She scoffs, but with a smile, and bends to unclip Reggie from his leash. He immediately begins to wander, and I feel a small zap of worry. Reggie’s a good boy ninety percent of the time. The other ten? He’s been known to pee on a random garbage bag or the corner of a bedspread. That’s all I’m saying. Marina must see my expression because she waves it away with a fluttering hand.
“He’s fine,” she says. “Not to worry.” We stand side by side, watching him wander and sniff, for a long moment before she turns to me. “Wine?”
I nod, and she runs her hand along my shoulders as she passes me. A pleasant shiver falls down my spine. It’s in that very second I realize exactly where this night is headed. And I accept it. And I welcome it.
Reggie takes his time sniffing every single piece of furniture, plant, and even Marina’s shoes on the mat by the door, and I watch him until I’m satisfied he’s no danger. Marina appears with two glasses of a gorgeously crimson wine, and that’s when I take a sniff of the air.
“Oh my God, what’s that smell?”
“Dinner,” she says with a coy smile.
“Duh.” I do my best Chloe impression. “What is it, though?”
“I kept it simple. Cacio e pepe.”
“I mean, I don’t consider any kind of meal you say in Italian simple, but also won’t be turning it down, so…” I hold up my glass. “Cin cin.”
She touches hers to mine while her dark eyes capture my gaze and keep it prisoner for what feels like a long time. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. Which I don’t.
“Come.” She jerks her head toward the kitchen, and I follow. “The sauce is on, but I need to cook the pasta.”
Her kitchen is a small galley type, and feels both snug and roomy—I’m not sure how. There is one pot on the stove, and before I can glean anything else about it, Marina slowly moves into my space until my back is against the counter and her nose is nearly touching mine. She leans in and kisses me softly, and when they say things likethe room fades away, they’re not kidding, because I swear to God, it does. There is nothing but me and Marina and her mouth on mine. The kiss is tender and wonderful and over before I can fully sink into it. But then she sets our wine glasses down, grasps my hips, and gives me a playful look.
“Jump up,” she says, and I do, and then I’m sitting on hercounter. “I want to talk to you and look at you while I cook.”
Jesus, this woman.
“You’ll get no argument from me,” I say, doing my best to inject a bit of flirtatiousness into my tone, despite being woefully out of practice. “I’m happy to watch you while you cook.”
Her grin is sultry, so I’m giving myself a point in the W column.
“So, tell me about this cachi-ohde—” I attempt, fully aware that I’m slaughtering the Italian language.
“Cacio de pepe,” she says again, and how I manage not to swoon at her accent every time she speaks, I have no idea. “Cheese and pepper. It’s a classic Roman dish, but so simple, I’m guessing you haven’t ordered it yet. Most people come to Rome and want to try all the fancy pasta dishes. This one is deceptive in its simplicity, because it’sdelizioso. And my favorite.”
“That right there sells me.”
The pot on the stove is filled with nothing more than boiling water and the generous amount of salt Marina tosses in. She doesn’t have a salt shaker, she has a little wooden box, and she grabs the salt with her fingers and sprinkles it into the water. Next is the pasta. She gives it a stir, then moves to the block of cheese on the counter. She slices a piece off and hands it to me, then takes one herself. It’s heavenly. Creamy and firm with a slight tang.
“Pecorino Romano. From sheep’s milk. Also a Roman staple.”
She begins gathering items for salad, and I love watching her hands. The way she moves them—chopping, sorting, mixing—the way they are the perfect combination of strong and feminine. And yes, I start to picture them on me, doing things to me, driving my body to new heights.
“You okay?” Her voice yanks me out of my little fantasy world, and I clear my throat.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” I clear it again, and she gives me a look that makes me think she probably knows exactly what was going on in my head.
“This dish is all right with you?”
“One hundred percent. Pasta and cheese? I could live on that.”
Marina nods with relief, and I have a zap of guilt for making her doubt, but it’s gone quickly when she looks up at me and sips her wine and the hunger in her eyes is as clear as a foghorn blowing in a library. She seems to take a moment, then turns back to the pasta and gives it a stir. “How did your work go today?”
Those six words open up a floodgate in me somehow, and suddenly, I’m gushing. “Oh my God, Marina, it’s been going so well. Like, I’m kinda shocked. I’ve been so stuck recently.” I let my head fall back against her cupboard door with a light thump. “But there’s just something about Rome. The food, the art, the architecture, the people…” My sigh is dreamy, I admit it, but then I stop. My lips clamp shut on their own, and I barely notice. A beat goes by. Two.
Marina looks up from the pasta. “What just happened?”
I swallow. “What do you mean?”
