Page 80 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

She was breaking, and he scrambled to figure out how to play it from here. In the end, he decided he’d made himself clear and wasn’t going to beg.

“Okay, I tried. And I’ll leave it alone now.” There was no denying that he felt slightly angry, though. She was ignoring something that was pretty damn magical between them. “Don’t worry about paying me. I’m always happy to lend a hand. So long, Sandy.”

He headed for the door.

Her heels tapped as she followed him. “You’d regret it. You’d regret going to lunch with me.”

He stopped but didn’t turn around.

Sandy came up beside him. “Do you hear me?”

Finally, he said, “I’m afraid we’re at a crossroads here. I’ve made it clear where I am in all this. Now it’s your turn.” He felt a tremendous pride in himself. Enough of being pushed and pulled. She stood staring at him, her thoughts seemingly ablaze.

Finally, she began to soften, her pupils easing up, her stance less rigid. And he knew—sort of—that he had her. He also knew that she liked confidence.

On that note, he stepped to the door and pulled it open, then held it for her. “Do you need to grab your purse?”

Her mouth slowly opened in what he surmised was surprise.

“Chop, chop,” he said, his bravado rising.

She bit her bottom lip, starting a nod, which slowly morphed into a headshake. Then she did it, walked by him straight out the door. “I don’t need my purse, because you’re buying.”

Dammit if he didn’t smile wider than he had in twenty years.

Chapter 20

Regretti Spaghetti

“Sir Parm?” Sandy said. “You named him?” What was it about the bookstore that made her shut down the way she did? Here at this cozy spot near Porta Saragozza, she was a different person, pulling George deeper under her spell with every moment.

They sat at an outdoor table. The sun hid behind a building, offering some relief from the heat. She’d ordered a Pellegrino and a bottle of Lambrusco. They both glanced at the menus as they spoke and enjoyed their first sips.

“Of course I named him,” George said. “He’s become a major part of my life. A week in, and I still can’t catch him. He won’t eat cheap cheese either. So I have to get the good stuff—hence the name. But he has a knack for stealing the piece without triggering the trap, no matter how I place it.”

“Bested by a mouse.”

“That’s right.”

“My cat won’t eat unless I cover his food with parm.”

“The good stuff?”

“This isn’t the Olive Garden, George. Yes, the good stuff.”

He set down the menu. He was in no rush. “These animals, who do they think they are?”

A smattering of joy rose on her face. Ah, how sweet you are, he thought.

At his urging, Sandy told him about her cat, Nicolo, who she’d found during the construction of the bookstore. You would have thought she was talking about her favorite nephew, the way she gushed.

“Can I borrow him?” George asked after a while. “To go after Sir Parm.”

Her eyebrows crinkled. “No, you can’t borrow him.”

“Can I rent him?”

“You couldn’t afford him.”