Page 33 of Roguefinder

The sun had chased away the rain, and the market was busy as Caleb and I wandered the stalls. Canvas awnings shielded piles of vegetables, towers of cheese, and rows of cured meats. The scent of garlic, citrus, and olive oil hung thick in the air.

Caleb stopped in his tracks and gazed lovingly at a cafe on the corner. “Coffee.”

I bought two espressos at the bar. Caleb stared at his like I’d handed him a thimble.

“This is it?”

“In Rome, yes.”

He knocked it back, then gave me an expectant look. “I played tight end. That was like a baby Tylenol.”

I turned to the man behind the counter, who watched Caleb like he observed an absurd but entertaining stage production. “Un cappuccino, per favore.”

We returned to the market, where Caleb moaned between sips while I loaded up on groceries. Tomatoes the size of my fist. Fresh basil in fat, fragrant bunches. A small jar of capers. Two bags of pasta from a woman who insisted I take a third.

When her eyes wandered to Caleb, she handed me a fourth and spoke so quickly that I didn’t catch everything. But I caught enough, and I smiled as I paid.

“What did she say?” Caleb asked when we’d wandered a few steps.

“She called you big.” I raised my eyebrows as I tucked my wallet away. “With muscles like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

He turned back to the woman and grinned. “Tell her she has excellent taste.”

I raised my voice and translated. The woman, who was probably in her late seventies, blushed and called out, “Molto bello!”

Caleb’s grin spread. “I understood that.”

We moved down the stalls, and he charmed vendors like he was running for public office. A middle-aged woman in a floral apron offered him slices of parmesan.

Caleb pressed a hand to his heart as he chewed. “Best thing I’ve ever eaten,” he mumbled. He swallowed, then offered her a dazzling smile. “Grazie.”

The woman beamed and cut him several more slices.

“Did I say it right?” he asked when we’d moved away.

I suppressed a snort. “Yes. But I think you could have spoken Portuguese and she would have been okay with it.”

An olive oil vendor with a salt and pepper mustache served samples in little ceramic cups. When Caleb started forward, I caught his arm.

“You don’t have to drink⁠—”

He grabbed the first cup and drained it. When he came up coughing, the man gave him an approving nod.

Caleb ran his finger around the inside of the cup and sucked it clean. “Damn, that’s good.” He leaned over the stall’s counter. “Got any others?”

Five minutes later, we walked away with three bottles. Caleb’s conquests continued, netting him paper-thin slices of prosciutto, wedges of cheese, and a heel of bread slicked with honey and sprinkled with rosemary.

He stopped in the middle of the street and closed his eyes, his jaw working.

“You okay?” I asked.

He opened his eyes. “We’re moving to Italy.”

I hefted the bag of groceries I’d purchased. “You’re not going to be hungry.”

“I’ll be hungry.”

Twenty minutes later, I’d secured fresh chicken breasts and two bottles of red wine. As we headed back to the house, Caleb pulled a cannoli from somewhere and ate half of it in a single bite. When he caught me looking, he swallowed quickly and wiped his mouth.