The Italian

“How do you know that you love it then?”

“Because you gave it to me. Besides, you know material gifts aren’t really my thing.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“Material things aren’t the type of present I want from you.”

Great. Now this night may not go the way I had planned. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing, sorry. I sound ungrateful. I’ll open my gift as soon as we get to the apartment.” She leans up onto her toes and kisses me. “Thank you. You’re very thoughtful.”

The elevator doors open, and I put my hand into my suit pockets and pause as I wait for her to step forward. Her eyes fly around in wonder. “Enrico!” she gasps. “What in the world…?”

I wince as I look around. Maybe I went a little too far.

There are bags and bags of designer clothes all around. Shoes boxes are stacked in two lots of ten. There’s Christian Louboutin, Manolo Blahnik’s, Valentino, Jimmy Choo, plus a few racks with evening dresses lined up. Six huge bunches of red roses sit in large crystal vases, and there’s a sliver tray of chocolate covered strawberries beside a bottle of the best champagne money can buy.

Her eyes come to mine. “What did you do?” Her tone is clipped.

I shrug casually, trying to play it down. “I took the liberty of buying you a few things.”

She frowns as she looks around. “This isn’t a few things. This is an entire shop.”

“You had nothing.”

“I don’t need all this,” she scoffs. “And, I didn’t have nothing. I had you. That’s all I need.” She gives a disgusted shake of her head and walks up the stairs.

“You’re welcome!” I call as I survey the fruits of my shopping expedition.

“Yeah, thanks!” she calls out.

“Are you going to come and open them?”

“No, it’s okay. You do it.” She’s upstairs now. “These things are your jam, not mine.”

“You know, you could at least be a little excited,” I call.

“Cook me dinner. That will excite me. You know… like a normal boyfriend.”

I frown. What? “I don’t cook, and I don’t do fucking normal.”

“Ha, funny that. I don’t speak Italian but I’m learning because I know you like it.”

I roll my eyes. Here we go. Smartass.

I hear the shower turn on, and I give the Louboutin box a subtle kick with my toe.

“Well, that fucking backfired, didn’t it?” I mutter under my breath. “Cook her dinner. What next?”

* * *

It’s just past 10:00 p.m. and I’m lying on the sofa behind Olivia. She’s in her pyjamas, watching a movie on Netflix. She’s makeup free, relaxed, and happy. Her blonde hair is splayed across my arm. The sound of her laughter makes me smile. I have no idea what she’s watching—some Jennifer Aniston movie.

While she watches the movie, I’m watching her.

Her smile is like a drug to me. Her soft soul has carved its way under my skin, and her body… God… it’s an addiction I have to feed.

I’ve never felt like this—never had any idea that I could be so intoxicated by a single person.