Harry pov
Okay, so when zayn said he was taking me out, this hadn't exactly been the vision in my head.
We had driven through valleys and on the side of some mountain where rows of green grapevines and cornfields pretty much owned the slopes of the steep terrain. The
sunset over lake Garda had been ōrgasmic to watch, even if just from a car window. I had imagined zayn taking me some place incredible like in all the sappy movies, and while my usual sarcastic body dejected the whole premise of corny love, I had to admit it would've been nice.
But no. Instead zayn chose to reenact what I could only sssume in his head was some cheesy, human version of
Lady and The Tramp – actually set in Italy this time, instead of some back alley.
I looked around in the cozy, old fashioned-Italian restaurant where zayn shockingly and despite my
countless protests had parked his Lexus at, wherein couples were dining and families were lively chatting away. Kids were running around the red-and-white- checkered tables because they couldn't sit still, while their parents enjoyed a few moments of romantic hand-holding by the little yellow candlelight that oh-so-clichéingly had been placed by a jar filled with breadsticks. Waiters were trotting around with platters of admittedly delicious smelling food and bottles of wines I couldn't pronounce, and smiled with their Italian charm to warm their customers up.
– All the while a tone-deaf man and his band played some Italian opera in the corner, bellowing through the
restaurant that was placed on the mountainside in the middle of nowhere.
I just couldn't cope with the stereotype explosion that was happening in this little restaurant.
Right from the green ivy crawling up the wooden pillars, to the kitchen mama who greeted all the customers at the door, to the stray cat that
smoothed in between the tables to catch leftovers that had fallen of the plates.
And here we were; Two wanted government agents with licenses to kill, smack-dab right in the middle of it all with kids playing around us.
If zayn found it uncomfortable, he didn't show any signs of it. I, on the other hand, kept squirming in my seat and had trouble focusing on reading my menu – but that was partially because I couldn't read Italian and there were no English translations. This was a truly thoroughbred Italian
restaurant.
"Zayn, what are we doing here?" I finally decided to say to break the eerie silence between us that only seemed to get amplified by the noise around us. We were the only couple there that weren't twining fingers or even looked at each other.
Zayn had his face in his menu card and unlike me seemed to be reading it with great interest and actual
capability. Had we been in Romania, things would've been the other way around.
"We are here to eat," He responded with a small crease between his brows as he focused on his menu. "Pick something."
"We have food at your place," I stated and sat up a little straighter in my chair. "Why did we have to go here? And don't tell me it's because of Fiorelli the Fantastic over there belting out."
Zayn's lips twitched in slight amusement, but then he focused back on his menu.
"We're just here to get something to eat, dolcezza . You don't have to overthink everything. Relax and taste what Italia has to offer."
I had already tasted more than enough of what they had to offer, and yes, that was a euphemism. As zayn's eyes flickered up again, I noticed them glint with that dirty look I recognized as lust and the 'I-can-guess-what-you're- thinking' undertone. I pursed my lips at him and turned my attention back into my menu, simply so I wouldn't have to
look at the smug look on his face.
