Her face is hard to describe in that moment. She’s surprised, yes, but I think she’s also really touched. I don’t know her that well, yet, but I’m pretty sure she likes it, which thrills me.
“This…” She swallows and runs her fingertips across the cover, then looks up at me, her eyes soft. “Thank you, Lily. This is very kind.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, and a warmth runs through me as we continue to walk.
We reach the hotel too soon. “We’re here already? Well, that’s a bummer.” I say the words before I can think about them—stupid wine—and Marina’s grin widens.
“We can always do it again,” she says. “We’re searching for inspiration, no?” She catches my eye. “Have we found any yet?”
I practically swallow my tongue trying to keep the words inside and not let them fly out into the Roman evening. “I think we’re doing pretty well,” I settle on, and it’s not a lie. “But I’d like to do more.” That’s not a lie either.
Marina reaches past me and punches the code into the keypad on the door. The hotel’s front entrance is locked after hours. She holds the door, then says softly, “You know how to find me.” She gives me a kiss on the cheek—this isn’t an air-kiss; I feel her lips against my skin—smiles at me, then holds up the notebook. “And thank you again for this.” She holds my gaze for a beat and then turns to go.
I watch her walk away, and maybe Iaman ass woman, because that’s where my eyes are glued. Again. She turnsthe corner out of sight, and I practically collapse against the doorjamb as I blow out a breath.
Good God, the woman knows how to make an exit.
Chapter Eight
My pastry chefs have chemistry!
Well, at least they do for this scene, and it’s a relief. I’ve been writing all morning, and I don’t hate what I’ve written. That alone is an accomplishment I haven’t achieved in a while, and I want to keep going, but I’ve got a written interview I need to complete before the end of the day, I owe Scott a phone call, and I’ve got a Zoom meeting with an executive producer about one of my series she has questions about.
None of these people know how I’ve been struggling lately, and it’s kind of a relief to bang out nearly an entire scene this morning and not freak out about it.
Of course, the source of this inspiration wasn’t Italian food or even Italian wine. It was one Italian woman, and I’m not so naive that I don’t get that. What to do with it is another story entirely.
Because I want to text her.
I want her to inspire me some more.
Is that a bad thing? “I don’t think so,” I whisper aloud, and Reggie lifts his head from his place on the couch and looks at me with what I’m certain is suspicion. Or possibly judgment.
“What?” I ask. He stares for a moment longer, then sighs the most put-upon sigh I’ve ever heard and rests his head again.
“Nice,” I say. “Nice.”
I decide to put the pastry chefs to bed—not literally; they’re not ready for that yet—and take Reggie for a walk before I start in on my afternoon work. It’s hot again, no surprise there, but September is closing in and the weather forecast promisesslightly cooler temperatures in the next couple of weeks.
Will I still be here then?
It’s a good question, one I contemplate as Reggie and I stroll down the block, but before I can dwell too much on it, my phone buzzes in my pocket. When I look at my watch, I see it’s Chloe, my sixteen-year-old niece, a kid I have adored with all my heart since the second she was born.
“Hey, Thumper,” I say in greeting, using the nickname I gave her when she was six months old and used to lift her legs in her crib and drop them back down, thumping loudly and shaking the whole house.
“Hey, Aunt Lil. How’s Italy?”
“Hot,” I say with a chuckle as I stop so Reggie can sniff the corner of a building where I’m sure dozens of dogs have already peed. “But good. How are you? Getting ready to head back to school?”
“I got a couple more weeks. Hey, how much do you love me?”
I grin. This is the question she uses just before she’s about to ask me for a big favor.
“More than the whole universe,” I say, my standard reply. “What do you need? New shoes? Taylor Swift tickets?”
“I need a week in Italy.” She laughs, but there’s an edge to it.
“Are you serious? What do your parents say?”
