Page 107 of Jude

She twisted in the embrace, hands resting on my forearms. ‘Thank you for bringing me home,’ she murmured.

‘Anytime, babe,’ I said, squeezing her hand.

I admired her as she wandered away to stare at the ancient arena.

Sofia had a distinct, natural style, and since landing, she’d adapted to her core Italian sensibility, choosing classic looks that turned heads.

Today she wore crisp white linen slacks with an emerald silk top, her hair falling down her back in a glossy wave.

She moved with grace in elegant leather walking shoes, her makeup minimal, just a clean stroke of eyeliner and a swipe of clear gloss that made her lips soft.

I took note of the smallest details: tiny gold hoops, a delicate silver cross at her collarbone, and her neat, berry-polished nails.

Every time she pointed out a famous spot, exposing her nape, my heart lurched, tamping the urge to kiss her neck.

We drifted towards the fountains of Piazza Navona, dodging motor scooters.

We wandered inside the cool dome of the Pantheon.

As its amber sun lit beams cut through the oculus, dancing over her face, causing my breath to hitch.

Fuck, I was in a haze for her.

The initial distance I fought to maintain at home dissolved in the Roman heat.

I found myself reaching for her hand, never wanting to let go.

Later, as tourists jostled us on the narrow cobblestones, I slipped my arm around her waist, pulling her close, feeling like the luckiest man in the world.

She leaned into me, and the rightness of it hit me.

This blew past physical attraction.

We were wading fast into deep, undeniable, risk-it-all feelings territory.

Chapter 22

JUDE

On the evening before we kicked off our Italian shows, I took Sofia to a tiny, ivy-draped trattoria.

Tucked away in a quiet alleyway near the Tiber River, it was one of my favorite places to eat.

She wore a silk, emerald-green slip dress that flowed over her curves, and the ambient candlelight caught the golden undertones of her bare shoulders.

We walked to the restaurant, Coco Bottega, hand in hand, in the early evening light.

Every time she moved, the scent of vanilla and warm amber drifted, making me want to reach for her and kiss her senseless.

The maître d’, an elderly Italian gentleman named Gianni with a crisp white apron and a gold watch chain, recognized me from my previous visits.

With a grin, he guided us past the crowded front tavern to a secluded, candlelit table in the rear brick courtyard.

‘For the wonderful musician, Judah, and his beautiful lady,’ Gianni said, bowing as he poured two glasses of sparkling mineral water. ‘Tonight, there is no menu; instead, the chef and kitchen will take care of you.’

True to his promise, Gianni and the team delivered a feast of authentic Roman degustation.

We started with carciofi alla giudia, whole artichokes fried till the petals turned into crisp, golden ribbons that shattered under our forks.