How is she still this quick after this much wine? I count the empty bottles on the table as she leans back in her chair.
“Your photos,” she starts, then looks away as she finishes more softly. “They are incredible.”
I shake my head. “Alright. Something’s not right. Let’s get you home before you say something you’ll regret.”
“No, Dad. Please let me stay.” She widens her eyes, puffs out her lower lip. Then takes another sip of wine and rolls her eyes. “Did Nina send you?”
“Yes. She was worried,” I say.
She winces a little bit and then tilts her head. “Well, if someone hadn’t tossed my phone over a cliff, I could have texted her.”
“Maybe said phone would have remained safe if you’d left it in your pocket and weren’t always checking it to see if what’s-his-face called,” I say, and her face falls like I’ve stuck a pin in her.
“What a dick,” she whispers. At first, I think she’s talking about me, but then she pulls her shoulders back and meets my gaze and I realize she meant him. I nod my agreement.
“Besides, I wasn’t checking to see if he called,” she lies. “I was setting up my Italian Tinder. Tinder-o.”
I nearly spit out the sip of wine at the smile she gives me. This Ava is terrifying. I should get the hell out of here, but this conversation is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.
“Italians don’t need Tinder,” I tell her, pressing my lips together when she raises her brows.
“Is that so?” She runs her finger around the rim of her wine glass. “How do Italians find lovers if they aren’t sending dick pics over an app?”
“Jesus, Ava,” I whisper as a group of college kids hustle by. I narrow my eyes at her, watch the smile falter a little, the corner of her lips pulls down. The wine has given her the softest blush along her neck.
“What?” she says, touching her face. “Why are you looking at me like that?” She glances toward her reflection in the window of Vincenzo’s osteria, wrinkles her nose at herself.
“I’m just thinking I like you better this way,” I tell her when she turns to face me.
“You like me better drunk? That’s a little pervy, Professore.”
I chuckle. Shrug.
“Vabbè,” she provides, and I nod.
“Is that how you met Edward?” I start softly, knowing I’m treading on dangerous terrain. “He doesn’t sound like the type to send you—”
“Dick pics,” she finishes. Making sure to harden the Cs at the end more than necessary.
I bite back my smile.
“It’s Ethan. And you’re right. Though I’m sure it has more to do with fear of ruining his mother’s campaign if it were to surface.” She’s studying my face as she speaks. “His mom’s a senator. Great lady.”
“A senator’s son? Sounds like a lot of pressure.”
She presses her lips together. Sighs. Places her chin in her hands.
“Let’s not do the boyfriend chat tonight, k? Let me forget for a bit.”
I duck a little to meet her gaze that has drifted down below my neck.
“Are you asking me to help you forget him, dolcezza?” The words slide out of their own volition. I reach for her hat. Tip it back so her eyes are no longer in its shadow. They sparkle like the Vernaccia in her glass.
She stares at me a second, and I’d give anything to hear her thoughts. She glances down at my mouth and swallows. Her teeth slide along her bottom lip, then release, popping it back into place. I can’t form a coherent thought.
She reaches for her wine glass and downs what’s left and fixes her smile back in place.
“The wine will do the trick—for now,” she adds with a wink. “Let’s talk about you, no?” I lift my brows and she mistakes that for consent.
