The Italian

“Oh.” I sip my wine and smile. “Hmm, this is nice.”

“It is,” he mutters, distracted. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Do you like Italian men?”

I wince against my glass. “Maybe.”

“Did you meet someone last time you were in Italy?”

I giggle at his eagerness for information. “I did, actually.”

He leans forward. “And?”

“It was just a weekend thing.”

“Did you hear from him again?”

“No and I don’t want to. He’s a total douche.”

“Really?” His eyes dance with delight. “Why is that?”

I shake my head. I’m not telling him that story. “He’s just a possessive asshole.”

He smiles against his glass, clearly delighted. “How wonderful. Don’t you just love it when they’re all possessive?”

I giggle. “Not really.”

“Do you think you’ll ever see him again?”

I raise my brows. “Funny you should say that. I ran into him last night.”

His eyes widen. “Here. In Milan?”

“Yes.”

“What happened? Tell me everything.”

“You seem very interested in my love life. Let’s talk about yours.”

“Mine’s boring.” He huffs. “I’ve been with the same man for ten years. I much prefer to live vicariously through my friends.”

I giggle. “Well, I was on a date with someone else, and he saw me. He marched over and caused a scene.”

He sits back and laughs out loud. “You were on a date with someone else? Oh, this is priceless.”

“Anyway, that’s all. There’s nothing else to tell.”

“Well, who knows when you’ll see him again?” He gives me a cheeky wink.

“Never, I hope.” Just the thought of that bastard makes my blood boil.

He raises his glass in the air. “Oh, I like you, Olivia. We need a toast.”

“What are we toasting?” I raise my glass, and smile.

“To making men jealous.”