone.

But after the fiasco with the sausage balls and her mom’s reaction at the concert, she wasn’t going there again soon. “I made dinner at his house a while back.” She shrugged. “It was just a weekday night when you were at book club and Andrew had practice.”