Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“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.
What little breeze there was on our walk over to the café is gone now, melted away. Even with the sun still rising, the temperature creeps toward the triple digits. I pull my hair off my neck and tie it up in a high ponytail.
“Rome needs more swimming pools. I’m tempted to have you lead me back to the Trevi Fountain so I can pretend to fall into it and have myself a little dip to cool off.”
“We’re not far from the ocean. Next week, we’ll go to the beach.”
“I won’t survive a week in this.”
He laughs. “Here, let’s go in here and you can look for some gifts to send home.”