Page 81 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“Ah, okay, well, maybe I need to get Bianca a cat. Thought I’d consult her first.”

“And there it is, proof you’re growing.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you named the mouse.”

“Of course I did. I know his cousin back in Arizona.”

“Sir Parm’s cousin? Who is it, King Cheddar?” She took a long sip.

“Close. Mr. Nutz.”

Sandy spit out her Lambrusco, blew it into the air in a mist, then slapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry. Did I get you?”

Far from annoyed, George looked down at the splatter on his shirt.

“I can’t believe I did that,” she said.

“I’d be the victim of your uncontrolled laughter any day of the week.”

She poured sparkling water onto her napkin, then stood and rounded the table to lean down and blot out the wine marks. Her scent was intoxicating, the kind that can’t be described. Her dress fell open at the top, and he turned away so as not to do exactly what he wanted to do.

When she finished dabbing at his shirt, she sat back down, a slight grin on her face. He couldn’t get enough of her, and he matched her grin, and they both held it for a long while.

“Why Bologna?” George finally asked, his entire body buzzing with something that felt like love. “You haven’t told me. Of all the places in the world. I get that you were running away from some tough life stuff. But how did you choose this city?”

She sighed and thought about it awhile, twisting the stem of her glass. “I knew it had to be Italy. I’ve always been mesmerized by it, since my first visit to Rome when I was a kid. And like Bianca, I studied Italian and lived with a family here my sophomore year at the University of Florida.”

“Does she know that?”

“I don’t know, but I also wanted to return one day.” Then she plowed ahead. “It’s a great city, you know. Off the beaten track enough that you don’t hear English spoken around every turn. The food speaks for itself. The weather’s great.”

“Is it?”

“No, the weather isn’t great. But when you catch a good day, there’s nothing like it.”

“Are you here for life?” George asked, thinking that he’d love to drag her back to Arizona. Maybe sell the country club house and return to Phoenix.

“I don’t think so. Lisbon’s been on my mind lately. I’m ready for a change. New scenery.”

“You’d sell the bookstore, the only English bookstore?”

“Sell it? I highly doubt anyone wants to buy my failing bookstore.”

“They would if you sold pancakes and American-flag Speedos.”

Her lips turned up. “Ah, is this when you yet again bestow more of your bookselling wisdom upon me?”

“I was thinking about a franchise. The Only English Bookstore in Rome next. I like your smile. You don’t do that enough, you know.”

Saying it seemed to kill the mood, and George regretted shining a spotlight on her. “Don’t stop.”

She fidgeted with the napkin on her lap. Finally, she asked, “Can we go back to Mr. Nutz? I want to hear more.”

“I better ask for a smock first.” He glanced down at the wine splatter drying on his shirt. He rolled up his left sleeve. “You see these?” He pointed at the healing punctures from where the rake had gotten him. He’d finally been able to remove the bandage for good. “Battle wounds. From fighting Mr. Nutz.”

“You have to be kidding me. I remember seeing that bandage around your arm.” She reached across the table and ran her fingers over the scabs.

Her touch made it hard to concentrate. He finally said, “We have it out for each other. He’s even broken into the house before. Mostly, though, he’s after the birdseed, so I’m working on a new design, a Mr.-Nutz-proof feeder.”

“I have to give you this, George. You’re definitely one of a kind. How did he do that to your arm?”