Page 103 of Valentino

I find one of Valentino's shirts folded on top of a small dresser and pull it on. It hangs to the middle of my thighs. I roll the sleeves three times and they still swallow my hands.

The kitchen is small enough that Valentino seems to take up most of it.

He's got the moka pot on the burner and a loaf of bread on the counter.

I stop in the doorway and watch him work.

"You're staring," he says without turning around.

"You're interesting," I tell him. "It's a small apartment. The entertainment options are limited."

He huffs a laugh and slides a cup of espresso across the counter.

"Sit."

"Bossy."

"Sit, please."

I blink.

"Wow. Growth."

I climb onto a stool and wrap both hands around the cup. The coffee is dark, bitter, and perfect. The smell of toasted bread and olive oil fills the apartment, and my stomach chooses that exact moment to announce itself.

Valentino glances over. "Cristo." He shakes his head and cracks two eggs into a pan with one hand, which should not be attractive and somehow is.

"You'll eat all of it."

"Or what? You'll threaten me?"

"Or I'll feed you myself, and you'll like that worse."

"Will I, though?"

The look he sends over his shoulder is dark and amused and full of promises.

I bury my smile in the espresso.

A few minutes later he slides a plate in front of me. Through the window behind him, Rome is doing its best impression of a postcard. Terracotta rooftops. Laundry lines. A church bell ringing somewhere in the distance.

And suddenly I realize I have absolutely no idea what any of it is.

"You know what's funny?" I ask.

"What?"

"I've never been to Rome."

The bread knife stops.

Valentino turns around slowly.

"That's impossible."

"It's actually very possible."

"You've been to Italy—" He sets the knife down. "How many times?"