Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I tried the pistachio and loved the combination of flavors, especially how crispy the outside was in comparison to the casserole-like concoction of rice and pesto and ham. “Ooh, this is worth the hype.”
We tried the different flavors together, each rated them, and for a moment, it felt normal again. The two of us on an adventure, our only concern ranking the authentic cuisine in front of us, not worried about work or projects or anything else but this moment.
My hand went to his muscular thigh, an absent-minded and programmed gesture of affection, something he used to do to me but stopped months ago.
He didn’t react to the touch, taking another bite of the arancini like he didn’t notice my hand—or the act of possession didn’t mean anything to him anymore.
Or maybe I was unfairly overanalyzing every little thing he did because I was riddled with insecurity.
I didn’t recognize myself anymore. Desperate for his validation. Searching for any sign of desire on his part. Needing something he didn’t seem to want to give. I was a beautiful woman who could find his replacement within a day, but I felt like the most undesirable woman at his side. Unwanted. Unworthy. Unremarkable.
With my hand on his thigh, I could feel his phone vibrate in his pocket over and over. His watch was going off too—Luna’s name on the screen.
He quickly wiped his hands off with the napkin. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”
I withdrew my hand. “It’s okay, I understand.” I tried to play nice after I’d snapped at him the other day. We never talked about the confrontation, and it kinda just went away in the silence. I hadn’t directly accused him of infidelity, but I had indirectly. And then I’d gone through his phone, which I still felt guilty about. Guilty because when he said work had been overwhelming him, he’d been telling the truth.
I expected him to answer the phone right where he sat, but he left the barstool chair and walked down the alleyway past Rosticceria Da Cristina and then turned down another alleyway, like he didn’t want me to see or hear him.
A wave of suspicion grew inside me, gnawed at my stomach, and then I felt a surge of rage that felt like a tidal wave. But I took a breath, swallowed it back, told myself I was being irrational and spiteful because things weren’t where I wanted them to be.
I looked down at the plate of arancini and took another bite, even though I’d lost my appetite. I wiped the crumbs of the crust from my mouth and looked up the uphill passageway, waiting for Enzo to reappear.
But instead, I saw a man turn from the other street and begin his walk down the slope to the restaurant. In a black T-shirt that squeezed his thick arms that were covered in dark ink, and dark jeans that were low on his narrow hips, he headed to the side door underneath the sign, moving at a speed full of intention. With dark short hair and eyes the color of espresso and a distinct shadow on his jawline, he looked like an Italian model who hawked sunglasses for Tom Ford, somewhere on a yacht near the Amalfi coast, his skin coated in sunscreen that smelled like sex. I saw a flash on his wrist from a watch before he stepped through the open door and approached the counter.
The kitchen had ovens against the walls and a center table covered in different kinds of rectangular pizzas people could order by the slice and have reheated in a flash. And all the guys working there gave a loud roar of excitement—like they knew the guy who’d just walked in. They clapped and cheered, and the beautiful man walked right past the counter and joined them near the ovens. He smiled—and I’d swear to the pope that my entire body quivered.
The guys greeted one another with those embraces men did, when they clapped their hands together and then pulled each other in for a slap on the back. The beautiful man was the tallest and the most muscular, a fucking bull in a field of dairy cows. Words were exchanged, along with uproarious laughter.
I couldn’t tell what the relation was or why I cared. Perhaps he used to work there. Maybe stopped by for a visit? But even if he did work there, it was a bit presumptuous to help himself to the kitchen like he had every right to be there.
He leaned against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and spoke with the guys with that same charming smile. We were at a distance from each other and divided by a window, but I could still see the sharpness in his eyes, like he was attentive, smart, and assertive.