“Are you feeling okay, dear? You look a bit dazed.”
Truth be told, I am feeling a bit dazed. Star Wars and sci-fi is more complicated than I thought it would be. But I plaster a smile on my face. “All good. Nothing a good old glass of blue milk wouldn’t sort out.”
* * *
When we get back to the retreat center later that afternoon, I hear a familiar, sexy baritone voice call my name as I step off the bus. I turn and see Lorenzo carrying a ladder under his arm. He sets it on the ground, then strolls toward me as though he’s on the set of a men’s fragrance commercial. He pulls his long, dark hair out of its ponytail holder, flicking it from side to side while licking his lips and fixing me with a sultry gaze.
As he nears, I pray that he isn’t wearing that overpowering doggy doo-doo and bubblegum body spray again.
When he reaches me, he leans down and kisses my cheeks. “Ah, my bellissima, Ginny.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. The only thing he smells like is a guy who’s been doing manual labor all day in the hot sun. Slightly stinky, but a million times better than how he smelled the last time I saw him.
He steps back and looks me up and down. I feel my face redden. It’s the kind of look that should make my heart go pitter-patter and send shivers up and down my body. The guy is drop-dead gorgeous. But I feel nothing. My pulse rate is normal. No shivers happening here.
“I have missed you,” he says, taking my hand in his and kissing the back of it. “I don’t see you anymore now that your friends have left.” He continues to hold my hand, gently caressing it. “We must repair this situation.”
“I think you mean ‘remedy’ the situation, not ‘repair,’” I say.
“Remedy, yes,” he says, staring deeply into my eyes. “We must remedy.”
I sense Preston walking up behind me before I hear his voice. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” he asks.
I pull my hand away from Lorenzo and take a step back, giving Preston a sheepish smile. “Uh, sure. Lorenzo, this is Preston. Preston, this is Lorenzo.”
Lorenzo narrows his eyes as he sizes Preston up. Preston doesn’t flinch, staring straight back at Lorenzo. All I can think of is the macho guys in the lucha libre videos Lorenzo showed me and the girls. I start to giggle as I picture Preston wearing one of the masks that the Mexican wrestlers wear along with his tweed jacket.
Preston gives me a sideways look, then turns back to Lorenzo. “How do you know Ginny?”
“Ginny and I have spent a romantic evening at the beach.”
Preston tenses, and I quickly intervene. “Lorenzo rented that apartment to Mia and Isabelle. I’ve told you about him before. We all went to the beach one night and ate at his cousin’s restaurant.”
Why am I explaining myself? Why do I care what Preston thinks my relationship with Lorenzo is?
Before I can sort out my feelings, Lorenzo turns to me. “You must be lonely now that your friends are gone. We should go back to the beach on Saturday. My cousin will make zuppa di pesche for us.”
Preston puts his arm around my shoulders. “She can’t. She has plans with me.”
I turn my head and look up at him. “I do? Since when?”
“Remember on the bus ride back Maria was telling us about that restaurant that serves ravioli with spinach and artichokes?”
“Yeah.”
“And you said that you wanted to try it”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, your wish is my command. I’m taking you there on Saturday.”
Lorenzo smiles. “No, she is coming to the beach with me.”
I remove Preston’s arm from my shoulder and hold my hands up in the air. “Sorry, guys, but I think I’m going to stay in on Saturday and give myself a pedicure.”
Lorenzo starts to protest, but an older man carrying a tool bag waves at him, shouting something in Italian. “Sorry, I must go. We’re doing some renovations and Pietro needs my help. I’ll call you later.”
“Lorenzo has your phone number?” Preston asks. “How come I don’t have your phone number?”
“I see you every day in class. Why would you need my phone number?”
“So I can call and invite you to dinner.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and looks at me expectantly. “So, what’s your number?”
Before I can decide whether to give it to him, Maria comes up and thanks Preston for leading the tour. I use that as my opportunity to slip away.
As I walk to my room, I think about what just happened.
Was Preston asking me out on a date?
I shake my head. No, probably not. It was probably a testosterone thing. He saw Lorenzo making a move and had to make one too. For all I know, he’d be just as happy taking Loretta and Mabel to dinner as he would me.
* * *
Later that night, I go down to the reception room to get an herbal tea. Preston is sitting on one of the leather couches by the fireplace. When he sees me, his face lights up. “Come join me,” he says, holding up a bottle of wine. “Maria gave this to me as a thank you, but I can’t drink it by myself.”
I shrug. “Okay. That sounds better than a cup of chamomile.”
He pats the couch next to him and I sit. After he opens the wine, he pours a small amount into a glass. “Do you want to try it first to make sure it isn’t corked?”
“I don’t know anything about wine,” I say. “I don’t think I’d know the difference.”
“I don’t know much either,” he says, swirling the wine around in the glass. “Except if I like it or not.”
“Really? That surprises me. You seem like one of those guys who knows something about everything.”
He looks at me quizzically. “I’m not sure how to take that. Either you think I could win a fortune on Jeopardy or you think I’m an obnoxious know-it-all.”
I simply smile in response.
He scratches his chin, then takes a sip of the wine and nods approvingly. “It’s delicious.”
After filling both glasses, he hands one to me. I take a sip and sink back into the couch. “It is good.”
Preston takes another sip, then turns his body to face me. “So which is it—a Jeopardy contestant or a know-it-all?”
I toy with my wineglass. “I guess it’s a hazard of your occupation. You’re a professor. You like sharing information.”
“That’s true. I get excited about history and want to share it with other people.” He leans forward. “Teaching classes and seeing students engaged with the subject matter is my favorite part of being a professor.”
“Well, you did a good job today,” I say. “The Silver Foxes were enraptured. They can’t stop talking about how much they enjoyed having you lead the tour.”
He can’t contain his grin. “Really? You think I did a good job?”
“I do. You actually reminded me of my father.”
“Your father? Is he a professor?”
“A professor, uh…” My voice trails off. My eyes are welling up for the second time today.
“What’s wrong, Ginny?”
After setting my glass on the coffee table, I put my hands over my mouth and try to control my breathing. After a few moments, I compose myself. “He died. My father died.”
“Oh, Ginny, I’m so sorry,” Preston says softly.
“It was an accident,” I say, twisting my charm bracelet around my wrist. “I miss him.”
Preston sets his glass next to mine on the coffee table. “Tell me about him.”
“He was the kindest man. A bit absent-minded at times.” I smile. “One time he went to work in his pajamas. He didn’t even notice until someone pointed it out to him.”
I continue to share memories about my father, while Preston listens intently.
After I point out the charm that my father gave me on my sixteenth birthday, Preston takes my hand in his and strokes it gently.
The sensation is so different from when Lorenzo caressed my hand earlier that afternoon. My heart goe
s pitter-patter, I feel shivers up and down my body, and, most of all, I feel a deep sense of caring from Preston. I feel like if I spent enough time with him holding my hand, my pain would go away.
I look into his blue eyes and smile. “Is that offer for dinner still open?”
8
Smitten with Ravioli
I fidget with my charm bracelet while I wait for Preston. I’m early. Normally, I like being early. However, tonight, I’m not thrilled with my punctuality. What if he thinks I’m so eager to go to dinner with him that I’ve been standing here waiting for hours for him to arrive?
Nope. Can’t have that happen. The only solution is to sneak outside and hide behind the bushes by the entrance. Once I see him go inside, I’ll wait for ten minutes, then casually stroll into the reception room as though I’ve completely lost track of time.
I grin. This is a good plan. I scurry out of the room and into the hallway. Darn. I forgot my purse. I scurry back, grab my cute little clutch, then scurry back into the hallway.
I look down at what I’m holding. Wait a minute. This isn’t my cute little clutch. This isn’t cute at all. Unless you happen to think that having a purse bedazzled with a likeness of Elvis on it is cute, then this is just the ticket.
I’m pretty sure it belongs to Mabel—the reigning queen of bedazzling among the Silver Foxes. Scared that she might whack me with her cane because she’ll be convinced that I stole it, I scurry back to the lounge.
As I look around the room for my purse, I think about the word “scurry.” Did you ever find that the more times you say a word to yourself, the less it makes sense? Maybe it’s the wrong word? Maybe the word I’m looking for is “scurvy” or “surly” or possibly “scurrly”? Is “scurrly” even a word?
Whatever it is I’m doing, I pick up the pace. I need to switch purses and get behind those bushes pronto. After finding my clutch and switching it out with Mabel’s, I scurrly—let’s pretend it’s a real word—back into the hall and straight into Preston. I startle, dropping my purse on the floor, then look up.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he says before bending down to pick up my purse. He starts to hand it to me, then takes a step back. His gaze slowly travels from my face down to my toes, then back up again. After a beat, he locks eyes with me. “Wow. You look amazing.”
I bite my lip, then return the compliment. “You’re wearing a bow tie.”
Okay, I’m not sure if that was a compliment or more of an observation, but the grin on his face seems to suggest that he’s taken it as a form of praise.
He moves closer to me. “I am.”
“It has polka dots on it,” I say, tossing out more of my keen observations.
His smile fades a little. “Don’t you like polka dots?”
“Who doesn’t like polka dots?” I say in a reassuring tone.
“And you’re wearing a dress,” he says, a full grin back on display.
“I am.”
“It has straps.”
I bite back a smile. “Don’t you like straps?”
“Straps are good.”
Neither of us says a word. He looks at my straps, and I look at his bow tie.
Then the silence is broken.
“Where are you two off to?” Loretta asks as she walks toward us.
“Wait up,” Mabel calls, her cane tapping on the marble floor as she scurries—see, there’s that word again—down the hall.
Preston hands me my purse. “We’re going to dinner at that restaurant that Maria recommended.”
“The place that serves the ravioli with spinach and artichokes?” Loretta asks.
“That’s the one.”
Mabel’s eyes light up. “Ooh. I love artichokes. We should join you.”
“You don’t like artichokes,” Loretta says.
Mabel scowls. “Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I most certainly do.”
Loretta takes a deep breath. “No, you like arugula, not artichokes.”
“They’re the same thing.”
“No, they’re not.”
“Yes, they are.”
Preston and I exchange glances while the two ladies continue to bicker. I’m actually torn. On one hand, I’m not sure I can handle listening to them argue about whether arugula and artichokes are the same thing during the entire meal. On the other hand, they might be a good distraction from Preston.
Not that I need to be distracted from Preston. Or that Preston is distracting. Sure, the color of his eyes match the blue polka dots on his bow tie, and that nerdy smile of his makes my stomach do flips, but he isn’t distracting.
Not one bit.
Not distracting at all.
Seriously. Not distracting.
“Earth to Ginny,” Loretta says.
“Weren’t you listening?” Mabel purses her lips. “You seem distracted.”
“Sorry,” I say, stepping back a safe distance from Mabel’s cane. “What did you say?”
“Preston doesn’t think we’ll be able to get seats at the restaurant,” Mabel says. “He only booked a table for two. But I can’t see how they can turn two old ladies away, can you?”
A horn sounds outside.
“I think that’s our taxi.” Preston smiles as he grabs my hand. “Tell you what, ladies,” he says to Mabel and Loretta. “Why don’t I take the two of you there next weekend instead of tonight so that I can give you my undivided attention?”
“Good idea,” I say. “That will also give the two of you time to figure out if Mabel likes artichokes or not.”
Then we scurry to the door and make our escape.
* * *
The restaurant is everything that Maria promised—a small, family-run establishment tucked away in a non-touristy part of town. The kind of place you’d only find if a local told you about it.
As Preston holds the door open for me, his hand brushes my shoulder. I’ve never been more conscious of the fact that I’m wearing a dress with straps until tonight. I glance back at him. I have to restrain myself from turning around and untying that polka-dot bow tie of his.
“Buona sera,” an older woman says as we enter. She’s wearing a floral dress with a lace collar, her silver hair is pulled back into a neat bun, and her hazel eyes sparkle in the candlelight. When Preston tells her that Maria sent us, she pulls us into a warm embrace. “Ah, that makes you family.”
She taps her chest. “You must call me Mama Leoni.” She grabs our hands and pulls us toward the kitchen. She pushes the door open and points at the three men inside. “That is Papa Leoni and those are our two sons—Luigi and Pepe.” Papa Leoni nods as he drains some pasta. Luigi smiles as he stirs a pot on the stove, while Pepe gives us a cheerful wave before turning back to chop vegetables.
“They will make you the most delicious ravioli,” Mama Leoni says as she leads us to a table in the back of the restaurant. After we’re seated, she furrows her brow. “You do like artichokes, don’t you?” After we reassure her that we do, she says, “Good, good. Some people don’t.”
“I’ve heard some people even confuse it with arugula,” I say.
“Very odd. They’re nothing alike,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “Ah, never mind. People who can’t tell the difference between arugula and artichokes generally don’t come here.”
As she bustles off to seat another couple, I admire our rustic surroundings. Tables are covered in white tablecloths, red candles are set in old wine bottles with wax dripping down their sides, classical music is playing in the background, and dark-paneled walls add to the ambiance.
Mama Leoni returns with a bottle of the local Lambrusco and a plate of bruschetta. “We grow the tomatoes and basil ourselves,” she says pointing at the bread, which has been grilled, then rubbed with garlic and drizzled with olive oil. “Enjoy,” she says, beaming at us before returning to the kitchen.
Preston and I raise our glasses. “Here’s to ravioli,” he says.
“And tiramisu,” I add. �
�Did you see it in the kitchen? Is there any better dessert in the world?”
“I’ll drink to that,” he says, then takes a sip of wine.
For some reason, the way he’s looking at me makes me flustered. I feel all those first date anxieties—is anything stuck in my teeth, do we have anything in common, does he think I’m interesting, is he interesting—you know, the types of things you worry about when you’re out to dinner with a stranger.
But Preston isn’t a stranger. We’ve spent two weeks side by side in cooking class. And this isn’t a date. So why am I nervous? Or is it a date? Is that why I’m nervous?
“This is awkward, isn’t it?” he says after a long pause.
“So, it isn’t just me,” I say, leaning forward.
He cocks his head to one side. “Should we pretend we just met?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, I’ll go first.” He adjusts his bow tie. “So, miss, is this your first time in Italy?”
“No, I’ve been here several times. But this is my first time in Ravenna.”
“Really?” he asks. “You’ve been to Italy before?”
“Can’t you tell from my flawless Italian?” I grab a piece of bruschetta. The juicy homegrown tomato is bursting with flavor. I push the plate toward Preston. “You have to try this.”
He takes a bite, smiles appreciatively, then quickly devours the rest of his slice. “You know, I could always teach you Italian,” he says as he picks up another piece of the grilled bread. “I’m a good teacher. My students always give me great evaluations.”
I roll my eyes. “You realize they’re just sucking up to you, right?”
He smiles. “I guess I don’t have to worry about that with you, do I?”
“Never,” I say. “I’ll always tell you the truth.”
We’re silent for a few minutes as we finish the rest of the bruschetta. Preston refills my wineglass, then asks me where I’ve traveled in Italy.
“All the usual spots—Rome, Florence, Milan, and Pisa.”
Smitten with Ravioli Page 8
