As predicted, there was already a sizable crowd at Bocce, but Connor and I managed to squeeze in at the bar and order a glass of wine while we waited.
“I had no idea Cottonwood had this kind of nightlife,” he said, gazing around at the packed restaurant in some amusement.
“’Cause we’re just a bunch of hicks, right?”
He gave me a pained look. “That’s not what I meant.”
I sipped some of my malbec before replying. “No, I was just teasing. Bocce’s gotten written up in some pretty big magazines and newspapers, so a lot of people on vacation make a special effort to come here. Kind of sucks for us locals, but what do you do?”
“Go somewhere else?”
“You’ll retract that statement once you’ve had their mushroom pizza.”
Green eyes danced at me. I noticed one of the waitresses giving Connor the
