Page 4 of The Italian
“The opposite to you,” I breathe.
“Opposites attract.” His eyes drop to my lips again.
Okay, what the actual fuck is going on here?
I pull out of his grip and open the menu in a fluster. “The food,” I remind him.
He sits back, clearly annoyed that I pulled away from him. “I already know what you are eating tonight.”
“You do?”
His eyes hold mine. “And so do you.”
I begin to hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Is he thinking what I’m thinking? “What’s that?”
“Pasta.”
“Pasta?” I frown.
“Yes, of course. What did you think I meant?”
I giggle and refill my glass.
“What were you thinking, Olivia?”
“I don’t know. You have me all flustered.”
He frowns. “Flustered?” I can see him trying to translate the word. “Like a chicken? You mean plucked?”
I laugh. “Yes, plucked like a chicken.”
He smiles and holds his glass up to clink it with mine. “I hope to pluck you many more times tonight, Olivia.”
The word play between P and F has never been so high. I smile goofily as we stare at each other, electricity buzzes between us, our glasses touch.
I need to change the subject. “What do you do for work, Enrico?”
“Poliziotto.”
“Huh?”
“Policeman?”
“Ah.” I smile. “Law enforcer.”
“Yes.”
I feel myself relax a little. If he’s a policeman, I’m safe.
A man approaches the table and says something in Italian. Enrico answers him, and then turns to me.
“Olivia, meet my brother Andrea.”
“Hello.” I smile as we shake hands.
“Hello, nice to meet you.” He smiles. He’s slightly younger than Enrico, but with the same gorgeous bloodline: dark hair, olive skin, and big brown eyes. He, too, is deliciously handsome, though in a completely different way to his brother. He seems softer but the family resemblance is strong.
“Andrea is a doctor here in Rome,” Enrico says proudly.
