Page 20 of It's Italy, Not Love
“What’s for dinner?” he asks, stopping unnecessarily close to me where I’m standing next to the oven. I touch his hair, sliding my fingers through the damp strands and cupping his neck.
“Frozen lasagna and a bagged salad. Some call me a chef.”
He laughs, peering up at me, the silver ring in his nose glinting in the bright light of the kitchen.
“I’m starving and that sounds delicious. This is quite a storm.”
It is, in fact, quite a storm. Later, after our bellies are full and we’re onto our second glasses of wine, I get the fire startedand finally tuck him into my side on the couch. This is what fireplaces and thunderstorms were made for—partners cuddled up under a blanket, listening to the rain and the pop of wood, room lit by nothing but the dancing warmth from the fire. Niilo yawns and snuggles a little closer, shoulder tucked beneath mine and leg pressed to my thigh.
“Tired?”
“Mm. I was hoping for a second wind, but I think the wine has ruined any chances of that.”
I smile, leaning my cheek down onto his fair head. “No second wind needed. We can just go to sleep.”
“Not yet,” he requests, which is just fine with me.
Three months isn’t much time in the grand scheme of things. Certainly not long enough for me to forget the way he looked standing under the Italian sun—shiny with sweat, hair defying whatever ponytail he tried to tie it in, belly button peeking out from under the hem of his shirt. It was not long enough for me to forget the points of his collarbone or the curve of his legs beneath my palms. It was long enough for me to miss those things, though.
Niilo remains warm against my side, only breaking contact occasionally to reach for his glass of wine. He murmurs a soft joke about the quality compared to that of Italy and I smile. My palate remains woefully unable to tell the difference between a wine that came from a box and one that was aged in Tuscany.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I tell him once he’s settled back against me, the fire crackling, my cheeks warm from the heat.
“I missed you,” he replies, and heat that can’t be attributed to the fire burns through me. I was blessedly wrong when I tried to convince my feelings away.
It wasn’t Italy, after all. Wasn’t the smell of lemons, or the bite of espresso; wasn’t the history or the art or the cobbledstreets; soft mornings followed by busy days and sleepless nights.
No, the magic wasn’t in the location at all. It was us.
