Page 4 of The Italian Obsession

“You want to know everything.”

He breaks out into a broad beautiful smile. “I do.” He reaches over and picks up a piece of my shoulder-length, honey-blonde hair. “So fair,” he says. “Is your hair fair like this everywhere?”

I swallow the lump in my throat as my heart beats erratically.

He smiles as if fascinated and takes my face in his hands. “Blue eyes.”

“The opposite to you,” I breathe.

“Opposites attract.” His eyes drop to my lips again.

Okay, what the actual fuck is going on here?

I pull out of his grip and turn the page. “The food,” I remind him.

He sits back, clearly annoyed that I pulled away from him. “I already know what you are eating tonight.”

“You do?”

His eyes hold mine. “And so do you.”

I begin to hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Is he thinking what I’m thinking? “What’s that?”

“Pasta.”

“Pasta?” I frown.

“Yes, of course. What did you think I meant?”

I giggle and refill my glass.

“What were you thinking, Olivia?”

“I don’t know. You have me all flustered.”

He frowns. “Flustered?” I can see him trying to translate the word. “Like a chicken? You mean plucked?”

I laugh. “Yes, plucked like a chicken.”

He smiles and holds his glass up to clink it with mine. “I hope to pluck you many more times tonight, Olivia.”

The word play between P and F has never been so high. I smile goofily as we stare at each other, electricity buzzes between us, our glasses touch.

I need to change the subject. “What do you do for work, Enrico?”

“Poliziotto.”

“Huh?”

“Policeman?”

“Ah.” I smile. “Law enforcer.”

“Yes.”

I feel myself relax a little. If he’s a policeman, I’m safe.

A man approaches the table and says something in Italian.