Marchello gathers his overcoat to leave, Mila picks this minute to tell me I should go home, and that I shouldn’t be here today.
“I’m fine,” I reply, taking in Marchello’s physique as he heads for the door and enjoying the view of his butt when he turns.
My heart races, please. . . please ask me out.
“You know, it’s a cold, dreary day outside, why don’t I take you to get a hot bowl of minestrone or a panini?”
“I couldn’t,” I reply. Besides, my father just passed away and I shouldn’t be at work, let alone out enjoying a lunch date.
Is it a date?
Mila nudges me.
I’m taking too long to answer. Unable to make a decision, I catch Mila and Marchello exchange a look.
“She’d love to,” Mila blurts out.
I send her a glance that sends a terse message to remind her she’s interfering.
“Great, grab your purse, let’s go; it’s a short walk,” Marcello says, heading for the door.
“I’ll get it, it’s behind the counter,” Mila volunteers and scurries off to fetch it. Back in a flash,” she says. “Run along kids.” She hands me my purse and jacket.
I smile at Marchello, who holds the door open for me.
“Back soon,” I call over my shoulder and catch Mila grinning from ear to ear.
Paybacks are a bitch.I just have to figure out something spectacular.
We make our way up the street until we get to Via dei Cimatori. Church bells are ringing, reminding me we are not far from the Duomo.
“I should be at work and not out running around.”
“Nonsense. A beautiful woman like yourself should be out all the time. That shouldn’t be a problem. I’m sure you have guys calling you day and night.”
“Ha, that would be the day. My overbearing father would never tolerate that. Now I feel really bad because he just passed away and I should be in mourning instead of having lunch with a stranger.”
He stops. “Honestly?”
“Oh course, why would I lie about something so terrible?” I scold him and regret it immediately. I’m afraid I sound harsh and I’m anything but harsh, and my staff loves me.
No. Sexy is what he wants, what he likes, and it describe the way he’s looking at me right now. But when his eyes narrow and I see genuine concern in them.
“I’m fine, really,” my voice sounds as convincing as possible but inside I’m not sure I faked him out.
Actually, I’m not fine. But I can’t say no to a man like him, I have to be strong, able to take on changes made on the fly and the most important part? I don’t want to break the spell. I’ve never known what dating an Italian would be like before Marchello. Now, I understand the allure.
Looking both ways to make sure no one is running a streetlight; he touches the back of my arm as we cross. My entire body warms as tingles run down my spine making the wetness between my legs surge.
Did I just squirt? Is that even possible? Mila described it to me once, she read an article in a racy magazine filled with samples and ads from designers around the world.
We reach the other side and find ourselves in front of a popular sandwich shop. People are lined up outside and I realize it’s one in the afternoon and everyone else is getting lunch too.
“How are we going to get in? Look at the line.”
“Wait here,” he says, and for some reason I trust him.
He returns five minutes later with two humongous sandwiches wrapped in paper held precariously between his arm and chest and a bottle of wine in his other hand with two glasses.