‘I . . .’ Her lips parted before closing again.
‘Please, tell me.’
‘Because . . . I want you to find me attractive.’
Alessio almost laughed. He took a step forward until she was pressed against him. Feeling the heat radiating from her made his insides churn with desire. ‘You don’t need to do anything for me. Understand? You are already . . .’ He tried to express how he felt, but couldn’t. ‘Words don’t exist to describe what you do to me.’
‘Alessio . . . but this arrangement . . . this charade means we can’t—’
‘Tell me. How is it that you . . .’ He stopped, his eyes moving over her face, down her neck, trailing across her decolletage. ‘. . . are single?’
She broke their stare for a moment and pushed out a loaded ‘Ha!’.
Alessio’s hands caught her forearms, holding her steady. His voice low and breathy, he whispered, ‘Tell me.’
‘Because sharing a life with me involves sharing me with a kitchen. That’s where so much of my heart is. No man from my past has truly understood that.’
‘Some of us do.’ He watched as her eyes gently closed for a moment. But then it was all about her lips. Alessio could practically taste her kiss. And there was no doubt in his mind that he wanted it. ‘I can be very discreet.’
Glancing up at him, Francesca rose on tiptoe. With her face achingly close to his, she allowed their cheeks to meet. Pressing a solitary kiss to his warm skin, she whispered, ‘Buonanotte, Alessio.’
She pulled back slowly, and gave him the hint of a smile. Then, she descended the ladder.
* * *
In the darkness of his apartment, trying to sleep, Alessio tossed and turned. It wasn’t just that the oscillating fan could barely stir the stifling heat. It was that slow, calculated kiss on the cheek. The tiny smile. The tattoo on her breast. That nipple he wanted to catch between his teeth.
He grunted and rolled onto his side, suddenly remembering how her near-bare chest had practically glowed under the low lights of the terrazzo, and a pang of desire bloomed out from his core.
The fusillo.
Fusilli.
Fatina . . .
Alessio reached for his phone and opened Instagram. There was Francesca’s quiet little corner, curated for her family and friends. She followed a handful of Italians with vowel-rich names; a few he recognised, but the rest were mostly foodies, chefs, restaurants, cookbook writers, purveyors and artisans. And her photos? They were mostly of food, and some landscape shots of Impastino and its surrounds. There were none of the usual ‘posed’ perfect Instagram selfies, coloured with filters and strategically cropped to just the right angle.
Alessio tapped the Tagged tab, and suddenly there she was. Caught, captured and shared by others. Not by herself. A sign of her humility and grace.
He scanned them, until he arrived at one which pulled on his heartstrings. Francesca in her bikini, curvy legs crossed on the beach, sitting atop a fluoro-pink beach towel and holding a huge bite-marked rind of watermelon to her lips. Her eyes full of joy. Her cheeks full of the fruit. Juice dripping down her golden olive arms. She resonated all the hope and happiness in the world in that moment. Her curls, extra defined and tight, blew wild and free in the breeze.
Alessio imagined her laughing just as the photo was about to be taken, trying to smush down some of the watermelon in her mouth. Click! Then, wiping her chin with her forearm to catch the juice in vain. A girlfriend had posted the photo, and in the rest of the selection he found photos with other friends, including Simona.
Something deep inside his chest found relief in the lack of male company.
His eyes landed on what he could see of her chest beyond her outstretched arms. No fusillo in sight.
But that photo did something to Alessio. It made him long for that energy and joy, for her spirit to wrap itself around him. Not only was he very attracted to her; he suddenly felt that he was falling for her.
Now that came as a surprise.
He took a screenshot of the photo and opened WhatsApp. Finding his conversation thread with James, he added the photo to the feed and typed, This is Francesca. The woman I’m staying with.
He watched as the singular Sent tick doubled. Delivered. It then tinted blue to Read.
A fire emoji suddenly appeared on the bottom corner of Francesca’s photo.
James is typing . . .
