Page 62 of Sinful Escape

“Am I cramping your space?”

“What? No, of course not. Just don’t go trying your twenty questions thing on me.”

He held three fingers to his forehead in some kind of weird salute. “Si. Yes, boss.”

“And stop calling me boss.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I huffed. “That’s even worse. Just Daisy. Okay?”

“Daisy. Or Red, right?”

I rolled my eyes just as Sophia’s son, Matthieu, emerged from the kitchen. He was carrying a long wooden board topped with what I believed to be the most exquisite handmade bread in Europe. Matthieu positioned the board on the women’s table and made a show of slicing it into thick portions. Steam rose from each slice and my mouth salivated at the gloriousness. Matthieu raced to the kitchen and repeated his show for the men’s table.

The second he left, the men launched in, and as they ate, their expressions told me they were experiencing slices of heaven. Mike, in particular, showed his satisfaction openly. His eyes rolled and although I couldn’t hear him from this distance, and despite his mouth being full, I could lipread his words: oh my god.

His eyes met mine and he winked. “Yummy,” he mouthed with an expression that confirmed he’d slipped into culinary heaven.

Smiling, I nodded at him. I grew up believing that food was just fuel, necessary to keep you going. I never knew the joy of a home-cooked meal. Or how something truly delicious could transport your thoughts to another world. London had started my discovery of food. Europe’s vast culinary options had developed that into a passion.

Every minute on this tour seemed to be reminding me of the little time I had left in Europe. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Matthieu arrived at my table with another whole loaf of steaming bread.

Roman rubbed his hands together and glided his tongue over his lovely cherry popsicle lips. He did it in slow motion, as if for my own private show.

Shit, Daisy! Stop it.

I snapped my eyes from my co-worker to Matthieu’s hands caressing the golden crust. Steam swirled upward as he delicately carved even slices for our benefit.

“Grazie. Looks delicious,” Roman said.

“Matthieu is deaf,” I whispered to Roman, though I had no idea why.

“Oh.” Roman reached over and tapped Matthieu’s forearm. The waiter turned to him and Roman signed something to the waiter.

My jaw dropped as I watched Roman and Matthieu have a silent conversation with their hands.

Roman, Mr. Perfect, strikes again.

Matthieu looked at me with an odd expression, convincing me that he and Roman had been talking about me. I attempted a smile and said, “Merci beaucoup.”

Matthieu nodded, snuck a glimpse at my cleavage and scurried away.

He may have been deaf, but there was nothing wrong with his eyesight.

A dozen questions raced across my mind at once, and in an attempt to prioritize them, I snatched up a slice of bread and dipped it into the truffle-infused olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Before I devoured it, I paused. “How do you know sign language?”

Roman followed my process with the bread as he spoke. “Nonna is deaf. Has been for about fifty years.”

“I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”

“Oh, don’t worry about Nonna. She got tuberculosis in her twenties, but nothing holds her back.” He took a bite of the bread and moaned. “Yum, this is delicious.” A crumb stuck to Roman’s lip, and I found myself staring at it, waiting for the moment his tongue lashed out to collect it.

Jesus, Daisy. Stop it.

I cleared my throat. “It’s the best bread in Europe.”

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