“Da Nonna? What kind of name is that?” Emily asks.
“It means Grandma’s Place in Italian, apparently. It’s the best we’ve got in this little town, but I’m willing to bet it’s better than any fancy schmancy place in Houston.”
She snorts. “Houston doesn’t have it all. I can’t say I’ve actually been to an authentic Italian restaurant unless you count Olive Garden.”
I playfully roll my eyes before I get out of the truck and open the door for her. She loops her arm in mine as we walk inside. The lights are already lowered in the restaurant and candles flicker on each table.
“It smells amazing,” she whispers, as I tell the host the name for the reservation.
“Dr. Bishop.” The woman smiles. “So good to see you again.” The woman comes around to give me a side hug.
“How’s everything going?” I a
