Page 49 of Fifth Avenue Flirt

“The usual?” Maria says, as she brings over a basket of focaccia that Beppe will have baked this morning.

“The usual times two.”

“Of course. Like when you bring Bray. How is your brother?”

“He’s very good,” I say.

“You bring him in soon, yes?”

“Absolutely.”

Maria leaves us, and I turn back to Avril. “It’s really good food,” I say.

“And they seem to know you well.”

“I’ve been coming awhile.”

“It doesn’t strike me as a typical Ben East Date Night.”

I pull the napkin onto my lap. “Right.” I’ve never brought a date here. I usually come on my own, but Bray also comes sometimes.

“So what’s the deal?” Avril asks.

“What deal?” I shrug.

“This place. You’re not telling me everything, and I want to know everything.”

I grin. “Try some bread, it’s absolutely insane. And this balsamic vinegar is incredible. It’s been aged twenty-five years.”

Avril’s eyebrows pull together. “Twenty-five years?” She looks around and sees an abandoned menu on the next table, which she swipes and then scans. “These prices don’t justify a twenty-five-year-aged balsamic.”

She’s spot on.

“Beppe’s all about the ingredients. They come first. That’s why the décor looks like it could do with a facelift.”

“Yeah, it’s basic. But even without investment into front of house, how’s he justifying twenty-five-year-old balsamic?”

I’ve not seen this side of Avril before—the all-business side. But of course, she’s in the hospitality business, she’s going to know that the economics of Serenissima don’t work. Not even Bray picked up on that.

“And these prices for this location? That doesn’t make sense. Yes, it’s busy. I bet the food’s great. But this place is small. You have what? Forty covers? On this menu, I bet the average spend is…” She pauses as she looks up and down the menu. “It’s definitely less than a hundred dollars a head. Even if you managed to churn tables to give you eighty percent table occupancy, which I’m pretty sure this place isn’t doing, the numbers don’t stack up. Then thirty-two…say, six times a week at a hundred dollars a head…” She squeezes her eyes shut as she does the mental math—and I realize I’m getting a hard-on.

Watching this woman do math is getting me hard. How did that happen?

“What?” she asks as she opens her eyes. “I can feel you looking at me.”

“You’re hot when you’re all business.”

“Stop it,” she snaps.

“I mean it. I’m getting hard listening to you.”

She looks me dead in the eye. “Do they launder money for the mob or something?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course not.”

Maria appears at our table before we can continue our discussion. “Beppe wants to see you. Can you say hello?”

“Of course,” I say, pushing my chair out from the table. “You want to come?” I ask Avril. “Beppe’s Maria’s husband and the chef.”