Chapter Eleven #3
I’m not tall. I’m not well-endowed. I have nice eyes, I guess.
The blue of them is pretty unique, like my mom’s.
My hair is a simple light brown, but it hangs neatly today, swooping just slightly over my left eye.
It just skims the back of my neck, and I tuck it behind my ears.
Normally, in this case, I’d FaceTime Jessie and get her straight-girl opinion on my outfit.
But for reasons I don’t want to delve into right now, I don’t want to involve anybody else.
I don’t want to explain what I’m doing or, worse, feel compelled to justify it.
All I want to do is take my dog and enjoy an evening with Marina.
If we end up doing a little more making out, so be it.
Marina texted me her address, and when I plug it into my GPS, it tells me she’s about seventeen minutes away.
“Ready, Reg?” I ask my dog, and he jumps to his feet, as if he’s known all along that he’s coming.
I cross to the bed before he can get down and grab his little face in my hands.
“Now, listen, sir. We’re going to somebody’s house that you’ve never been to, and I need you on your best behavior.
All right? No chewing things that aren’t yours.
No lifting your leg on stuff to make them yours. Understood?”
He swipes his tongue across my chin before I can dodge it, but it makes me laugh.
I’ve already packed up some dinner for him, and to that tote bag, I add a pair of flip-flops, knowing I won’t last long in these heels, however slight, and the bottle of wine and package of fresh cannoli I grabbed an hour ago.
I clip Reggie into his harness and leash and we head out to catch our Uber.
The driver gives Reggie a look, and for a moment, I think he might turn us away, but he waves us in.
He’s already got Marina’s address, so we settle in, and I keep Reggie on my lap so the driver won’t worry about his seats.
Of course, I didn’t think it through when I stepped into white pants, and I sigh as I think about how they’ll be covered in brown fur when we get out. Ah, well. Life with a dog and all that.
Waze was correct, and the Uber pulls to a stop outside a large building in under twenty minutes.
I recognized when we drove over the River Tiber and remembered Marina saying she lives here.
This is Trastevere again, and it’s hopping.
I thank the driver, and Reggie and I exit.
Again, the vibe is different, more boho, more relaxed, but just as busy as the city center, where I’m staying.
I take a moment to simply look around—and to let Reggie pee on a small tree—before I turn to the building looking for the front door.
I find it, and it’s not locked, which surprises me. But inside is a small foyer with a bank of mailboxes on one side, a row of buzzer buttons on the other, and another set of doors that is locked. Marina is on the fifth floor, and I push the button with her number next to it.
“ Ciao . Lily?” Why is it that even hearing this version of her voice that sounds like she’s standing in a tin can still does things to me?
“ Sì ,” I say, hoping to impress her with my nonexistent bilingual talent. The buzzer sounds, and I pull the door open, and Reggie and I are in.
The silence descends immediately, and I chuckle internally because I’m at the age where the first thing I think is how well-insulated the building must be.
I push the button to call the elevator and scoop Reggie up, knowing he won’t step into it on his own.
When the door opens on the fifth floor, Marina is right there, standing in her doorway to the left, her smile huge.
Something inside me clicks, like I’m a puzzle piece that just snapped into the right spot.
It’s weird and wonderful at the same time.
“ Ciao , bella ,” she says, and her happiness to see me is so crystal clear on her face, I can feel it settle in and warm me from the inside.
She wraps me in a hug, and I breathe her in, that inviting apple pie scent filling me.
She kisses me softly on the mouth, like it’s the most natural thing in the world—and it feels like it is—then she takes Reggie’s leash from my hand and steps aside so we can enter.
My eyes roam over her quickly, so as not to be caught staring, and I swallow hard.
She’s in jeans and a drapey black tank top, her bronzed arms toned, her hair down, her feet bare. I remind myself to breathe.
I kick off my shoes and enter. Her flat is lovely, and very much Marina.
It’s modest, small, but smells like her and is decorated in lots of earth colors, which is exactly what I’d expect from her.
From the deep chocolate brown of her sofa to the mustard yellow chair in the corner, from the creamy tan walls to the moody painting of what looks like a Roman street at nighttime, it all fits perfectly with the warm comfort I feel around Marina.
“This is nice,” I say to her. “I love it.”
She scoffs, but with a smile, and bends to unclip Reggie from his leash.
He immediately begins to wander, and I feel a small zap of worry.
Reggie’s a good boy ninety percent of the time.
The other ten? He’s been known to pee on a random garbage bag or the corner of a bedspread.
That’s all I’m saying. Marina must see my expression because she waves it away with a fluttering hand.
“He’s fine,” she says. “Not to worry.” We stand side by side, watching him wander and sniff, for a long moment before she turns to me. “Wine?”
I nod, and she runs her hand along my shoulders as she passes me. A pleasant shiver falls down my spine. It’s in that very second I realize exactly where this night is headed. And I accept it. And I welcome it.
Reggie takes his time sniffing every single piece of furniture, plant, and even Marina’s shoes on the mat by the door, and I watch him until I’m satisfied he’s no danger. Marina appears with two glasses of a gorgeously crimson wine, and that’s when I take a sniff of the air.
“Oh my God, what’s that smell?”
“Dinner,” she says with a coy smile.
“Duh.” I do my best Chloe impression. “What is it, though?”
“I kept it simple. Cacio e pepe.”
“I mean, I don’t consider any kind of meal you say in Italian simple, but also won’t be turning it down, so…” I hold up my glass. “ Cin cin .”
She touches hers to mine while her dark eyes capture my gaze and keep it prisoner for what feels like a long time. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. Which I don’t.
“Come.” She jerks her head toward the kitchen, and I follow. “The sauce is on, but I need to cook the pasta.”
Her kitchen is a small galley type, and feels both snug and roomy—I’m not sure how.
There is one pot on the stove, and before I can glean anything else about it, Marina slowly moves into my space until my back is against the counter and her nose is nearly touching mine.
She leans in and kisses me softly, and when they say things like the room fades away , they’re not kidding, because I swear to God, it does.
There is nothing but me and Marina and her mouth on mine.
The kiss is tender and wonderful and over before I can fully sink into it.
But then she sets our wine glasses down, grasps my hips, and gives me a playful look.
“Jump up,” she says, and I do, and then I’m sitting on her counter. “I want to talk to you and look at you while I cook.”
Jesus, this woman.
“You’ll get no argument from me,” I say, doing my best to inject a bit of flirtatiousness into my tone, despite being woefully out of practice. “I’m happy to watch you while you cook.”
Her grin is sultry, so I’m giving myself a point in the W column.
“So, tell me about this cachi-ohde—” I attempt, fully aware that I’m slaughtering the Italian language.
“Cacio de pepe,” she says again, and how I manage not to swoon at her accent every time she speaks, I have no idea.
“Cheese and pepper. It’s a classic Roman dish, but so simple, I’m guessing you haven’t ordered it yet.
Most people come to Rome and want to try all the fancy pasta dishes.
This one is deceptive in its simplicity, because it’s delizioso . And my favorite.”
“That right there sells me.”
The pot on the stove is filled with nothing more than boiling water and the generous amount of salt Marina tosses in.
She doesn’t have a salt shaker, she has a little wooden box, and she grabs the salt with her fingers and sprinkles it into the water.
Next is the pasta. She gives it a stir, then moves to the block of cheese on the counter.
She slices a piece off and hands it to me, then takes one herself.
It’s heavenly. Creamy and firm with a slight tang.
“Pecorino Romano. From sheep’s milk. Also a Roman staple.”
She begins gathering items for salad, and I love watching her hands. The way she moves them—chopping, sorting, mixing—the way they are the perfect combination of strong and feminine. And yes, I start to picture them on me, doing things to me, driving my body to new heights.
“You okay?” Her voice yanks me out of my little fantasy world, and I clear my throat.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” I clear it again, and she gives me a look that makes me think she probably knows exactly what was going on in my head.
“This dish is all right with you?”
“One hundred percent. Pasta and cheese? I could live on that.”
Marina nods with relief, and I have a zap of guilt for making her doubt, but it’s gone quickly when she looks up at me and sips her wine and the hunger in her eyes is as clear as a foghorn blowing in a library.
She seems to take a moment, then turns back to the pasta and gives it a stir. “How did your work go today?”