Page 140 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“What a jerk, taunting you,” Moira said, a sinister grin lighting her face. She’d done it, thrown the focaccia. This girl was full of surprises. If she wasn’t careful, Harold was going to fall in love—the real kind.

Then Alice called out, “Harold?”

He raised a drunken wave, still dumbfounded by the fact that Moira had just slung a piece of bread across the dining room of the fanciest restaurant Harold could ever have imagined. All for him!

Bianca, George, and Sandy were now involved, wondering what was going on.

“I better go say something,” Harold said, the wine giving him ample courage.

He rose and planted a surprise kiss on Moira’s mouth; she gasped. Even Aroldo didn’t have that in him. “Thank you for defending me,” he said. “Be right back.” He crossed the restaurant to the rhythm of the silky bossa nova track that played in the background.

Reaching their table, he said to Alice, “Buonasera.”

She lifted her hands, palms up. “What are you doing here? And did you really just throw bread at us?”

He glanced over at his partner-in-crime, the former librarian who’d risked her life to testify against her husband, a superhero fighting for justice. The girl who’d just now stood up for Harold. The girl he’d just kissed! Even he hadn’t seen that one coming.

She and the rest of his table were watching him.

“That was my friend. Sorry about that. We’re a little rowdy over there.” The hurled slice of focaccia rested innocently on the white tablecloth. “And how are you?”

“Fine! Yeah, fine.”

“And goodbye, Aroldo,” Renzo chimed in. “You’ll be walking away now.”

Harold had nearly forgotten he was there. He swiveled his head and inspected him, slowly taking him in. The guy wasn’t as intimidating as he once was, despite the fury running through him. Which maybe he wasn’t to blame for. He had been the victim of a bread assault.

Harold pointed to a patch of whiskers above Renzo’s upper lip. “You missed a spot shaving, just so you know.”

“You need to walk away.”

Harold held his gaze long enough for Renzo to see that he wasn’t afraid of him, then twisted back to Alice. “You can do better than him. I hope you know that.”

Renzo forced a laugh.

Harold pointed at him, still looking into Alice’s green eyes. “This isn’t me trying to get you back. I’ve moved on. But I still want the best for you. And this guy, he’s not the best for you.” He let his eyes slide to the ring on her finger.

Renzo pushed away from the table and stepped toward Harold. He was a good six inches taller and probably had fifty more pounds of muscle. “You don’t know me.”

Other patrons were watching now.

“Don’t get in my face,” Harold said, feeling no fear.

“Is there a problem?” Renzo poked Harold in the chest. “You need to go back to your friends before you regret it.”

Harold inspected the impression the Italian Stallion’s index finger had left on his shirt. What to do? he wondered. The guy needed to be taught a lesson.

Then Renzo pushed him, two hands on Harold’s ribs.

That was it, the answer Harold had needed. Before he second-guessed himself, he struck Renzo in the stomach, and then popped him again, right in the cheek, two hard and fast jabs.

Harold and Alice both watched in shock as Renzo dropped to the ground, his head smacking the tile.

He was out cold.

Embarrassed.

Mortified.