Page 86 of Someone Exactly Like Me (Wounded Hearts 1)
“You, did this forme?” I love the way her voice gets higher when I’ve done or said something she’s not expecting.
“Yes.” I turn and head toward the kitchen. “Come on, let’s eat.”
I put on some music and transfer our meals onto plates while she looks around my house. I’m a pretty neat guy, but I cleaned up a lot knowing she was coming to stay with me. Her house is extremely tidy and I want her to feel comfortable.
“Is the floor okay?” I ask, setting our plates and silverware on the glass top of the coffee table then grabbing two large pillows from the sofa, putting them on the floor.
“Perfect.” She squats down then sits on her pillow, crossing her legs.
“Okay, good. Let me know if you get uncomfortable and we can sit at the table.”
“Okay, I will. Mmm.” She inhales deeply as her cheeks rise on her face with a smile. “It smells delicious.”
“I hope you like it.”
“I’m in Italy. I can’t imaginenotliking spaghetti.” She raises her eyebrows, softening a little from earlier. Picking up her fork, she twirls the noodles around its prongs, looking through the glass top of the coffee table. “Is it weird seeing yourself on all these magazines?”
I chuckle. “Actually, it is. It’s hard to get used to. I feel like they’re trophies I won. I display them here to remind myself to stay humble.”
“I like that.” There’s that sparkle I’ve missed.
“I have some ideas of things we can do and places I want to take you while we’re here, before we go to Ponza.”
“Great. I’d love to hear what you have planned.”
“Tomorrow I’ll take you to Quartiere Coppedè. It’s a very small neighborhood with some beautiful buildings and a large fountain I think you’d like to see. Then we can go to Trastevere. There’s an outdoor food market and we can have lunch before touring the area.”
“I like the sound of things so far.” She smiles.
“When I told Mamma you were coming, she insisted you come for supper. I hope that’s okay.”
She puts down her fork and glances down into her plate, then looks at me. “Um, okay,” she says, tilting her head slightly like she’s confused.
“You don’t want to meet my mamma?”
“No.” She’s quick to answer. “It’s not that — I, just, I’d be happy to meet her.”
“Okay, good.”
“Um, when you…” She pauses, twirling spaghetti around her fork, not looking at me. “Call me mia dolce ragazza, is that like, a general term of endearment you use for women here, like say Angelina, your mamma, or maybe Giovanna?” Looking over at me, she shrugs her shoulders. Her forced attempt at seeming casual with her body language tells me there’s something more behind her question.
“No,” I say flatly. “You’re the only one I’ve ever called mia dolce ragazza.”
Her eyes scan mine. “Oh.” She blinks and continues eating.
As we eat, I tell her more of my ideas for her time here. She seems excited and I’m relieved. We finish supper and clean up in the kitchen.
“I don’t have quite the selection of snacks that you have, but here’s what I have.” I open a cabinet, showing her two different flavors of biscotti, several kinds of chocolates, and a container of Mamma’s homemade pizzicati pinch cookies. “Or.” I open the refrigerator. “Tiramisu.” I stand back and smile, watching her ogle the tiramisu.
“You’re going to make me fat while I’m here, aren’t you?” She looks up at me from under her lashes with a playful smile dancing on her lips.
I chuckle, getting the two pieces of tiramisu out of the refrigerator. “No, I promise.”
“Those pictures you sent me were beautiful. Where were you?”
“I was on the Amalfi Coast. Gigi and I had a photo shoot there.”
“Oh.” Her posture stiffens, very slightly, but I noticed. “Yes, I saw a picture of you both on her Instagram.”
