Lorenzo’s expression remains open and guileless. “It’s just a cup of coffee. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”
I immediately contradict him. “No. No he may not.”
There’s a long tense moment of silence, a cowboy standoff sans pistols, then finally, Lorenzo smiles and claps Noah on the shoulder. “I’ll have your dear Audrey back here in one piece before lunch. You have my word.”
I shoot daggers at Noah. Happy now?
His harsh expression doesn’t ease. Whatever his objective was with that little tirade, he didn’t achieve it. He’s as grumpy as ever as Lorenzo leads me through the courtyard gate and out onto the street.
Our date has officially commenced.
Let the good times roll.
The happy jitters should be starting up any moment now.
Hey, butterflies, where ya at?
“You’re walking pretty fast,” Lorenzo tells me.
“Oh, am I?”
He laughs. “Yeah, and we missed our turn back there. Here, let’s double back.”
Right. Crap.
I force a laugh. “Sorry. Just…antsy to get to the coffee shop.”
In truth, I need to burn off some energy. I feel like I could go three rounds in the ring with Stone Cold Steve Austin and still be hungry for blood.
As we walk, Lorenzo talks to me about Julius Caesar and the fall of the Roman Republic, and my impersonation of Girl Listening could get me short-listed for a spot on SNL.
I wish I could march right back to St. Cecilia’s and give Noah a piece of my mind. Who does he think he is embarrassing me like that? I don’t need a minder or a babysitter or a big brother. I’m an adult woman with a stellar track record when it comes to steering clear of creeps. Take Noah, for example—I know to avoid him like the plague. I can spot an asshole from a mile away, and Lorenzo is not one of them.
“Here we are,” he says, reaching to take my hand to stop my forward momentum.
I look down at where our hands touch. It’s jarring, though it shouldn’t be. I just haven’t held hands with someone in a while. I tell myself it’s a sweet gesture for a first date. A little show of interest never hurt anyone. He squeezes it once and then lets it go with a bashful smile.
“Breakfast is on me. But you must try the zeppole donuts.”
“Sounds delicious.”
The small coffee shop is packed. Either locals flock here by the dozen or word has spread to tourists. We stand in line for a while to put in our order, and I take in all the people jammed in with us, catching stray pieces of conversation. No two accents are the same.
What few tables there are have all been claimed, leaving standing room only. We take our cappuccinos to the bar at the window and squeeze in between two groups.
“Is this okay?” Lorenzo asks me.
“It’s great,” I assure him.
“It’s not usually so busy. Before the sun is better. Tourists like to sleep in.”
A waiter comes around and deposits two heaping plates of zeppole in front of us. I realize immediately that they’re Italy’s take on donut holes. The fried dough balls are piled so high they threaten to topple. The ones on my plate are sprinkled with powdered sugar and practically melt in my mouth. Then Lorenzo gestures toward his plate, and I nearly pass out once I realize they’re filled with cannoli-style pastry cream.
“Good?” he asks.
“Amazing.”
They pair so well with my cappuccino and I’ve cleared my fair share of them in no time, much to my stomach’s dismay. The slight ache is well worth it though.
“How long have you been coming here?” I ask as I push my plate away.
“Since my early twenties. I went to school here in Rome.”
“But you didn’t grow up here?”
“No. I’m from a city to the northeast about two hours called L’Aquila.”
“Are your parents still there?”
“Yes, and my grandparents. Brother. Sister. My nieces and nephews.”
“Wow. No one ever moved away?”
He shakes his head. “They all work at the L’Aquila museum and at a small hotel nearby that my grandfather opened almost fifty years ago. The hotel is small and mainly caters to Italian tourists who come to tour the museum. It has a collection of Roman inscriptions and some illuminated service books. Outside of the town is the Fontana delle novantanove cannelle, a fountain that was constructed in 1272. Still today no one knows who built it. I spent my summers as a boy giving tours at the museum and the fountain.”
“Do you miss it?”
He shrugs. “I visit often.”
Two old women interrupt our conversation to say hi to Lorenzo. Their rapid-fire Italian is impossible to follow for someone who only knows a handful of words, but I listen and smile. Lorenzo gestures to me, and I hear my name sprinkled into the conversation. The women smile at me too, nodding hello before they take their coffee to go.
“Friends of yours?”
He blushes. “They know my family. They check up on me every now and then, report back. I’m sure my mom will be calling me in less than an hour, asking me about the bellissima woman I was having coffee with.”
My cheeks are two red flames.
“Then, she’ll lay into me with all the important questions. Is she Italian? Is she a good Catholic girl? Is she ready to settle down and give me grandchildren?”
I could choke.
Lorenzo chuckles and nudges my shoulder with his, a reminder to lighten up.
“You’ve got some powdered sugar on your lip,” he says, gesturing.
I lick it off and he watches me do it, his tongue practically lolling out of his mouth. He doesn’t bother hiding his true feelings. His thoughts are written right across his face, and it’s a heady thing to know I have this man’s full attention.
Now who needs to lighten up?
I realize how close we’re standing, almost hip to hip in the crowded café.
“Should we walk?” I ask, finishing off the last of my drink.
It’s suddenly stifling in here. I feel overheated from the coffee and the crowd.