Page 28 of The Fear of Falling
Okay, fine. You’ve all convinced me. Or maybe Avery is ready to strangle me and steal her phone back. So for your peace of mind, I am willing to comply.
He looks at me with those dancing eyes and gestures with his head for me to come closer. I do, and he recreates the photo we sent to Dani on our first day in Florence, his lips pressed tomy cheek. Only, this time it feels so much different. This isn’t a stranger invading my bubble and catching me off guard. This is a man I’ve spent hours upon hours with over the last several days, to the point where I have no idea how I’m going to say goodbye to him when I have to go home tomorrow.
Once that picture is sent, he locks my phone and slips it into his pocket. “You need cake,” he says and waves down a waiter.
What I need is to stop imagining a world where we can keep having nights like this forever.
Chapter 10
Avery
Bensongrabstwoplatesfrom the waiter, one with a layered pastry-type cake covered in fruit and one with a square of chocolate tiramisu that looks so good I want to cry. Regular tiramisu is good, but this is chocolate on chocolate and sent straight from heaven. I have my fork at the ready even before Benson places the tiramisu in front of me. “Easy!” he says with a laugh as I dig in and stuff a bite into my mouth. “I nearly lost a finger to your chocolate addiction just now.”
“Don’t be such a chocolate-hating baby,” I say through a mouthful of chocolate mascarpone. “Eat your own…what is that?”
“Torta Nuziale.”
“What is that in English?”
Laughing, he picks up a fork and takes a bite of his dessert. “It’s cake, Avery.”
“Can I try it?” I reach my fork over, but he nudges my arm away.
“With that chocolate-tainted thing? Absolutely not.” But then he gathers up another bite with his own fork and holds it toward me.
It seems we’re at the feeding each other stage of things, and my heart starts beating a samba in my chest. Suddenly all my knowledge and motor function when it comes to how to eat from a fork is gone, and as I lean forward to accept his offering, I’m so nervous that when someone shouts something nearby, it makes me jump and miss the fork, leaving a splat of cream on my cheek.
Super classy.
But Benson practically invented classy, something he reminds me when he picks up a napkin and wipes the cream away. “Can’t take you anywhere,” he jokes. I know it’s a joke because this man has taken meeverywhere. I saw all of the best parts of Florence, things I wouldn’t have seen if I had stuck to my plan, and Benson chose to do that for me. He gave up the chance to hang out with one of his best friends so he could give me an experience I will never forget.
I wish I had a way to thank him.
This time when he offers the bite of cake, it makes it into my mouth, and I smile as the tang of berries combines with the sweet pastry and cool cream. “That’s amazing!” I say with my mouth still full, though I am intelligent enough to cover my mouth with my hand as I do. I am a lady, after all.
“Way better than yours,” he agrees.
Seriously, what does this man have against chocolate? “You haven’t tried it!” I scoop up as much tiramisu as I can onto my fork and hold it in his direction. “Just one bite.”
He eyes it warily. “That is the biggest bite I have ever seen.”
“Are you six? It’s just chocolate. You’ll survive trying it one more time.”
“I’m not so convinced.” He shakes his head, blue eyes dancing with amusement as he grabs hold of my wrist before I can move the dessert closer. “What if I’m allergic?”
I hadn’t thought about that, and suddenly I’m worried I put him in danger by dragging him to that chocolate shop the other day. “Are you?”
He chuckles. “No. But I appreciate you being worried that I am.”
“You really won’t try it? Not even a little bit?”
He shifts my hand to my own mouth and lets go, shaking his head. “Not unless the outcome feels worth it.”
What in the world does that mean? Is he waiting for the right chocolate or something? But what could be better than chocolate tiramisu?
Sighing, I eat the massive bite of dessert and savor the flavor before swallowing and admitting defeat. “I guess you can’t be perfect. I had such high hopes for…” I trail off when I notice the way he’s staring at my mouth. “What? Do I have something on my face again?” I swipe my tongue and taste chocolate, and I realize with horror I have mascarpone smeared across my upper lip. I grab a napkin to make myself presentable again.
Benson stops me, taking hold of my wrist before I can reach my mouth. His gaze darkens, filling my stomach with a flock of birds, and I stop breathing as his expression heats. I can almost see a battle happening behind his eyes, and I wonder which part of him is going to lose.
