“Jacob is a friend and is doing me a favor,” she says with a grin. “Stop worrying.” She hands me a flute of golden bubbly Champagne, then touches hers to it, and it makes a lovely pinging sound. “To being with you,” she says simply, and it’s that simplicity that makes it so touching to me.
“You look beautiful,” I say to her, my voice soft.
“Thank you.” She’s just as quiet, and our eye contact is so hot right now, the inside of the limo feels electrically charged. I think we both notice it at the same time because we both grin, and then Marina leans in and kisses me softly on the mouth.
It’s been a little over four months since we’ve kissed, but it honestly feels like no time has passed at all. I’m right back there, in that place where I’m trying hard to make myself believe there’s nothing solid here, it’s just fun, just a fling, something to occupy my time. And just like before, I’m not truly convinced.
She sits back next to me and puts her hand casually on my thigh, as though we sit this way all the time. And itfeelslike we sit this way all the time.
“I’ve missed you,” she says, then nibbles on her bottom lip.
I nod slowly.
“I know.” Her sigh is soft as she glances down at her drink. “It would have been nice for you to know that.”
“Not gonna lie,” I say. “It would’ve.”
“I know. Of course. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t want her to spend our entire evening apologizing, but I have to admit, it’s nice to know she’s so contrite. “So, where are we having dinner?”
At the change in subject, she perks up. “It’s a small, out-of-the-way place called Antonio’s. Very, very authentic Roman food. The best I’ve had here.” She arches a dark brow. “So far.”
When we pull to a stop, I realize she isn’t kidding. We get out, and I have to search for the door to the restaurant—which makes me wonder why they don’t have better signage.
“I don’t see it, but I can certainly smell it.” I sniff the air like a bloodhound, and the scents of tomato sauce and basil and oregano instantly propel me back to my suite in Hotel Cavatassi. “If I close my eyes, I feel like I’m back standing at my open window in my hotel in Rome,” I say quietly. When I open my eyes again, Marina is smiling at me.
“Good. I was hoping so.” She holds out her hand to me, and I take it. Hers is warm, soft, and strong as it closes around mine, and she leads me to a door that I didn’t realize was there.
Marina greets the host like they’re old friends, hugs and smiles and laughter. I take the opportunity to look around. It’s a bit bigger than I expected from the outside. Maybe fifteen or twenty tables, nearly all of them occupied. The lighting is typically dim, and there’s a small bar to the right. The quiet hum of hushed conversation serves as background music, and I’m instantly comfortable here. The host—I wonder if it’s Antonio himself—leads us to a cozy table for two in a back corner, and it’s perfect. Removed from the bustle, but we can still see everything.
We sit. “I might want to live here,” I say, and Marina laughs as a server fills our water glasses.
“I had a feeling you’d like it.”
“Seriously. If the food is half as good as the atmosphere, I might move in.”
“You’d better start packing your things, then.”
When our waiter arrives, he has an accent similar to Marina’s and soon, they’re bantering in Italian. She catches my eye. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” I say, and it’s true. I love, love, love listening to her speak in her native language.
“I will translate for you.”
I wave her off. “No need. Just order me something delicious. I trust you.”
She holds my gaze for a moment as if my words hit her especially hard, but in a good way. Then she smiles and returns her attention to the waiter. They continue to banter, then he gives me a nod and takes his leave.
“He’s bringing us a Chianti. Also, what I like most about this place is their simple, traditional dishes. You don’t have to go fancy or complicated to have amazing food. So, I ordered us the lasagna, the penne with vodka sauce, and a side of their homemade meatballs, which are fantastic. Also, salad and bread, of course.”
I’m just looking at her, staring really. I can’t help it, she’s so goddamn beautiful.
She shakes her head with a grimace. “Is that not okay?”
“It’s perfect,” I say and reach across the table to grasp her hand in reassurance. She squeezes mine and doesn’t let go until the server brings a basket of warm bread and a saucer, into which he pours olive oil. We tear off bread, dip it in the oil, and holy mother of God, it’s delicious.
“Thank you for coming out with me.” Marina chews her bread. Her face has grown serious.