Page 52 of The Honest Affair

I looked up from where I had been staring nakedly at his Adam’s apple. Why was the muscle on that part of his neck so bloody sexy?

“What? Oh, um, a little. Mostly Rome, Venice, and a few of the other big tourist hubs. I went to Milan for the couture shows and fittings, but otherwise, I only saw a little outside Florence and a few school-organized tours. Giuseppe took me to Siena once—it’s close to the farm. That was very pretty.”

Matthew glowered at the mention of Giuseppe. “Well, maybe we don’t have to go to that town this time.”

“What about you?” I prodded, ignoring his obvious jealousy. “Do you know the area well? You were stationed in Sicily, weren’t you?”

He nodded. “I was, yeah. But Sicily is a bit different than the rest of Italy. I tried to explore whenever I had leave. Went to Naples to visit family on weekends, some other parts of the country on longer liberty. I came up here once to see the Cinque Terre after a few people told me it was one of the prettiest places in Italy.”

“And is it?” I asked. “I never went there, but I heard nice things too.”

Matthew smiled. My heart gave an extra thump.

“It is. There are no cars allowed into the towns, you know, because they’re all carved into the cliffs. No big chains or resorts allowed either—almost everything is local. You have to either hike down or take the train in, which runs through these tunnels. And then you can hike between the five towns. Or pick your favorite and just stay there.”

“Which is yours?” I wondered. I loved hearing him talk like this about things he so clearly enjoyed.

“Well, everyone likes Vernazza because of the church and the castle,” he said. “And the pretty photo-ops. It is nice, the way it curls around this little marina. Some people vote for Monterosso because it has the best beach and an actual resort. But my favorite was the fifth town, Riomaggiore. It’s quieter than the others. When I went, I stayed in this hostel that was actually owned by a woman from the Bronx, if you can believe that. Her father was from Riomaggiore, and she decided to move back and take over his business when he died.”

I couldn’t help but smile with him at the recollection. Everywhere he went, Matthew seemed to find a connection with someone. “That sounds like a nice inheritance.”

“Bit of work, but yeah. It was nice, so far as hostels go.” He side-eyed me. “Have you actually stayed in a hostel, duchess? Packed in with all the other poor students?”

I reddened, unsure exactly why. “No,” I admitted. “I haven’t.”

“Eh, you’re not missing much. Maybe smashing into a room with ten other eighteen-year-olds is fun when you’re young and stupid, but it gets old fast when you’re a twenty-six-year-old officer and tired of barracks. At this one, though, I only had to share a room with two other guys. And it had a really nice rooftop deck, just a few houses up from the sea. Made for a good place to eat. Alone.”

“What did you have?” I genuinely wanted to know. Matthew’s face lit up when he described food. And I wanted him to keep talking.

“Nothing fancy. I didn’t have much money, so I went across the street to the little deli. Picked up a half a loaf of bread, a carafe of wine, a couple slices of prosciutto, and a little container of the pesto they made fresh every day. They’re famous for it in Liguria, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” I murmured, waiting for him to continue. He really was a good storyteller.

“I took it back to the hostel, climbed the five flights of rickety stairs up to the roof. And on the little deck that was maybe ten by ten square feet, I ate my pesto and bread and prosciutto and wine and watched the sun set over the Mediterranean.” His brow wrinkled as he recalled the memory. “That was my last leave before we were deployed to Iraq, actually. Funny.”

He was quiet for a few minutes afterward, brooding on some other unspoken memory that he clearly didn’t want to share.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to monopolize the conversation.”

“You didn’t. It just makes me want to see it with you.”

“It’s not much. Food and a view, that’s all. Maybe one day I’ll show you.”

“Show me now,” I said without thinking.

I couldn’t help it. It was Sunday. Florence could wait a few more hours if this sense of ease could continue.

Matthew looked at me and grinned. “All right, doll. I will.”

* * *

After parkingat the top of Riomaggiore, we changed into more appropriate walking attire and then scrambled down the steep streets of the tiny city until we reached the deli from Matthew’s recollections. (“It’s still here!” he hooted in triumph.) We bought the exact same meal he described and enjoyed it atop one of the huge slanted rocks jutting out over the water. It wasn’t exactly the balmy summer sunset from his last trip, as the wind forced us to bundle up in our coats. But my belly was warm with food and something else by the end of it. Something that seemed quietly like happiness.

We decided to walk the main trail along the cliffs to the next few towns over, exploring first Manarola and Corniglia. We found ourselves in Vernazza after the path popped us into the town center next to a jumble of brightly painted fishing boats and a church just after they had let out the afternoon Mass.

“Do you mind?” Matthew asked, nodding toward the open doors. “I won’t be long. It is Sunday.”

“I’ll come with you,” I said and followed him into the small medieval basilica.

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