An Italian on the run from the Mafia. A reporter seeking the truth. Will they reveal their feelings before danger strikes?
*****
Reclusive writer Luca Ross...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"So, they found the monkey at some guy's house. It was trying to break into the lanai. There was a bowl of fruit on the patio table."
I was sitting in Luca's kitchen, telling him about the day. He couldn't stop laughing, and I couldn't stop swooning.
"No way. Come on. Monkeys don't really eat fruit."
I giggled. "It's true. They do. They found the monkey trying to rip through the screen door. They used a tranquilizer gun to immobilize him. Oh, and the monkey's name was Cheetah."
God, I loved making Luca laugh. I sipped my wine and admired his arm muscles as he stood at the open fridge. He was trying to decide whether to make chicken or fish. I was trying to decide if I'd ever seen anything sexier than that tattoo on his arm.
My mind shifted vaguely to the fledgling herb garden back at my condo on the balcony. The plants might be dead by now. Maybe I could bring them here. Surely Luca would take good care of them. I envisioned us gardening together.
He'd admitted we were dating. So why couldn't I dream of a future?
Luca took out a package of chicken, a handful of cherry tomatoes and a head of garlic. "Pollo alla parmigiana," he said.
Jazz wafted softly through the air, and I allowed visions of my life with Luca to unfold in my mind. Speaking Italian. Cooking together. Ski vacations. Sexy-times on beaches and in front of fireplaces in the mountains. The fantasies were limitless and sparkling, urbane and classy.
He rinsed a few of the small tomatoes and held one between his thumb and forefinger, then walked over to me. He kissed my mouth softly and nibbled on my bottom lip.
"Your mouth is so fucking sexy," he murmured. "Open for me."
With kiss-stung lips, I did, and he set the small red tomato on my tongue. Our eyes met as I chewed, and my stomach clutched with nervous anticipation.
Tonight would be our night. I trusted him. We're officially dating.
He kissed my forehead and went back to the other side of the kitchen island, to the cutting board. I took another sip—Luca had opened a bottle of chilled pinot grigio—and pondered silently whether I should enroll in an online Italian class.
"Where did you learn to cook?" I asked.
He chopped a clove of garlic. "My mother. I watched her in the kitchen from when I was a little boy. We even cooked together the night before she..."
Luca went silent.
"Before she died in the fire," I prompted, absentmindedly finishing his sentence.
I immediately regretted my words.
Luca stopped chopping and cocked his head. The good mood, the laughter, the flirting, dissolved into the ether.
