Page 90 of Sinful Promises

“Sì. Little.” She held her thumb and finger together.

“I’m sorry. My Italian is not so good.” I tried to indicate my meaning with my hands.

“Ah, it okay.” The woman swept her hand over the table. “Would you like coffee? We have coffee and cake special.”

My damn stomach rumbled as if it had understood her question, and I made a snap decision to take her up on the offer. Maybe, just maybe, she might know Roman. “Sì. Grazie.”

I sat at the table at the front of the restaurant. My view stretched up to the top of the cobblestone street where it met the limestone cliff. In the opposite direction, I could look right down the avenue of buildings to the seashore. Tiny fishing boats dotted the coast, and beyond that was the most exquisite azure ocean.

I’d officially slipped onto the pages of a travel magazine.

Roman talked so fondly of his hometown, and I could see why.

The elderly woman returned with a selection of muffins in a basket, and I pointed at the chocolate one studded with extra choc-chips.

“Ahh. You like sweet.” She winked. “You want cream?”

“Sì. Of course.”

Standing at my side, she placed a small plate in front of me and handed me a napkin.

The kids raced past again and the woman cussed at them, telling them to slow down. I glanced up at her, and when she looked at me, I had a funny feeling she wanted to ask me something. But the moment evaporated as quickly as the scowl on her face. When she didn’t speak, I couldn’t resist the question that had been burning on my lips since I stepped off the train.

“Scuzi. Do you know Roman . . .?” Oh my god. I didn’t even know his surname. How could I be in love with a?—

“Sì. Of course.”

My brain scrambled to catch up with what she’d said.

“You do?”

“Sì. Everybody know Roman.”

My heart thundered to life. The napkin shook in my trembling fingers. I cleared my throat, and angling my face to her, I offered a smile. “Do you happen to know where he lives?”

Her eyes widened. “Are you Daisy?”

My jaw would have hit the table if that were possible. I palmed my chest. “Yes. I am. How did you know?”

“I am friend of Roman’s mamma. Francesca. We meet at her place every month. Roman . . . he always talk about you. Your red hair. Your smile. He likes you, you know?”

The butterflies in my stomach pirouetted as I clutched my chest. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined that he talked about me. Other than to say how fucked up I was.

The woman tugged the napkin from my fingers. “Come. I show you.”

My brain and my feet were scrambling to catch up with each other, and it was a wonder I didn’t tumble to the cobblestones. The woman spoke so fast, and while she switched between Italian and English seamlessly, I found it impossible to keep up. All I got were snippets of disjointed instructions. All the way down the street. Go left. Up path. Very steep. Blue house at end. White balcony. Cats.

She held my hand in hers. “Go to him.” When she smiled, her wrinkles tripled. But the twinkle in her eyes took years off her age.

“Grazie. Thank you.”

She shooed me away like I was a naughty child and turned back to her empty restaurant.

As I strode down the street, my suitcase clacking behind me, I felt like everyone was watching me. My red frizzy hair stood out most of the time. But in a tiny Italian town that had a population of just three hundred or so, I was likely to stand out like a blimp dressed in a giant red bikini.

People waved and smiled.

I waved back and grinned in return.

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