I can feel my heart hammering in my chest. His eyes catch mine, and for a split second, everything else fades away.
“Thanks for the coffee. What’s on your agenda today, Bumper?” he asks, his voice casual, but there’s something about the way he looks at me—like he’s waiting for something.
He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it’s like the entire room lights up. His dimples appear, and I can’t help but feel the warmth spread through me.
“Well, I think I am going to take a cooking class at this place I saw. They’re offering lessons on traditional Italian cooking, and I want to learn some new techniques while I’m here.” I pause, meeting his gaze. “Maybe teach Reuben a thing or two,” I add, a playful grin curling at the corners of my lips.
Gabriel raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “And what might you teach him he doesn’t already know?”
I walk closer, each step slow and careful. My heart races as I draw closer. I lean in, my voice lowering, teasing. “I can think of a few things.”
We lock eyes, and it’s as if time slows. The world outside disappears, leaving just the two of us—too close, too aware. For a moment, it feels like all the unspoken words, the weight of what’s hanging between us, is on the verge of breaking.
The soft rustle of the curtains and the distant chirping of morning birds fill the silence, but inside, the air between us is electric—full of things neither of us has dared to say aloud yet.
On shaky feet, I turn and walk toward the door, my breath shallow. The desire to say something—to do something—is right there on the tip of my tongue, but I force myself to keep it together.
I reach for the doorknob, my fingers trembling.
“You’re just leaving? After all that?” Gabriel calls out, a hint of humor in his voice.
I can still feel his gaze on me, even as I exit the room. My pulse is erratic as I make my way to my room, my mind racing. The encounter has left me feeling like a live wire, buzzing with unspoken tension.
I take an eternity to get ready for my class, my thoughts consumed by the memory of Gabriel standing there, his towel barely hanging on, that damn dimple playing tricks on my heart.
The cooking class is a welcome distraction. It’s small, intimate, with only five other people present. The instructor—an older Italian man with a thick accent and a booming voice—guides us step-by-step through making Spaghetti Aglio, Olio e Peperoncino from scratch.
The instructor, Signore Bellini, is a charming man whose passion for food is infectious. He peppers his instructions with little stories about his grandmother’s kitchen in Naples, and I canalmost taste the sun-baked tomatoes and feel the warmth of her oven just listening to him. The class laughs as we stumble over pronunciation and kneading techniques, but there’s a shared sense of accomplishment by the end.
I may be a home cook, but today, I learned the art of pasta making from an expert, and it feels incredible.
When the class ends, I walk around the restaurant, still buzzing from the experience. I spot the chef sitting at a table in the corner, enjoying a glass of wine. I figure it won’t hurt to ask him if he knows of any local bakeries that offer similar classes.
“Ciao, capocuoco1. English?” I ask, attempting my best Italian.
He nods, gesturing for me to continue.
“I just wanted to say thank you for the class today. It was fantastic. I’m wondering if you know of any bakeries nearby that offer similar lessons?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
The chef grins. “Ah, yes! There is a place just down the road—La Dolce Vita. They offer baking lessons and workshops. You’ll love it.”
I thank him and head outside, feeling the last light of the day warming my face. The cobblestone streets are quieter now, and I take my time walking along the bridge that overlooks the lake.
The sun is setting. The sky transforms into a beautiful canvas of colors, each hue more vibrant than the last. Fiery oranges and deep reds spilled across the horizon, marrying with soft pinks and muted purples. It was like watching a living painting unfold.
Lost in the beauty of it all, I don’t notice the man standing next to me until I feel a hand on my arm.
“Hey, sweetheart. You visiting?” His voice is thick with alcohol, and the way he leans in too close sends a wave of discomfort through me.
I try to step away, forcing a smile. “Yep, just visiting,” I say, my voice tight.
But he doesn’t take the hint. His hand tightens on my arm,and I feel a cold wave of panic rise in my chest. He moves closer, his breath rancid and heavy on my skin.
“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s have some fun, yeah?” He slurs, reaching out to touch my hair.
My stomach twists, and every instinct tells me to run. But the man steps in front of me, blocking my path. His hands grab at my hair, pulling me back into his grip, and I lose my balance, stumbling. My heart thuds painfully against my ribs, and I try to pull away, but his hold is too strong.
“Please stop,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, but my throat feels tight.
