Page 41 of Casanova LLC

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We left the shop and brushed past the queue of waiting tourists. I couldn’t stop looking at the forcola.

“Remarkable.”

“It really is.”

“No, I mean, what I just saw. What I just heard. I’ve known that man my entire life and he’s never done that.”

I stopped walking. “What are you talking about? This isn’t a keepsake he makes for all your?—”

“No.” Alessandro walked back to me. “It is yours alone. His words as well. No one else’s.”

I pressed it against my chest. “I had no idea. But why me?”

“Because you are”—his eyes worked their way over my face—“you. And he chose to honor that.” He glanced down at the forcola. “Remarkable.”

I looked down at it, too. Then I stuffed it deep in my jacket pocket. Zipped it up. Looked back at Alessandro and said, like a vow, “I’ll keep it forever.”

A cell phone rang and, after a moment of staring at each other, we both realized that it was his. He quickly dug it out of his coat, glanced at the screen, and silenced it. “Sorry.”

“You can take it, I don’t mind.”

“It’s just my sister. I normally don’t have my phone, but I’m waiting on a confirmation call.”

“Answer it.”

“We have a protocol. If she immediately calls back then I know it’s an emergen?—”

It rang again. Chagrined, he gestured to an empty bench. I sat as he stepped slightly away and brought the phone to his ear. “Liv, dimmi. I’m with a… He won’t eat figs? Hang on, is he crying?” After a moment, Alessandro dropped his chin to his chest. He chuckled. “He threw the plate? No. No, Liv, I didn’t…” He brought two fingers to the space between his eyebrows and rubbed. “Okay, I may have said something like that, but he—put him on.” He turned to me apologetically, signaling that he would be quick. His voice pitched up. “Hey, Lucca! Lucca, my good little man, I wanna talk to you, but I can’t until you stop crying. Yeah, I know she tried to give you… Buddy, I can’t understand you when you’re crying like this, take a big breath. There ya go. Okay, now, about these figs.” Alessandro glanced up at me and rolled his eyes with a loving smile that did weird things to my stomach. “Right…yes…no, wait, I told you that wasps die in the flower to help the fig grow—what? No, no, Lucca, the fig isn’t a dead bee box.” I had to stifle my laugh. “What I meant was that the wasp gives itself to the flower so that the fig grows big and juicy and delicious. And by the time we pick it from the tree, the wasp has completely disappeared. It becomes the fig! Yes, exactly. Like the caterpillar I showed you that turns into the butterfly. I know! It is magic. More nature magic, Lucca.” He caught my eye and made a cringey, this is so cheesy, I’m so sorry face and I smiled at him the way I would have smiled at Lucca. “So pick the plate up off the floor, tell your mom you’re sorry, and enjoy those figs that the wasp made just for you. Sure, save me one. Love you, Lucca. Let me talk to your mom now.” He walked over to me as he said, in a long-suffering tone used only with siblings, “Yeah, you’re welcome, but let’s revisit the definition of emergency later, okay? Yeah, yeah, love you, too.” He hung up and tucked his phone away. “Again, sorry.”

“Are you kidding? That was the highlight of my visit so far.”

He threw his hands up charmingly. “I never know how much information is too much information at that age. At any age, actually. Anyway, shall we? Let’s grab a traghetto across the canal.”

I had so many questions. So many more things I wanted to know about him. I wanted to ask, Will your nephew follow in your footsteps? How do you feel about that? Do you want kids of your own one day? Do you want a family? How would that even work? But I was thinking like a friend.

I had to remember this wasn’t that. Which he reinforced when we settled next to each other in the small boat for the minute-long Grand Canal crossing and dropped his nose to my neck, slowly inhaled, sending shivers through me, and murmured, “That magnolia scent is irresistible on you. Did you enjoy the bath oil?”

“I did. Very much.”

“Did you touch yourself with it?” My eyes flew to the boat’s other occupants. A group of six Japanese tourists, a gay couple of indeterminate nationality, and the gondoliere, who undoubtedly spoke at least a little English. Alessandro read my mind. “They’re not paying attention.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t. Did you use it on your clit?”

“Jesus!” My hand went to his knee, I think to steady myself. He covered it with his. I couldn’t answer.

“I could repeat the question. Maybe louder?—”

“Noooo. Okay, yes. For a minute. A very quick minute.”

“Good. And?”

“There was no and.” I remembered our conversation in the bedroom last night about pleasure. “It’s difficult. I guess you’d say I’m difficult.”

He left my neck and my eyes left the people, who, to be fair, did seem oblivious, and went to his face. I found him looking at my mouth. Without shifting his focus, he brought his hand to my head. To anyone else, it would appear as if he were simply, lovingly, brushing back my hair. But his thumb stroked over my temple. Whispered, “Lots of thinking going on up here, huh?”