‘Let’s hear it then.’
‘It’s not as playful, though.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘I have a lot of hair, yes?’ She grabbed at her curls with her free hand. ‘When I was younger the other children called me what I guess would translate to, “Fusilli Head”.’
‘The pasta shape? The spirals?’
‘Eh, sì!’ She sighed. ‘I was already so self-conscious of my wild, crazy hair. And the humidity here, no?’
Pulling at his slightly damp round-neck collar, he nodded. ‘It’s terrible.’
‘Well, I was Fusilli Head. Over time I just learned to ignore it. And now as a woman I have embraced my curls. So, I am @fatina.fusilli, which means, Little Fusilli Fairy. And I have this . . .’ She passed her wineglass to Alessio, shifted on the lounger and shimmied her right shoulder out from her dress.
Jesus Christ . . .
Alessio felt his breath hitch as she peeled back the fabric, revealing the defined slender line of her collarbone, the plump ridge of her breast . . . and there, just millimetres from her darkened olive nipple, sat a little fusilli tattoo, perhaps two centimetres wide.
‘Let’s call it, how would you say? A need-to-know situation?’
‘Yeah, that’s what I’d say.’
Well hidden from view, that tattoo was for privileged eyes, hands, mouths . . .
My tongue . . .
His hand gripped the stem of the wineglass with such force he thought it might snap.
Fuck, that’s so damn sexy. And her nipple . . .
‘Mamma doesn’t know. She would kill me. But she will never see my breasts, so . . .’
Alessio couldn’t help but wonder who else had seen the fusillo. Something so very intimate. Partners-only material. And she had just shown him so willingly. Was he meant to say more? What he wanted to say was, Let me at it night and day! But he restrained the words and his mouth.
Francesca straightened her dress and picked up her phone again. ‘I’ll follow you.’ Typing, she asked, ‘This is you?’ She held the screen so he could see.
‘That’s me.’
‘Good.’ She hit Follow and he caught the request on his end.
‘Accepted and followed back.’
Francesca rose from the lounger. The hem of her dress, stuck to the back of her legs, dropped a second later. ‘It is time to rest now, I think.’
Really? Is that it? Maybe she’s nervous. Uncomfortable?
Alessio finished his wine and passed the glass to her waiting hand. She set both glasses in the wash trough and gestured to the ladder. ‘It’s been a big day.’
Together they walked the length of the terrazzo, but something felt different between them. It was as if their brief rendezvous had set in motion a new start. As if a switch had been flicked. It wasn’t just fatigue after the long, emotional day. It wasn’t relief at the excellent outcome for the trattoria. It was more organic than that. More natural.
At the top of the ladder, Alessio stopped first. He held Francesca’s gaze for just a moment before saying softly, ‘You changed your dress.’
Her gaze dropped to her feet and she caught a curl, tucking it behind her right ear. Alessio watched her neck flex as she swallowed. ‘I did.’
The curl refused to stay behind her ear, so he reached across and tried for her. This time it stayed put. ‘Why? You don’t need to change for me. It doesn’t matter if you are dirty from serv—’
‘I wanted to . . .’ She took a step closer to him, her gaze now trailing up the middle of his tee, eventually coming to meet his eyes. ‘I wanted to look nice. For you.’
For the first time she looked nervous with him. Vulnerable.
‘Why, Francesca?’
