The Italian

“I guess I wasn’t ready to settle down.” He pauses and then shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Alarm bells start to go off. Player.

Feeling brave, I blurt out, “Do you sleep around?”

He holds his cutlery mid-air, clearly surprised by my question. “Would it matter if I did?”

“Not really, but it would give me an indication as to who you are.”

“Do you think that the number of people you sleep with determines what kind of person you are?”

“Maybe.”

“In that case, how many men have you had sex with?”

“Two.”

He stares at me, and then blinks. Whether that’s in shock, horror, or awe, I can’t work out.

“Two?” he gasps.

I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from laughing. “Does that scare you?”

He picks up his coffee and takes a huge gulp before he finally responds. “Should it?’

“Not at all. I’m just super fussy. I have impossibly high ideals when it comes to men.” I bat my eyelashes to try and be cute.

He smirks as if pleased with my answer.

“You didn’t answer my question, Rico,” I tease as I cut into my toast.

“That’s because I’m choosing to avoid it.”

I giggle. “You just answered it anyway.”

He smiles broadly and gives me a cheeky wink.

The energy between us suddenly becomes playful and light. He’s a player. I’m a good girl. The boundaries are set. No false pretenses.

“So, where are you taking me on the back of your bike today, Mr. Ferrara?”

He gives me the best come fuck me look I’ve ever seen. “Somewhere you’ve never been before.”

The air crackles between us, and I get the feeling my good girl image just became his ultimate challenge. Nervous butterflies dance in my stomach.

He takes a spoonful of granola. “When in Rome, Olivia.”

“Do as the Romans do?”

“Or.” He shrugs casually. “Just do the Romans.”

“Oh, that’s witty.” I giggle.

He chuckles. “You like that?”

“You’re such a romantic.”

“It comes naturally.” He raises his coffee cup to me, and I laugh out loud.