None of it was real—the fun pictures, the card, his arm around me, the rings, the bedroom eyes and flirtation in my kitchen, him holding my hair when I had vomited, the way he’d looked at me in the car. Unlike myself, despite and against every sane reasoning, my body and heart flickered like idiots under this false sun.
“I hope you’re feeling better. Meet you at home tonight, amore mio,” a text message chimed on my phone in the early afternoon. He had taken it seriously yesterday—us needing more notes and texts.
“Xoxo,” I replied. With all due respect to the USCIS, I couldn’t do more than that.
When I got home later than usual that evening, after scream-singing with the radio for thirty minutes, I promised myself,No more bullshit. We had a fraud unit interview looming over our heads, and that word—fraud—should be my two-fold warning.
We had work to do, and that was that.
“I consulted my list. We have two more items to cover before we’re done,” I announced as soon as I arrived to find Angelo manspreading with his guitar on my sofa.
Angelo put the guitar next to him and leaned back. “Buona sera,” he greeted a good evening. “How are you feeling? I didn’t see you this morning.”
“I’m fine. I left in a rush. Woke up late and missed jogging, too.”
“Are you okay?” There was real concern in his eyes.
“Will be, as soon as we cover what I have on my list.” I dodged his question not just with words but by turning my back and going into the kitchen for a glass of water.
“So, we better do that,” he said. I felt his eyes on my back.
“Past relationships; that’s the first topic,” I said, coming back from the kitchen with my water. I had cringed when I’d seen that line on my list earlier.
I took a sip then set the glass down on the coffee table.
“Are we done with childhood memories, beloved teachers—things like that?” He looked at me like he’d figured out I was evading him and was trying to challenge me out of it.
“Any beloved teacher?” I asked.
“No one I can name.”
“Same. So, we’re done.” I didn’t wait for a response and went into my wardrobe to take my shoes off.
“What else does your list say we have to do?” he asked when I came back and took a seat on the other side of the sofa from him. Even from this distance, I could see amusement glinting in his eyes.
“We didn’t cover cultural differences.”
He was openly amused. “Important. Speaking of lists, your supply of farm food is running low. I didn’t get you anything from the shops today, because, you know …”
“I know. I updated the list on my phone.”
I couldseethat he wanted to say something about my lists. Instead, he smiled incandescently and stretched his arms to a full wingspan on the back of the sofa.
Great. He was now sitting confidently with his long limbs spread, legs apart, shoulders wide. And his torso … devastatingly inviting. The top three buttons of his stylish, fitted, short-sleeved dark shirt were open, exposing a muscular chest that I had touched and inhaled yesterday, and that short silver chain resting on his golden skin.
Angelo Marchesi on full display.
“Want a glass of wine?” I asked.Ineeded one. In addition to the sight, I remembered thefeelof him yesterday when he’d held me in the bathroom.
He looked at me in surprise, as if I’d offered he join me in drinking bleach. He then angled his head with a lopsided grin, but it looked like genuine appreciation. “I could go for a glass, if you’re feeling fine.”
“I’m totally fine.” I brought back two glasses and a new bottle of white wine that I opened, then went back to sitting on the other side of the L-shape.
“Look,” Angelo said while I was filling both glasses. He turned his phone screen to me. “I didn’t just change the metadata, I edited the picture we took in the living room to look like it was taken inItaliano. I replaced the background with a picture of the restaurant I found on their website.”
“It looks real.” He had done a good job adding a fake background.
Remember that, June.
