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Alessandro made a short cough that sounded suspiciously like choking. “There is a pithivier?” “Yes,” I said. He put his fork down and faced me, his expression besotted. Do not blush, do not blush . . . Alessandro opened his mouth. “Marry me.”
“Where’s your Italian now?” “In the old fire station building. He isn’t mine.” Grandma Frida chuckled. “I think boatneck.” “What?” “For your wedding dress. It would be very flattering on you.” “Grandma!” Grandma Frida rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “I never canceled my subscription to Brides magazine.”
“You never say anything nice to me,” he said, his voice low and slipping into an intimate tone that brushed against my skin like velvet. We were on display in front of hundreds of people and he was speaking to me as if we were about to make out in my bedroom. “It’s always ‘Stop driving so fast, Alessandro.’ ‘You have to leave, Alessandro.’”
“What would you rather hear?” “I could think of a few things.” His face took on a wistful expression. It looked good on him. Like everything else. “I missed you, Alessandro.” Why did I ask? “Hold me, Alessandro.” His seductive voice wove around me. All my senses came to attention. The crowd was fading and only his voice mattered. “Kiss me, Alessandro.”
There was life before this kiss and there would be one after, but they wouldn’t be the same.
He grabbed my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “Look at me. Look me in the eyes. Your witchery doesn’t work on me. I’m already obsessed with you.”
