I’m halfway back to the Bacio when I spot the silver Moto Guzzi V7 motorcycle in my side-view mirror. It’s a hot bike, sporty and refined—and with his vintage motorcycle boots, dark jeans, and suede bomber jacket, it’s easy to imagine the driver is as sexy underneath his helmet. When I glance back over my shoulder, he revs his engine, flirting. “Not today, signor,” I mutter, wishing my life were so simple that I could lose an afternoon at a cliff-side café with an Italian stranger. But I’d be awful company, checking my phone every other minute, praying for Noah to call.
