The Italian

“The opposite to you,” I breathe.

“Opposites attract.” His eyes drop to my lips again.

Okay, what the actual fuck is going on here?

I pull out of his grip and open the menu in a fluster. “The food,” I remind him.

He sits back, clearly annoyed that I pulled away from him. “I already know what you are eating tonight.”

“You do?”

His eyes hold mine. “And so do you.”

I begin to hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Is he thinking what I’m thinking? “What’s that?”

“Pasta.”

“Pasta?” I frown.

“Yes, of course. What did you think I meant?”

I giggle and refill my glass.

“What were you thinking, Olivia?”

“I don’t know. You have me all flustered.”

He frowns. “Flustered?” I can see him trying to translate the word. “Like a chicken? You mean plucked?”

I laugh. “Yes, plucked like a chicken.”

He smiles and holds his glass up to clink it with mine. “I hope to pluck you many more times tonight, Olivia.”

The word play between P and F has never been so high. I smile goofily as we stare at each other, electricity buzzes between us, our glasses touch.

I need to change the subject. “What do you do for work, Enrico?”

“Poliziotto.”

“Huh?”

“Policeman?”

“Ah.” I smile. “Law enforcer.”

“Yes.”

I feel myself relax a little. If he’s a policeman, I’m safe.

A man approaches the table and says something in Italian. Enrico answers him, and then turns to me.

“Olivia, meet my brother Andrea.”

“Hello.” I smile as we shake hands.

“Hello, nice to meet you.” He smiles. He’s slightly younger than Enrico, but with the same gorgeous bloodline: dark hair, olive skin, and big brown eyes. He, too, is deliciously handsome, though in a completely different way to his brother. He seems softer but the family resemblance is strong.

“Andrea is a doctor here in Rome,” Enrico says proudly.