Kiss Me Goodnight in Rome (The Senior Semester Series Book 2) (10 page)

I grimace.

“Why?” she asks innocently.

“I’m just surprised to see you here is all.”

She barks out a laugh and looks down, her cheeks reddening. “Didn’t think I ever go out or have a life or anything?”

Shit. “What? No. I just meant at this club. Most of the guys who come here are just looking for a … you know, a one-night thing.” I shrug.

She won’t meet my eyes. “Is that why you’re here?”

Fuck. Really digging myself deeper, aren’t I? “No.”

“Okay.” She nods, finally meeting my eyes. “Well, it was nice to see you, but I should go find Lexi. Enjoy your night.” Her voice is sharp, curt. But her eyes are a bit unfocused, too shiny. Is she drunk?

“Wait.” I reach out, stopping her as she starts to turn away from me. “I’m glad to see you. I was just surprised that’s all. Don’t run off. Have a drink with me. I’m sure Lexi will come find you.”

She hesitates briefly and I smile at her, trying to look much calmer than I feel.

“Okay.” She shrugs.

“What are you drinking?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

I order two Negronis from the bartender, Marco, and tell him to add it to my tab. When our drinks arrive I push one in Mia’s direction.

“Cheers,” she says simply, raising her glass and taking a sip. She doesn’t grimace or make a face as she swallows, letting me know she’s definitely drunk more than she’s used to tonight. Marco always pours generously when I’m ordering.

“Cheers,” I reply, taking a long drink. I place my Negroni on the bar and watch her carefully. “I had no idea you could move like that. You’re an incredible dancer.”

She shrugs again, looking around, pretending to scope out the scene.

“Do you dance?” I try again.

“I used to.” Her voice is quiet. “Do you come here often?”

Deflecting. I laugh silently.
I’m the master of deflection, bellezza. Don’t think you’re getting off that easy.
I let it go for now. “Sometimes. My friends and I…” I nod toward the VIP booth “…used to come here a lot. They play good music.”

“Yeah,” Mia agrees. She fumbles in her purse suddenly, checking her phone. Her head snaps up and she looks around quickly.

“Everything okay?”

She sighs. “Lexi messaged. She left with Pietro.”

What the hell? What kind of a friend leaves her girl at the bar? But really, I guess I should be grateful to Lexi for literally leaving Mia in my hands.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get home,” I tell her, taking another swallow of my Negroni.

“Oh…” she waves a hand at me dismissively “…you don’t have to do that. I’m sure you have plans.” She eyes the VIP booth. “I’ll just grab a taxi.”

She’s stubborn. I smile at her. “It’s really okay. I’d rather hang with you.”

She looks up at me from beneath her long lashes. Her chocolate eyes are serious, sweet. Trusting in a way that’s too innocent for her own good. God, she’s beautiful. Pure. I could never leave her here with these vultures swarming around.

“Are you hungry?”

She shakes her head. “I’m fine.”

“You should really eat something after a night of partying.” I set my drink down next to hers. “Come on …” I hold out my hand and she takes it. Her skin is warm and soft and smooth. I squeeze her hand lightly. “I know a place.”

She laughs softly and follows me out of the club.

Chapter Eighteen

Mia

Lorenzo and I walk hand in hand to Angelina’s. I suppose I am a bit tipsy—okay, I’m drunk—as I stumble twice over the rough cobblestones. Both times, Lorenzo tightens his grip on my hand but doesn’t comment. And I’m grateful that he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a big deal out of the fact that I suck at holding my liquor. Lightweight, the girls call me. If only it was true in real life.

He pulls out a thick ring with various keys and unlocks the door to the restaurant, flipping on the lights. “Have a seat anywhere you’d like.” He smiles down at me.

I take a seat at the table closest to the kitchen as Lorenzo disappears inside. I’ve never been inside the restaurant before; I usually sit on the patio. I take a moment to look around, drink in the rustic look of the place: old, weather-beaten hardwood floors, tiny square tables covered in red-and-white checkered tablecloths, various sized black and white photographs framed on the walls. It’s exactly what one would picture a family-owned Italian restaurant to look like.

“Will you get in trouble?” I ask him when he peeks his head around the door to ask if I want wine. I nod, why not keep the good times rolling?

“For what?”

“For being here after hours? Opening the place up and making a drunken meal …”

He laughs and shakes his head. “No, Mama will be happy that I fed you.”

“Oh.” I blush and turn around, taking a greater interest in the framed photos, looking for signs of Lorenzo in the faces of his ancestors.

“I hope you’re hungry.” He disappears back in the kitchen, reemerging ten minutes later with two heaping plates of penne all’arrabiata. He sets the dishes down on one of the tables and pops back into the kitchen to grab utensils, half a loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine.

“Milady.” He bows to me, opening the wine bottle and pouring me a glass.

I giggle, charmed by his antics. “Grazie,” I say, raising the glass to him and taking a small sip. The wine is full-bodied and delicious. Check me out, already learning a thing or two about wine in my short time here. I close my eyes, savoring the taste.

“You like it?”

“Very much.”

“I’ll take you to the vineyard sometime.”

I open my eyes and stare at him. “Your family makes this wine?” Is he serious?

“Yeah. The vineyard is in Tuscany. We can go one weekend. Actually, I was supposed to go this weekend. You’ll like the wine tasting I’m sure.” He breaks a piece of bread off the end of the loaf and dunks it in the extra sauce on his plate, popping it in his mouth.

“What other types of businesses is your family into?”

He shrugs. “All sorts of stuff. Buon appetito.” He nods at my plate.

“Buon appetito,” I reply, picking up my fork and spearing a penne.

Lorenzo watches me expectantly. I’m tempted to ask if I have something on my face, but then I realize he wants to know if I like the food, enjoy his cooking.

“Mmm. This is delicious,” I tell him sincerely. And it is. The sauce is perfect—just spicy enough to have a kick but not enough to induce coughing. “Thank you.”

“Your welcome.” He takes a huge bite. “Do you like to cook?”

I push the pasta around my plate, spreading it out. How am I supposed to eat all of this? “Yeah, a bit. I’m not that good at it, but I find it relaxing.” How many cups of pasta is this? Easily three servings.

“Me too.” He nods enthusiastically. “Granted, Mama would never let me cook here, but at home every now and then I make a decent meal for dinner.”

I smile at him, eating another mouthful.
Slow down, Mia.
“Do you like working at the restaurant?”

Lorenzo shrugs. “It’s okay. Not really what I want to do with my life, but it’s important to my mama right now so …”

I nod to show my understanding. “So for now it works.”

“Exactly.”

“What would you prefer to do?”

He leans back in his chair, kicking his feet out the side of the table, propping one loafer on top of the other. “Something in business. I studied business at university and always thought I would go for an MBA. And now, now I don’t know.” He smiles at me, his blue eyes shining. “Sometimes I think it would be nice to get lost on one of the vineyards and work with wine all day.” He shrugs. “Pick grapes. Keep it simple.”

I laugh. “That sounds like a dream.”

He nods in agreement. “What about you? What are you majoring in?”

I falter momentarily. I’m majoring in dance, but how do I say that without talking about ballet? Claire always said I would regret being a dance major, that I should pick something real and practical like engineering or architecture. I’m sure she never pictured her words coming true in a situation like this, but here it is. I look down at the pasta, pushing pieces of penne around my plate, hiding them under the sauce. I look up and meet Lorenzo’s eyes so I can gauge his reaction when I tell him. “Dance. I’m a dance major.”

“Ah, no wonder you can move like that!” He laughs. “You really are amazing.”

I blush. “Thank you.”

“Do you want to become a professional dancer?”

Of course, now the questions will start. I look away. Damn it. “I did.” I look back at him. “I tore my ACL in the spring so …”

Understanding and compassion flash through his eyes as he reaches out a hand, covering my hand with the warmth of his. “That sucks, Mia. Was there a complication with the surgery?”

What? “No, surgery went fine.”

He shakes his head. “So why aren’t you back to dancing?”

I pull my hand out from beneath his. “It’s not that simple.”

His brow furrows. “It’s not? You have a passion, something that you love to do. You had a setback and you haven’t found your way back to it yet, why?”

I shrug, twisting a napkin around my index finger. “I’m here instead.”

He watches my face intently for a moment before nodding toward my plate. “Are you sure you like the pasta?”

“Very much.” I take another bite. How many hours of rehearsing a routine would it take to burn this off? And what am I supposed to do to burn it off now that there are no routines to rehearse?

The air between us is thick with tension. We eat in silence for several moments before Lorenzo breaks it. I’m grateful that he does.

“I didn’t mean to press you about dance. It’s just that, when you’re lucky enough to actually discover your passion, and then succeed at it, you shouldn’t give it up for anything. Ever.” His eyes flash, the color of cobalt, and I avert my gaze, staring down at the pasta, the carbohydrates, that are going to coat the inside of my body with fat.

“I’ll be right back with dessert.” He smiles, pushing back from the table.

Oh God, dessert?

Chapter Nineteen

Lorenzo

I push the door to the kitchen open, taking a moment to lean against the stove and run my hand over my face. This is not going the way I expected. Mia. God, she’s so frustrating. I’ve only seen her dance in a club, and even I can tell she’s seriously talented. And to throw that away because of a surgery? There has to be more to the story.

And, I don’t think she likes my pasta. Which is fine. But not really, because it’s the only thing I actually make well. She barely had four bites. Did the conversation throw her off? Is she nervous? Someone who consumed as much alcohol as she did tonight should be scarfing down seconds, not daintily eating one penne at a time.

I sigh, turning toward the refrigerator and removing four cannoli. I arrange them neatly on a plate.

“Mia,” I call out. “Do you like espresso?” I’ve only ever seen her drink caffé lattes. “Or would you prefer a caffé latte?”

“Oh …” She sounds startled, and I hear her chair scrape against the floor. “Sure, let me help.” Moments later, her back pushes through the kitchen door, and I note that she has stacked our plates and is helping clear off the table.

I smile. I don’t think any girl I’ve ever been on a date with has ever offered to help. With anything. Ever. Not that I’ve ever taken a girl on a date to Mama’s restaurant before … but still. It’s sweet. She’s sweet. My frustration toward Mia evaporates as I rush over to help her with the plates.

“Thanks.” She smiles. “It was really delicious.”

So maybe she did enjoy it but isn’t a big eater? Or maybe I really do make her nervous. That thought has me grinning.

“How about some cannoli?” I indicate the plate.

“Oh.” She places a hand over her stomach. “Thank you, Lorenzo, really. But I’m super full. Maybe next time?”

“Okay,” I agree, swiping a cannoli off the plate and biting into it.
Stop pushing, Lorenzo.

Mia leans against the refrigerator door. “I’ll take you up on that espresso though.” She smiles and I relax a bit more.

Espresso I can handle.

We actually end up enjoying espresso and dessert in the kitchen, which is something I never imagined doing with Mia. Or anyone. There are no expectations, no demands, no comparisons. Just Mia and me, hanging out, talking. It’s effortless. And normal. Just not a normal I’m used to.

Our conversation shifts to family and friends. Mia tells me more about her father and stepmother, Claire. She grimaces as she says Claire’s name, so I guess they’re not close. But can I blame her? I try and imagine if Mama remarried. I would dislike the guy no matter who he is. She lights up when she talks about her best friends—Maura, Emma, and Lila—and all the fun they have living together at university. I’m glad to hear she has friends, a life, outside of dance. Because other than those three girls, everything she shares about her life, her time at university, revolves around rehearsals, auditions, and practices. It sounds exhausting. Maybe I was too quick to judge and this break from dance, this opportunity to come to Rome, is good for her.

I stifle a laugh as I realize that this is the first time I’ve ever cared if something is in the best interest of my date. Usually, I just want them to quit talking and start sucking. It amazes me that I’m actually enjoying talking to Mia, listening to her, studying the various expressions that cross her face.

I’m watching her talk, the way her hair tumbles past her shoulders, how her hands gesture with her words when she’s excited, the tiny gold flecks in her chocolate eyes, and I realize that she’s mesmerizing. This normal, ordinary, American girl is so much more than Giulietta or Caterina or the dozen other girls that swarm around my social circle. And she doesn’t even know it. I’m so absorbed by her presence that I miss what she’s saying.

“Lorenzo?” she repeats.

I shuffle forward from my resting spot on the stove. “Sorry?”

“I think I need to get going.” She smiles. “It’s pretty late. But thank you for tonight. This…” she gestures around the kitchen “…was really cool.”

I nod. “Anytime. Let me walk you home.”