“Is it?”
Without warning, he steps forward until I’m pinned between him and the counter, his hands braced on either side of me. And although the room is full of people, laughter, wine glassesclinking, Italian music playing softly in the background, right now it feels like it’s just us.
“You’re flirting with me,” he says quietly.
I scoff, a small smile pulling at my lips. “You’re imagining things.”
Gabriel leans in slightly, nose brushing my temple. “Let me show you exactly what I’m imagining.”
He pushes his rock hard groin against me and my stomach flips. There is no way he’s hiding this from the strangers in this room.
Ramon calls out something in Italian and the other couples cheer as they begin rolling out their dough, but Gabriel doesn’t move right away. He drags his thumb through the flour on the counter, then he lifts his hand and gently brushes another streak along my collarbone.
My breath catches as I hold his gaze, seeing absolute adoration in them.
“Focus,” I whisper.
“I am.”
He finally steps back, but his eyes stay on me as we start rolling the dough flat. And for the rest of the class, every time I look up, he’s already staring at me.
“Okay everyone,”Ramon says at the end of the class. “Your pasta is finished, they all look amazing, and now is time to eat.”
“Which one do you want to try first, the ravioli or the spaghetti?” Gabriel whispers as we each take a fork from Ramon.
“The spaghetti is calling my name,” I say, my stomach grumbling.
We take a seat at our assigned table with our plates, and as I twist spaghetti around my fork, Gabriel reaches over with his and does the same. The strands are so long, it feels like we might be twirling them for hours, quietly competing to see whose fork gets the biggest bite.
After a minute, we both give up on the twirling and lift our forks toward our mouths at the same time. Halfway there, the noodles stretch between us and we both look down at the same strand of spaghetti connecting our forks.
A grin spreads across his face as he looks back up at me.
“Oh no,” I mutter, already laughing.
“Too late,” he says.
Before I can pull my fork away, he leans forward and takes a bite, the noodle shortening between us.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, but I take a bite too.
The pasta keeps disappearing until he’s suddenly closer than I expected, his nose brushing mine before he closes the distance. His lips press softly against mine, tasting like tomato sauce and fresh basil, and I can’t help but laugh against his mouth.
“The sun is setting soon,”Gabriel says. “Want to watch it from a boat?”
I stare at him from bed, straight-faced. We just got back from the longest day of my life. We started off the day with more shopping, then somehow he convinced me to get on a Vespa with him, all so that he could take me to a couples pasta class that hesecretly booked for us, and when we got back from that? More shopping.
I am disgustingly exhausted, but not Gabriel. It’s like the more we do, the more his internal battery charges, resulting in him wanting to do even more. Me? I could sleep for the next week and still be tired from everything we did today.
But I remind myself that these might be the last few moments with him if things go wrong tomorrow, and I want to make the most of it.
“Let’s do it.”
Within thirty minutes, we’re down by the waters edge, boarding a wooden motorboat that looks like it was pulled straight out of a vintage Italian film. The skipper introduces himself and helps me step down onto the cushioned deck while Gabriel’s hand stays firm at my waist until I’m steady.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
“You’re the one who wanted to put me on a floating object after twelve hours of being on my feet.”
