Page 42 of A Winter in New York

He rolls on his back too. “Mine either. I’m the guy too stuck in his ways to experience this.”

“And I’m the noodle chef afraid of her own shadow.”

Gio raises himself on one arm, his head resting on his hand as he looks down at me.

“Why are you afraid?”

I’ve exposed too much of myself. How I wish I could tell him the truth, that I didn’t think I’d ever feel safe with anyone again, that my being here is a testament to the undeniable goodness that radiates from his bones. I sigh and shake my head, not wanting to burst this bubble between us.

“I don’t know. Life just knocks you around sometimes, doesn’t it?”

He doesn’t push for more, just slides his arm under my shoulders and pulls the quilt over us. He curves his body around my smaller one, my back against his chest, his knees behind mine, his arm over my body.

“Cucchiaino,” he says.

“What does that mean?”

He strokes his thumb along the underside of my breast. “Little spoon.”

“How do you say big spoon?”

“Grande cucchiaino.”

I smile. “It sounds better in Italian.”

“Everything does.”

His breath fans my neck, his hand splayed on my ribcage as I close my eyes.

“How do you say bliss?”

“Beatitudine.”

“So many syllables,” I murmur, pressing my back into his chest.

And that’s how we stay until we fall asleep.Beatitudine.

17.

“Don’t be mad, but I’vemade something for you to test.”

We’ve been downstairs for an hour or so by the time Sophia arrives for her morning shift, going about our usual business so as not to make it obvious I’ve spent the night here. But she’s so preoccupied with the silver thermos in her hands, the squat kind you usually carry soup in, that I don’t think she’d have noticed if she’d walked in on us kissing.

She takes a seat at the counter and opens it, shooting a “help me” look my way as she pushes it toward us. I can’t help my chef’s curiosity, so I lean forward to have a look inside.

“Great color,” I say. “Blackberry?”

“And blood orange,” she says, unable to keep the gleam of excitement from her eyes or her voice.

She grabs two disposable spoons from the customer pot and slides them toward us.

Gio doesn’t react so I take the lead, and my tastebuds burst alive with dark fruit and citrus.

“Wow, it’s punchy,” I say, trying it again. I can see that my opinion matters to her, so I don’t just pay it lip service, I take a third spoonful and mentally sift the flavor profile for what might be missing.

“It’s delicious as it is,” I say, “but I’m wondering if addinga touch of something sweet in the background, honey or maybe a hint of almond, might make it pop even more.”

She reaches for a spoon and tastes it herself, her eyes narrowed as she considers my suggestion.

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