It’s dense and flavorful and not at all artificial. So far, on this trip, I’ve had carbonara, pesto, Bolognese, and lasagna. I plan to eat more. In fact, I may eat my weight in pasta on this trip. Today is gnocchi. It’s to die for.
“When the room gets quiet,” Marina says, “that’s when I know everybody is happy with their food.”
The sounds that go around the tables are mumbles and humming from people with full mouths. My gnocchi is heavy and cheesy and freaking delicious.
“How is it?” Marina asks me. The others are chatting amongst themselves now, and it feels like it’s just me and her.
“There’s no way I can finish this plate,” I tell her. “But I will be taking all of what’s left home with me. No way is this going to waste.”
She grins, clearly satisfied with my answer.
“Want a bite?” I ask, and hold up my fork loaded with ovals of dense pasta.
She hesitates, and it occurs to me that maybe she’s not allowed. This is her job, after all, she’s not here to hang out. Just when I think maybe she’s going to turn me down, she opens her mouth and slides the gnocchi off my fork.
Good God.
The move is sexy and sensual, and those two thingscombined make me swallow hard as I look into her dark eyes. My heart rate kicks up, and I wonder if she can hear it pounding against my rib cage.
“Mmm,” she says. “So good.”
I clear my throat and nod, apparently unable to form words at this point.
Again, when she grins at me, it’s like she knows something.
Maybe she does.
After lunch, we’re off to our last stop: gelato. Because of course, it’s gelato. You can’t end any meal in Italy without at least floating the idea of gelato. We’re walking once more—which I have to say is nice, all this walking—but the heat is oppressive. Again, not as humid as home, but it’s pushing a hundred degrees, and we’re all feeling it. Even Serena looks a little bit wilted.
But the gelato place is air-conditioned, and we all sigh with relief as we enter. Orders are placed quickly, because we don’t need any background from Marina on Italian ice cream, and soon, we’re all sitting down, eating happily, and my pistachio is so good I feel like I might weep. Creamy and dense and delicious. It’s when Marina points to a parking lot across the street and tells us that’s where her scooter is parked that I realize this is where we say goodbye to her. Her work is done, and we will catch our own ride back from here, and all of a sudden, I feel a wave of sadness that I don’t know how to combat.
And then I don’t have to.
“Hey, I was wondering…” Marina pulls up a chair and sits next to me as Robert and Serena debate politics, which I am staying way far away from for the moment. I try not to focus on how good she smells, like sunshine and fresh rain rolled into one, a walking dichotomy of scent. Her hair is in large, spiral waves, and it takes a conscious effort on my part not to reach out to touch it. “Would you be at all—”
She interrupts herself to clear her throat, and I see light pink blossom on her cheeks, and I wonder absently if she’s nervous about something.
Her voice is soft and low as she continues. “I mean, you probably already have this taken care of but, would you need or want somebody to show you around the city? ’Cause I could do that. If you wanted. No charge. I’d be happy to.” And then she catches her bottom lip between her teeth like she’s unsure, and sheisnervous, and it’s adorable.
I lean in close to her. “You know what? I would love that. Absolutely.”
“Really?” And her face floods with something. Relief? Happiness? Anticipation? All of the above? I’m not sure, but as she hands me her business card, complete with her personal cell number scribbled on the back in her barely legible handwriting—which I make a note to tease her about later—her smile is wide and her eyes sparkle, and something within me shifts. I don’t know how else to describe it. I can literally feel my world move in some weird way, like this is the beginning of some big change in my life. It’s weird and comforting at the same time, which doesn’t seem possible. I shake it off as best I can and meet those rich brown eyes.
Taking the card from her hand, I tuck it away someplace safe.
The ball is now in my court.
Chapter Four
I keep that ball in my court for a couple days. Longer than I should, really, but I think I’ve freaked myself out. It’s annoying, because I am a grown-ass adult woman who should know what she’s doing by now, but instead, I have the business card of a girl much, much younger than me propped up on my desk, apparently so I can stare at it in confusion every time I sit down to write. I am not prone to silly crushes or obsessions over women I barely know. I may write about those things, but they are not my reality.
That being said, Marina Troiani has been on my mind for days now, and that’s new for me. And it’s the reason I’ve been sitting on her number and not reaching out.
Because I’m not sure I should.
I don’t know a thing about her, least of all whether she even plays on my team. I don’t think my gaydar works in Italy. I haven’t been able to pick out a single gay person since I’ve been here, which is slightly worrisome. They’re going to take my lesbian card if I’m not careful.
As I sit at my desk with my laptop open, a very sparsely worded page on the screen, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Serena.
