Roman Crazy
Page 84
“We’re proud of you, sweetheart,” Dad said, his eyes watery.
“We thought it might happen. Daniel said you seemed very happy.”
“Excuse me?”
They explained that they’d seen him—and a guest—and his parents at the club one night, and he’d stopped to talk with them. I was pleasantly surprised and grateful to Daniel for taking the high road after everything.
“He also said that he felt that there might be someone you’d been seeing in Rome . . .” My mother let her voice trail off, hoping that I might pick up that little nugget and run with it.
I smiled.
As did she. “I see. And does your staying have anything to do with him?” She nudged my father.
I sighed. “I’d be lying if I said no—”
“We’re happy if you’re happy,” my father finished, smiling the way a father does when he knows his little girl is in love.
I felt that balloon swell up inside my chest. “His name is Marcello. He works at the same firm as Daisy. He’s an architect, handsome and Italian.”
My mother made a show of fanning herself.
“You’ll meet him when you visit—which I hope is soon.”
“Well check the calendar and send you some dates that might work. We don’t want to cut into your busy Roman life, but expect us for at least two weeks.”
“Months,” my mother corrected.
“Looks like it’ll be months,” Daddy said, with a pat on her hand. “Maybe we’ll zoom around the countryside by ourselves for a few days.” He gave her the smile that as a kid I’d rolled my eyes at, but secretly loved that he still looked at her that way.
Her cheeks pinked. “Four weeks,” she said.
Before we signed off, I promised my mother that I’d call more often.
* * *
A FEW NIGHTS LATER I got to Marcello’s a bit late, staying after a new art class I’d joined to finish up a piece I was working on. Trying to capture the rich tones of a Roman sunset over the Colosseum was difficult with colored pencils, yet it was still incredible. I zoomed up the stairs quickly, hating that I had kept him waiting when he was cooking me dinner. My God, that man could cook . . .
I opened the door and was greeted by the scent of basil, oregano, garlic, and something a little spicy. Candles glittered on the table and were scattered on the kitchen counter and above the fireplace.
Marcello, whose back was to me, was concentrating on the dinner he was preparing, and I let out a whistle of appreciation. “Looks like someone is getting seduced tonight,” I teased.
He started, then turned slowly. “Tesoro, I did not hear you come in.” His grin lit up the room, even more than all the candles. “And a seduction?” The grin changed to a cheeky smirk. “That was going to happen as soon as I asked you to dinner . . . and you said yes.”
“You’re feeling a bit full of yourself tonight.” I chuckled, setting down my bag and shrugging out of my jacket. He caught me up around the waist, surprising me while my arms were still stuck in their sleeves.
“You will be feeling a bit full of me, too, later on, no?” He bumped his hips into mine, in case his meaning was in anyway unclear. I loved it when he was like this, so cocksure and charming.
“If you play your cards right,” I teased. “So what’s for dinner?”
“Osso bucco, with a lobster risotto and roasted brussels sprouts. And to start with, of course, a pasta.”
“Good lord, all of that in one sitting?”
“Ah yes, we are celebrating tonight. This requires something a little special.” Before I could ask what we were celebrating, he kissed me, slow, long, and deep.
When he released me, I struggled to catch my breath. He flashed me a smirk and swatted me on my behind as he headed back into the kitchen.
“What in the world has gotten into you tonight?” My legs were a bit shaky from his kisses, and I sat down on one of the barstools at the kitchen island. I’d learned not to get in his way when he was cooking. I could make coffee and help with dishes, but when it came to meal prep, the man was a machine.
I leaned over and snuck an artichoke heart from the platter when he wasn’t looking.
“You think I did not see that?” He laughed, looking over his shoulder at me and crooking an eyebrow. “You stole my heart.”
“Oh boy, you are pouring it on thick tonight. We must be celebrating something big.” There was definitely something in the air tonight. Marcello was practically vibrating with excitement as he moved around, tossing this into a pan and that into another pot. A handful of thick fresh pappardelle went into the pasta pot, and a pan positively shimmered with olive oil, garlic, and . . . holy cannoli, was that a white truffle?
As he shaved the tiniest of slivers into the pan, I was instantly hit with the rich, heady aroma of sizzling truffle. “Forget your news—just put that in my mouth right now.”
“What is that American saying: that is what she said?”
“I literally couldn’t love you more.” I laughed as his ears pinked up. He tossed the pan around a bit, letting the garlic and olive oil coat the truffles.
“So, remember the proposal I was working on, for the job in Rio de Janeiro?” He expertly flipped the food into the air and caught it, not spilling even one drop.
“Sure—the new opera house built within the old one, right?”
“That is the one,” he said, lifting forkfuls of the wide ribbons of pappardelle from the pot. He tossed it into the hot oil and garlic, using tongs to stir it around. He looked up at me through a haze of yummy steam. “We got the bid.”
“We thought it might happen. Daniel said you seemed very happy.”
“Excuse me?”
They explained that they’d seen him—and a guest—and his parents at the club one night, and he’d stopped to talk with them. I was pleasantly surprised and grateful to Daniel for taking the high road after everything.
“He also said that he felt that there might be someone you’d been seeing in Rome . . .” My mother let her voice trail off, hoping that I might pick up that little nugget and run with it.
I smiled.
As did she. “I see. And does your staying have anything to do with him?” She nudged my father.
I sighed. “I’d be lying if I said no—”
“We’re happy if you’re happy,” my father finished, smiling the way a father does when he knows his little girl is in love.
I felt that balloon swell up inside my chest. “His name is Marcello. He works at the same firm as Daisy. He’s an architect, handsome and Italian.”
My mother made a show of fanning herself.
“You’ll meet him when you visit—which I hope is soon.”
“Well check the calendar and send you some dates that might work. We don’t want to cut into your busy Roman life, but expect us for at least two weeks.”
“Months,” my mother corrected.
“Looks like it’ll be months,” Daddy said, with a pat on her hand. “Maybe we’ll zoom around the countryside by ourselves for a few days.” He gave her the smile that as a kid I’d rolled my eyes at, but secretly loved that he still looked at her that way.
Her cheeks pinked. “Four weeks,” she said.
Before we signed off, I promised my mother that I’d call more often.
* * *
A FEW NIGHTS LATER I got to Marcello’s a bit late, staying after a new art class I’d joined to finish up a piece I was working on. Trying to capture the rich tones of a Roman sunset over the Colosseum was difficult with colored pencils, yet it was still incredible. I zoomed up the stairs quickly, hating that I had kept him waiting when he was cooking me dinner. My God, that man could cook . . .
I opened the door and was greeted by the scent of basil, oregano, garlic, and something a little spicy. Candles glittered on the table and were scattered on the kitchen counter and above the fireplace.
Marcello, whose back was to me, was concentrating on the dinner he was preparing, and I let out a whistle of appreciation. “Looks like someone is getting seduced tonight,” I teased.
He started, then turned slowly. “Tesoro, I did not hear you come in.” His grin lit up the room, even more than all the candles. “And a seduction?” The grin changed to a cheeky smirk. “That was going to happen as soon as I asked you to dinner . . . and you said yes.”
“You’re feeling a bit full of yourself tonight.” I chuckled, setting down my bag and shrugging out of my jacket. He caught me up around the waist, surprising me while my arms were still stuck in their sleeves.
“You will be feeling a bit full of me, too, later on, no?” He bumped his hips into mine, in case his meaning was in anyway unclear. I loved it when he was like this, so cocksure and charming.
“If you play your cards right,” I teased. “So what’s for dinner?”
“Osso bucco, with a lobster risotto and roasted brussels sprouts. And to start with, of course, a pasta.”
“Good lord, all of that in one sitting?”
“Ah yes, we are celebrating tonight. This requires something a little special.” Before I could ask what we were celebrating, he kissed me, slow, long, and deep.
When he released me, I struggled to catch my breath. He flashed me a smirk and swatted me on my behind as he headed back into the kitchen.
“What in the world has gotten into you tonight?” My legs were a bit shaky from his kisses, and I sat down on one of the barstools at the kitchen island. I’d learned not to get in his way when he was cooking. I could make coffee and help with dishes, but when it came to meal prep, the man was a machine.
I leaned over and snuck an artichoke heart from the platter when he wasn’t looking.
“You think I did not see that?” He laughed, looking over his shoulder at me and crooking an eyebrow. “You stole my heart.”
“Oh boy, you are pouring it on thick tonight. We must be celebrating something big.” There was definitely something in the air tonight. Marcello was practically vibrating with excitement as he moved around, tossing this into a pan and that into another pot. A handful of thick fresh pappardelle went into the pasta pot, and a pan positively shimmered with olive oil, garlic, and . . . holy cannoli, was that a white truffle?
As he shaved the tiniest of slivers into the pan, I was instantly hit with the rich, heady aroma of sizzling truffle. “Forget your news—just put that in my mouth right now.”
“What is that American saying: that is what she said?”
“I literally couldn’t love you more.” I laughed as his ears pinked up. He tossed the pan around a bit, letting the garlic and olive oil coat the truffles.
“So, remember the proposal I was working on, for the job in Rio de Janeiro?” He expertly flipped the food into the air and caught it, not spilling even one drop.
“Sure—the new opera house built within the old one, right?”
“That is the one,” he said, lifting forkfuls of the wide ribbons of pappardelle from the pot. He tossed it into the hot oil and garlic, using tongs to stir it around. He looked up at me through a haze of yummy steam. “We got the bid.”
