Chapter Three #3
“Ugh. I hate when that happens.” Sophie shakes her head with a sigh, and I catch myself before I say anything that makes her feel ridiculed.
Because while part of me is thinking How could she possibly understand , I see by the expression on her face and the empathy in her eyes that, surprisingly, maybe she does.
Maybe she understands completely, one writer to another.
Then I shoot a glance at Marina. “But…maybe not for long.”
Marina catches my eye then and smiles at me, and I’m a little shocked at the quick zap of a thrill I feel low in my body. “Taking notes for the awesome Yelp review you’re going to leave?” And when she winks at me, that zap becomes a pulse. A throbbing. Jesus Christ.
“Lily’s a writer,” Sophie supplies with a proud grin, and my fondness for her surges.
“Oh, wow,” Marina says. “Really? What kind of a writer?”
“Novels, mostly,” I say. As she looks at me, I feel like I’m bathing in the light her gaze seems to shed.
I’ve gotta write that down.
“Wow,” she says again, and her smile grows as she hands me my refilled wine glass. “I’ve never met a writer before.”
“No?” I take it and sip.
“Never. What a cool job.”
“I mean, I don’t get to eat amazing food and drink fantastic wine all day, but I guess it’s okay.”
She laughs that husky laugh again and nods.
“That’s a good point.” How is it that something as simple as eye contact can affect a person’s entire body?
Because that happens. Marina’s eyes meet mine and I feel it from the top of my head all the way down to my toes, across every millimeter of my skin.
She holds it for only a couple seconds before breaking away and addressing the group. “So? What did you think?”
I don’t even know what the others say. I barely hear their voices over the rushing of blood in my own ears.
Thank God everybody starts to stand up, so I know we’re ready to head to the next place.
I jot down more notes, specifically about a character being shockingly affected simply by the mere presence of another person.
Physically affected. Very physically affected.
Then we file out of the wine bar and begin our leisurely stroll to the next restaurant on our tour.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Lily?” Marina is walking next to me. I like the way my name sounds in her accent.
“Very much,” I say truthfully. “I didn’t expect to be doing something like this when I came. Just thought I’d work.”
“And then you met Serena,” she says with a chuckle.
“And then I met Serena.”
“I imagine she’s hard to turn down.”
“Impossible.” I laugh softly. “How long have you known her?”
Marina wrinkles her nose, and her gaze shifts upward as she does the calculations. “Four years now?”
“Longer than I thought.”
“I think she’s been here for five. She and her husband used to come here for a month or two at a time, then they moved here permanently. Then he passed away a couple years ago, but she keeps bringing her friends and houseguests to the food tour.”
“And I bet she always requests you.” I say it with a knowing grin.
Marina blushes softly. “She does. Makes me feel good. She’s a good person.”
“I bet she’d say the same about you.”
She lifts one shoulder and adds a smile to it. “I hope so.”
“Well, you’re certainly good at your job. I’m having a great time.” It’s the truth. Marina is fun and knowledgeable, and this tour is not at all what I was expecting. She is not at all what I was expecting.
“ Grazie ,” she says, her grin seeming almost mischievous. Then she touches my arm and scoots past me up ahead to direct the group into the next restaurant. That throbbing low in my body has picked up speed. And intensity.
“All right, Chambers, pull yourself together,” I whisper, then follow the group into the next establishment.
This is our third stop, and every place has been warm and welcoming, the owners smiling, the staff friendly.
They all know Marina, of course, and she chats with them in Italian before directing us to follow her.
Again, we head to the back of the restaurant, but this time, we go down some stairs that lead us into a large room that seems to be a blend of a wine cellar and a basement but set up like a dining room.
The walls are cement, and it’s cool—a nice change from the heat outside—a long table set for us.
Twinkle lights are strung all around, and they make it feel warm and festive.
“Okay,” Marina says, and I’ve learned that’s the word she uses when she wants our attention because she’s about to explain.
“Okay. This is where we will be having lunch.” She goes on to explain the restaurant’s background, but I don’t really hear her words because I’m busy watching her mouth.
I really want to pull out my phone and record her because everything she’s doing, every move, every mannerism stokes my creativity, and I don’t want to forget any of it.
I come back to myself when I realize she’s finished talking and is opening another bottle of wine. Serena is at the opposite end of the table from me, and she calls my name to get my attention.
“Doing okay down there?” she asks. “Drunk yet?” She winks, and her laugh is almost a giggle, as is Margie’s, and I think they are both feeling no pain, as my dad would say.
Marina hands me a glass of wine, and I hold it up. “Not yet, but it won’t be long.”
Serena and Margie dissolve into more giggles, and Marina shoots me a knowing grin.
I’m not actually close to being drunk. I was kidding.
I’ve been pacing myself. I don’t generally cut loose with alcohol when I’m with new people, and I’m very aware of not getting drunk in front of Marina.
Not that she’d care. But I do. It’s not the impression I want to make, you know?
Marina begins her presentation on this restaurant, and before long, the waitress is bringing us salad, bread, and plates of pasta.
Can we just stop and talk about pasta in Italy for a second?
It is…life-changing.
It’s dense and flavorful and not at all artificial. So far, on this trip, I’ve had carbonara, pesto, Bolognese, and lasagna. I plan to eat more. In fact, I may eat my weight in pasta on this trip. Today is gnocchi. It’s to die for.
“When the room gets quiet,” Marina says, “that’s when I know everybody is happy with their food.”
The sounds that go around the tables are mumbles and humming from people with full mouths. My gnocchi is heavy and cheesy and freaking delicious.
“How is it?” Marina asks me. The others are chatting amongst themselves now, and it feels like it’s just me and her.
“There’s no way I can finish this plate,” I tell her. “But I will be taking all of what’s left home with me. No way is this going to waste.”
She grins, clearly satisfied with my answer.
“Want a bite?” I ask, and hold up my fork loaded with ovals of dense pasta.
She hesitates, and it occurs to me that maybe she’s not allowed. This is her job, after all, she’s not here to hang out. Just when I think maybe she’s going to turn me down, she opens her mouth and slides the gnocchi off my fork.
Good God.
The move is sexy and sensual, and those two things combined make me swallow hard as I look into her dark eyes. My heart rate kicks up, and I wonder if she can hear it pounding against my rib cage.
“Mmm,” she says. “So good.”
I clear my throat and nod, apparently unable to form words at this point.
Again, when she grins at me, it’s like she knows something.
Maybe she does.
After lunch, we’re off to our last stop: gelato.
Because of course, it’s gelato. You can’t end any meal in Italy without at least floating the idea of gelato.
We’re walking once more—which I have to say is nice, all this walking—but the heat is oppressive.
Again, not as humid as home, but it’s pushing a hundred degrees, and we’re all feeling it. Even Serena looks a little bit wilted.
But the gelato place is air-conditioned, and we all sigh with relief as we enter.
Orders are placed quickly, because we don’t need any background from Marina on Italian ice cream, and soon, we’re all sitting down, eating happily, and my pistachio is so good I feel like I might weep.
Creamy and dense and delicious. It’s when Marina points to a parking lot across the street and tells us that’s where her scooter is parked that I realize this is where we say goodbye to her.
Her work is done, and we will catch our own ride back from here, and all of a sudden, I feel a wave of sadness that I don’t know how to combat.
And then I don’t have to.
“Hey, I was wondering…” Marina pulls up a chair and sits next to me as Robert and Serena debate politics, which I am staying way far away from for the moment.
I try not to focus on how good she smells, like sunshine and fresh rain rolled into one, a walking dichotomy of scent.
Her hair is in large, spiral waves, and it takes a conscious effort on my part not to reach out to touch it. “Would you be at all—”
She interrupts herself to clear her throat, and I see light pink blossom on her cheeks, and I wonder absently if she’s nervous about something.
Her voice is soft and low as she continues.
“I mean, you probably already have this taken care of but, would you need or want somebody to show you around the city? ’Cause I could do that.
If you wanted. No charge. I’d be happy to.
” And then she catches her bottom lip between her teeth like she’s unsure, and she is nervous, and it’s adorable.
I lean in close to her. “You know what? I would love that. Absolutely.”
“Really?” And her face floods with something.
Relief? Happiness? Anticipation? All of the above?
I’m not sure, but as she hands me her business card, complete with her personal cell number scribbled on the back in her barely legible handwriting—which I make a note to tease her about later—her smile is wide and her eyes sparkle, and something within me shifts.
I don’t know how else to describe it. I can literally feel my world move in some weird way, like this is the beginning of some big change in my life.
It’s weird and comforting at the same time, which doesn’t seem possible.
I shake it off as best I can and meet those rich brown eyes.
Taking the card from her hand, I tuck it away someplace safe.
The ball is now in my court.