Flirting in Italian Quotes

“For a split second, his finger touches my skin, and he might as well have brushed me with a lit match.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“Luigi, the art teacher, holds up his brush, and we all do the same. I’m not quite sure why we’re mirroring his action, but Luigi is very compelling, more than capable of making four excited girls calm down and concentrate on what he’s telling us. I think it’s partly because he’s very serious. Either he doesn’t have a sense of humor, or it’s extremely well hidden. This, as I’m perfectly aware from years of a girls-only school, is a crucially important quality for male teachers. There aren’t that many of them in a girls’ school, and unless they look like the back of a bus, they inevitably become huge crush-objects. Little girls follow them around in packs, giggling madly, turning bright red and running away when the teacher turns to look at them; older girls wear the shortest skirts and tightest tops they can get away with, and do a lot of what Kelly calls hair-flirting. Male teachers are usually pretty good at coping with the flirting techniques: the best way to get under their skin, forge a special bond with them, is to share their sense of humor, make them laugh.
The clever girls know this; the pretty ones usually don’t, because they tend to rely too much on their looks. Of course, the ones who are both clever and pretty do especially well, but that’s true for everything in life.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“I step back, farther inside the salon. Watching Luca surrounded by girls, all vying for his attention, Elisa attached to him like a nasty growth that will need extensive surgery to remove, is not my idea of a fun time.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“I learned another Italian word recently, painstakingly working on the translation of Jovanotti’s lyrics: storia. It means “history,” but it can also mean a relationship. If you say nostra storia, “our story,” that’s like saying “our relationship,” or “our love affair.”
I cast a fleeting glance sideways at Luca and realize he’s looking at me, his eyes the dark blue of the night sky.
Our story isn’t over. It’s not possible. Not so soon, when it’s barely even begun…”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“Everything’s up in the air--how can I leave and never know the truth?
Because in my heart, what I want, more than anything else, is for Luca and me to be together.
There’s so much uncertainly, so much confusion. I want to reach out and touch him so badly, but I know I can’t. The space between us is tiny, but right now it feels as wide as the ocean.
And as darkness falls, I make a resolution. That whatever the truth is about who I am, whether Luca and I really are related, I’ll stay in Italy until I’ve found it out.
I learned another Italian word recently, painstakingly working on the translation of Jovanotti’s lyrics: storia. It means “history,” but it can also mean a relationship. If you say nostra storia, “our story,” that’s like saying “our relationship,” or “our love affair.”
I cast a fleeting glance sideways at Luca and realize he’s looking at me, his eyes the dark blue of the night sky.
Our story isn’t over. It’s not possible. Not so soon, when it’s barely even begun…”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“It is eerie and uncanny how Luca has the ability to read my mind.
“Will you go back now to London, Violetta?” he asks, his black brows lifting, his expression concerned. “Italia has not been good to you. Maybe you think you should go home, where these bad things do not happen.”
“Do you want me to go?” I ask, feeling very insecure. I couldn’t blame him, I realize with huge sadness. We’re in a real mess. Perhaps the best thing would be for me to go away and never come back.
Luca’s lips tighten into a hard line. Slowly, he shakes his head. “It’s hard to know what’s best,” he says. “But I do not want you to go.”
“I don’t want to go either,” I say in a whisper.
He takes in a deep breath and lets it out again. We stand there silent, because we don’t know what more to say. I realize that shadows are stretching across the terrace. The air is milder, an evening breeze blowing softly. There’s a rustling sound from the cypress trees in the garden below, and we look over to see the first few bats emerging from the branches, circling slowly in the darkening sky. I think we’re both grateful to have something else to concentrate on. We walk across the terrace and lean on the stone balustrade, elbows almost but not quite touching. And we watch the black shapes rise and fall, the red streaks of sunset fading from the sky, and a clear white curve of moon rising slowly behind the dark silhouettes of the trees.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“Luca never stands when he can lean.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“Is there somewhere Maria could go?” I ask in a very small voice. “Maybe”--I have a flash of inspiration--“maybe a nunnery?”
Luca’s face goes blank. I have to explain “nunnery” to him, and that involves hand-waving as I describe the black clothes and white headdress, so I have to retrieve my hands, for which, on balance, I’m very grateful. When he finally gets it, he laughs, throwing back his head; he stands up and props his bottom against the edge of the bench, looking down at me with a great amusement in his eyes; Luca never stands when he can lean.
“Povere suore,” he says, smiling. “Poor nuns. Maria would try to rule them too.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“He lifts one of my hands and raises it to his cheek, a gesture so tender and unexpected that my breath catches in my throat. I feel the blood rising to my cheeks, and I look down at my lap. I can’t meet his eyes.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“Catia was surprisingly blasé about Paige’s coming home staggering drunk and sobbing about My Little Pony not being pretty enough; in the next morning’s house meeting, she was going through the motions rather than laying down the law. Considering that neither her own daughter or son had yet to return from the party, and that Leo, who’d taken us, hadn’t bothered to bring us back, even with Paige in that state, Catia wasn’t starting from a highly elevated moral perspective.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“I had a really good time tonight. Tons of boys hanging off me. And I could see it was really messing with her head--she kept giving me these dirty looks. So I’m going to get as many boys as I can running after me this summer. Just to make Elisa really…”
She pauses.
“What would Kelly say? Narked.” Now her smile’s real. “I want to make Elisa narked.”
I smile back: the English word sounds really cool in her American accent.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“Andrea’s really good-looking,” I say to Kendra in a low voice when I hear the Vespa and the jeep start up.
“Whatever.” She shrugs. “The weird thing? I love to, you know, hook a boy on the line, but when I do? I don’t care about ’em anymore. I’m funny that way.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“We should go,” I say. I look at Luca hopelessly. “Get home safe,” I manage, shrugging out of his jacket, which I’ve only just realized I’m still wearing, and handing it to him.
He takes it and flourishes me an elaborate bow, the jacket dangling from his outstretched hand, which should look stupid, but actually feels as romantic as when he held my hands while kissing me. I know I’ve gone bright red.
“Kaiindra--” Andrea begins, but Kendra’s already walking swiftly up the steps.
“Text me,” she says over her shoulder.
I follow her up. At the top I turn and look briefly at the parking lot. The two boys are standing there, looking up at us. Luca’s staring straight at me, and I have to look away to avoid breaking into a silly smile. Honestly, they’re so gorgeous. The kind of boys you dream of meeting if you come to Italy. Who’d have thought it? How lucky are we?”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“Bollocks,” I say, with feeling.
“What is ‘bollocks’?” Luca asks, sounding very interested.
“Never mind,” I say firmly to him.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“Did you get Paige to bed okay?”
“Yes and no,” Kendra says quietly, coming down the steps to the parking lot. Andrea’s following on her heels like an obedient dog. “We got her upstairs, but she was all messed up and crying about the pony not being pink, and she woke up Catia.”
“Bollocks,” I say, with feeling.
“What is ‘bollocks’?” Luca asks, sounding very interested.
“Never mind,” I say firmly to him.
“We have to have a meeting tomorrow morning after breakfast,” Kendra says gloomily. “To set new house rules.”
“Oh no,” I sigh.
“Yup. We should go to bed now. I don’t think Catia really cares that much.” Kendra adds cynically, “She’s just going through the motions. But, you know, we shouldn’t look like we’re--”
“Taking the piss,” I finish.
“Taking the piss?” Luca echoes, his accent so funny that I stifle a giggle. Not quite well enough; he hears it and aims a playful smack to the back of my head, which I dodge with another giggle. That’s the thing about Luca. One moment we’re teaching each other, then we’re kissing, then we’re fighting, or being serious. And it can change so fast, it’s dizzying.
No wonder I don’t feel in control of anything when I’m with him. And honestly, cool as he seems, I don’t know if he’s any more in control of what’s between us than I am.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“I think he’s read my mind, because after a brief pause, he asks, “You have a nice time at the party?”
There’s only one answer to this.
“Lovely,” I say, and I actually toss my head as if I were a heroine in an old film, being coquettish with an admirer.
“I danced and danced,” I add airily. “With lots of people. I didn’t see you at all.”
“I see you,” he says, “with Sebastiano. You dance a lot with him.”
I answer lightly, “Oh yes! He’s very nice. I really liked him.”
Luca’s feet shift on the gravel.
“He has lots of friends,” he says rather snappily. “Lots of girls.”
“Like you,” I snap back. “Elisa says you have lots of girl friends too. Foreign girls.”
Luca sighs heavily, and reaches up to run a hand through his hair.
“Elisa--” he starts, and then halts, as if he’s choosing his words very carefully. He sighs again. “Elisa,” he finally continues, “can sometimes be not very nice. Even to her mother, she is not very nice. It is maybe better not to listen to what she tells you.”
“This just in,” I mutter. “Breaking news revelation.”
“Come?” Luca stares down at me, fine streaks of black hair now tumbling over his forehead. “Non capisco.”
“Elisa,” I say in Italian as careful as his English, “è una stronza.”
He bursts out laughing.
“Brava,” he says. “Complimenti.”
And he’s very clever, because he uses the laughter to carry him toward me somehow, on a quick step forward, and the next thing I know he’s taken my hands and is holding them in his.
I don’t know what to do. I look at our clasped hands. It feels as if he’s cleared the ground, swept away Sebastiano and Elisa; has tried to tell me that he saw me dancing with Sebastiano and was too jealous to come over, and that he doesn’t like Elisa that way.
Of course, he might just be telling me what I want to hear.
“Violetta--” he starts, and I look up at him, which is a huge mistake.
Because he promptly kisses me, and I’m not ready.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“You know what ‘vespa’ means?”
I shake my head, my mouth suddenly dry, because he’s taken a step toward me, and his legs are so long that one step means he’s already standing in front of me, close enough to touch.
“It means ‘wasp,’” he says softly. “Because it makes a sound like a wasp. How do you say that?”
“Buzzing,” I manage. “It buzzes.”
“Buzzes,” Luca says, and his accent makes the word sound so funny that I can’t help laughing.
“You laugh at me?” he asks, and though he’s put on a serious voice, as if he’s annoyed, somehow I know he isn’t. “Girls never laugh at me. You are the only one.”
“Well, maybe they should,” I say without thinking.
“No,” he says firmly. “Only you can laugh at me.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“I draw in a long breath, and then it catches in my throat as his hand closes over mine, still wrapped around his waist.
“Siamo arrivati,” he says gently.
I have to get off first, I realize. And I’m embarrassed that it takes me a while to unwind my arms. Luca starts to turn and I realize with horror that my skirt is practically up around my waist: this galvanizes me and I jump off so fast I nearly fall over, dragging down my skirt so he can’t see my thighs. I’m wobbling, shaken up by the ride, and I hear him huff a little laugh of amusement as he swings his leg over to sit on the seat facing me, unbuckling his helmet.
“You like to ride on a Vespa?”
I take my helmet off and hand it back to him.
“Well, it’s bumpy,” I say.
I can’t really see his face, it’s so dark out here. There are a couple of lights on the villa walls, one over the main door, but that’s higher up; the parking lot is around the side, barely illuminated.
He stands up, towering over me, and puts the helmets down on the seat.
“And loud,” he says. “You know what ‘vespa’ means?”
I shake my head, my mouth suddenly dry, because he’s taken a step toward me, and his legs are so long that one step means he’s already standing in front of me, close enough to touch.
“It means ‘wasp,’” he says softly. “Because it makes a sound like a wasp. How do you say that?”
“Buzzing,” I manage. “It buzzes.”
“Buzzes,” Luca says, and his accent makes the word sound so funny that I can’t help laughing.
“You laugh at me?” he asks, and though he’s put on a serious voice, as if he’s annoyed, somehow I know he isn’t. “Girls never laugh at me. You are the only one.”
“Well, maybe they should,” I say without thinking.
“No,” he says firmly. “Only you can laugh at me.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“Luca promptly paralyzes me by leaning down, pulling the helmet strap tight, and fastening the buckle under my chin. His aftershave smells like seawater, cool aquamarine, fresh and light; his breath on my face is warm and touched lightly with wine.
“Ecco,” he says softly. His fingertips touch my skin. “It must be tight.”
He wheels away from me and swings one long leg over the seat, putting the key in the ignition. Over his shoulder he says:
“You must hold on to my waist. And when I lean, you must lean with me. Okay?”
He’s waiting for me to get on. I mustn’t hesitate, or I’ll look as if I’m scared; I hike my skirt up and climb onto the back. The little scooter’s revving up, rattling noisily and cheerfully, like the cat purring on the wall; Luca looks back and says, “Aspetta.”
Quickly, he shrugs off his jacket and hands it to me. It’s leather, butter-soft, like fabric in my hands.
“Put it on. It is not cold, but there is wind when we drive,” he says.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“So I smile as best I can, saunter over to the Vespa, take the helmet, and say casually as I put it on:
“Grazie! I’ve never been on one of these before.”
Luca promptly paralyzes me by leaning down, pulling the helmet strap tight, and fastening the buckle under my chin. His aftershave smells like seawater, cool aquamarine, fresh and light; his breath on my face is warm and touched lightly with wine.
“Ecco,” he says softly. His fingertips touch my skin. “It must be tight.”
He wheels away from me and swings one long leg over the seat, putting the key in the ignition. Over his shoulder he says:
“You must hold on to my waist. And when I lean, you must lean with me. Okay?”
He’s waiting for me to get on. I mustn’t hesitate, or I’ll look as if I’m scared; I hike my skirt up and climb onto the back. The little scooter’s revving up, rattling noisily and cheerfully, like the cat purring on the wall; Luca looks back and says, “Aspetta.”
Quickly, he shrugs off his jacket and hands it to me. It’s leather, butter-soft, like fabric in my hands.
“Put it on. It is not cold, but there is wind when we drive,” he says.
I slip it on, my head spinning. The collar smells of him, as if he’s wrapped around me. And then, in turn, I wrap my arms around his narrow waist, I feel his warm skin beneath the light cotton of his shirt. He’s just lean muscle over bone, almost skinny, but as the scooter kicks into motion, I can instantly tell how strong he is, because he controls it with small, seemingly effortless flexes of his muscles. His shoulders bunch lightly, taking the strain of bouncing an old Vespa with two people on it over a road that suddenly feels much more rutted and potholed when you’re not traveling in a jeep with good suspension.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“Sometimes I think I’m too proud, too self-protective, but then I see other girls making idiots of themselves over boys and I change my mind. I’d rather be too proud than make a laughingstock of myself. I think of how my mum acted when my dad left her for the awful Sif: no matter how upset Mum was, she never threw scenes, never begged him to stay. Maybe she lavished too much attention on me after he went, kept me a little too close, but I really admired how she behaved through the separation and divorce. Dad admired her too, I know. I’ve never been prouder of her. And I want to be like her. I won’t chase after a man; I won’t seem desperate or needy. I’ll be as cool as my mum.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“I pull lightly on its soft silky ears, smooth down its thick fur, and distract myself so thoroughly that it’s only after quite a while that I sense eyes on me and look around to see that everyone has fallen silent and is staring at me.
“Allora?” Luca says, a mocking edge to his voice. “Vieni con me, Violetta?”
That can’t mean what I think it means. My heart catches in my throat. The cat, realizing that I’ve been distracted, jumps down from the wall, landing with an audible thud, and pads off through the gate to chase food for its dinner. Poor field mice, I think ruefully. Between the owl and the cat, they’ll have a miserable night of it.
Then I look at Luca, and have the horrible suspicion that I’m a mouse and he’s the cat, playing with me, letting me run away and then reeling me back in. His eyebrows are raised, his mouth quirked in an amused smile of inquiry.
“Sorry,” I say, not to him but to Kelly and Kendra. “I missed all of that.”
“Luca’s going to take you back to the villa,” Kendra says briskly. “’Cause we can’t all get in the jeep.”
I panic. Stone-cold panic, bringing out sweat on my palms. I can’t be alone with him. This isn’t fair.
“Kelly’s coming with us too, right?” I say overloudly. “It’ll be nicer than sitting under Paige’s feet.”
Luca nods his head sideways, and for a moment I don’t get why. Then I do, and I can’t breathe. He’s indicating the line of Vespas parked by the gatepost. He didn’t come in his car. He came on a Vespa. I’m going to ride back home on his scooter.
This is not happening.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“C’è qualche problema?” comes a soft voice from behind us, and we all jump, startled.
He has a way of sneaking up on you like a cat, I think savagely, annoyed at being taken so off guard. Everyone turns but me, because of course I know who it is straightaway. It’s as if I have a special radar setting for him: I would recognize his voice anywhere.
“Luca!” Andrea says, sounding relieved, and rattles off a long stream of Italian.
I don’t want to swivel to look at Luca directly. So I step back a couple of paces, closer to the wall that borders the paddocks, widening my range, and see him leaning against one of the gateposts, looking very amused. His eyes are gleaming, his hands shoved in his pockets, as he speaks equally rapid-fire Italian at Andrea.
I just glance at him swiftly, and then away again. He’s been ignoring me all evening, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of staring adoringly at him now.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“Andrea’s unlocked the back door, and Kendra and I push and shove Paige in. She flops down inside with a long sigh of relief, collapsing on the backseat.
“It wasn’t a pretty pony,” she says, desolate now. “It was all gray. My Little Pony should be pink and shiny.”
“O-kay,” Kendra says. “Can you shift up, Paige? ’Cause we all need to get in.”
“You sit here, Kaiindra,” Andrea says eagerly, leaning over the front passenger seat and patting the upholstery with his hand.
“Subtle,” Kelly mutters to me.
“Italians don’t seem to be subtle,” I mutter back.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“I’d be mortified at getting stuck down in a sexy squat. Absolutely mortified. I give Paige huge points for coming up laughing even louder, and exclaiming to Kendra, who’s come over too:
“Ken! Didja see? I dropped it but I couldn’t pop it! Ha! I couldn’t pop it!”
She’s howling with laughter, her head thrown back, her blond curls tumbling everywhere.
“I dropped it!” she yells. “But I couldn’t pop it!”
“Ma cosa dice?” Sebastiano says to me. “What does she say?”
I look at him helplessly. “I can’t explain,” I say finally. So I throw my hands wide in apology for not being able to translate, and start dancing again, only to stop a moment later as Paige yells:
“Oh! Em! Gee! I am sooo out of it!” She’s pointing at Golia, the donkey. “I’m, like, seeing things! I thought you were supposed to see pink elephants--I’m, like, seeing a horse! No, it’s a pony! My Little Pony! Cool! Is anyone else seeing a--”
“I think it’s time we took her home,” Kendra says dryly to Leonardo.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“I am Sebastiano, and your name?” he asks.
“Violet,” I say as we step over the threshold.
“Violetta!” he says, throwing his arms wide. “English girl, Italian name!”
And across the room, I see a dark head turn in our direction. That much taller than the rest of the boys, he stands out, his straight black silky hair falling over his face, his blue eyes as bright and cold as the water of the fjord next to my grandmother’s summer rental cottage. I was looking for him before and couldn’t see him anywhere; now that I’ve been distracted by dancing and a Chianti-drinking donkey, he’s spotted me. His gaze flicks like a knife between me and the boy, who’s at the gigantic wine bottle now, filling cups and handing me one.
“Salute!” Sebastiano says, touching his cup to mine, and I glance up at Luca, seeing that he’s taking this in, too.
A rush of confusion fills me as I toast. I’m glad that Luca’s seen me with someone else, that I haven’t been a wallflower at this party, that I’ve proved him wrong, even a little bit, because there’s a boy here who seems to like me, who’s talking to me, anyway, getting me a drink. In films, in books, flirting with a boy is a surefire way to get the one you actually like interested in you, draw him over to your side. They’re supposed to like competition, the challenge of going after a girl who’s popular.
But maybe real life doesn’t quite work that way. Because Luca arches one black eyebrow, his mouth quirks up on one side in a sneer, and he turns pointedly away sliding a cigarette into his mouth, and lighting it with a flip of his Zippo.
Disgusting habit, I think as firmly as I can. I’m glad he’s not coming over, smoking a nasty stinking cancer stick.
It’s awful when you lie to yourself. I do think smoking is foul, but I’m also more than aware that if Luca strolled over to talk to me, with that cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, I wouldn’t walk away, complaining about the smoke; I’d stand there staring up at him, trying not to grin as widely as a five-year-old meeting Cinderella at Disneyland.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“Sebastiano and I arrive, breathless and laughing, on the stone oval of the dance floor. I’m delighted to see that Kelly’s there too, dancing with the dark stocky guy, Gianbattista; she shoots over to my side, yelling:
“Did you see the donkey?”
“No,” I say, deadpan, “what donkey?”
She takes a moment, then howls with laughter. I think she’s a bit tipsy by now.
“You’re soo funny!” she yells. “You’re hilarious! Soo funny!”
She whirls away, dancing like a dervish, and I give Gianbattista a narrow glance, the one that means My friend is a bit drunk, but if you try to take advantage of her, I will remove my heels and hit you over the head with them. He looks taken aback, and I think the message has got over loud and clear.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“Something else that’s different about Italian boys, I realize. If they see a girl they fancy they go up to her and start talking. If an English boy likes you, he’ll mostly avoid you not to seem too keen. Which is barking mad, of course.
Generally, things on the dating side do seem to run much better here. Except if you look like their sister.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“Is it a whale? I wonder. Or a shark? I shrug. These are the kind of questions you find yourself pondering when you’re at a fantastic party, all your girlfriends have been snapped up on sight, and you’re busy propping up the drinks table with your bum because no one wants to talk to you.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian

“I know it’s early in the party--the huge wine bottle’s still almost full, and the night is young--but I’m impressed at how good everyone looks. And sober. No one’s pink-faced and stumbling, no one’s slurring their words. The groups of people are all mixed. It’s not like the London parties I’ve been to, with boys at one end of the room getting drunk enough to build up the courage to talk to the girls, who are at the other end giggling and pretending to ignore them.
This is impressively grown up.
And Luca was bang-on in his assessment of me. I’m standing here alone, no one coming to talk to me. I think I look pretty nice: I did myself up in my best makeup, dark smoky eyes and red lipstick. I wish I could wear white, like Kendra, who looks amazing in it, but I’m a little too body-conscious for that. Kendra has an athlete’s body, and I don’t. I’m okay with not being really thin, but I’d feel like a great white whale if I wore a white outfit.
Is it a whale? I wonder. Or a shark? I shrug. These are the kind of questions you find yourself pondering when you’re at a fantastic party, all your girlfriends have been snapped up on sight, and you’re busy propping up the drinks table with your bum because no one wants to talk to you.”
― Lauren Henderson, Flirting in Italian