“Lorenzo Vittori.” My voice drops an octave. “Nice to meet you, Lorenzo,” she replies, my name sounding like pure sin from her luscious lips. “So,” I whisper. “I feel compelled to ask: What exactly are people saying about me?” She laughs—a sound that makes me feel closer to heaven than any religious service or gospel. “I don’t like to gossip.” “You just enjoy listening to it, then?” “Guilty as charged.” She winks, and all hell breaks loose in my stomach as—I can’t believe I’m saying this—butterflies take flight.
