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“There.”
His eyes meet mine.
“Perfect.”
A strange flutter erupts inside my stomach.
“You nervous?”
“No.”
His smile widens.
“You're a terrible liar.”
Heat floods my cheeks.
A moment later we're riding through the city.
At first I'm too scared to enjoy it.
The second the Vespa picks up speed, I wrap my arms around his waist and hold on for dear life.
Damiano laughs.
The sound vibrates through his back.
“Relax, Eleonora.”
“Easy for you to say!”
His laughter grows louder.
Eventually I do relax.
The wind plays with my hair.
The city glows gold beneath the setting sun.
And for the first time all day, I stop overthinking.
Maybe Chiara was right.
Maybe real life can be magical too.
A few minutes later we stop in front of a small Italian gelato shop, with little tables spilling onto the sidewalk beneath a striped awning and warm light glowing behind the windows. Even from outside, I can see rows of colorful gelato piled high behind the glass counter.
My eyes widen. “Gelato?”
Damiano looks offended.
“I'm Italian. Did you really think I was going to take you for American ice cream?”
I laugh. “Fair point.”
Twenty minutes later we're walking through a nearby park, gelato in hand.
The late summer evening has turned everything golden.
