And because he was Marcello, he kissed that finger, bit that finger, then gave me a wolfish grin. “Pizza.” He caught my hand, and pulled me inside the restaurant.

He caught my hand. I don’t even know if he knew he was doing it, it was so instinctual. My hand in his snapped me right back to the past, where I hardly went anywhere without my hand in his. Squeezing tightly while exploring the tide pools in Cadaques, or linked lazily while he explored my tummy with his tongue, it seemed to me now that our entire time together could be summed up by a simple hand holding.

Daniel never took my hand. And to be fair, I never took his, either. It never felt natural, holding hands with my husband. And how telling was that?

So into the chaos of Pizzarium Bonci I went, holding Marcello’s hand without a second thought, each finger knowing exactly where to go, comfortable and yet thrilling enough to make a stupid smile spread over my face.

Pizzarium Bonci was so small it could barely be called a restaurant. But I was beginning to learn that the tiniest spots in Rome tended to have the best food. This little pizza shop had three stools crowded around one little table, a stand-up bar on the window wall, and barely room for two people at the counter.

I’d never seen pizza like this before. Trays and trays of long, rectangular pizza, cut sideways almost like a French tartine, but thick and piled high with the most delicious-looking toppings. Traditional, with fresh mozzarella and basil and what looked like an incredible tomato sauce. Nontraditional, with figs and prosciutto and . . . was that mint? Foie gras, salsiccia, cherries, feta, cured black olives, capers, ricotta, Serrano ham, anything and everything that could be described as delicious was scattered across these beautiful pizzas in carefully paired concoctions.

But this was no quiet romantic spot; it was chaos. Cooks shouting from the kitchen, the guys behind the counter shouting to the customers in line, and the customers shouting back their orders to be heard over the din. It was loud, crazy, and wonderful.

Marcello was trying to ask me a question, but I could barely hear him.

“What did you say?” I asked, leaning closer to him with an expectant look on my face.

He laughed and tried again. “What . . . good . . . okay . . . me . . . decide?”

I shook my head with a laugh, gesturing around to indicate how hard it was to hear him.

He rolled his eyes, but leaned closer. And as he put his mouth right next to my ear, bringing us impossibly close once more, I shivered in spite of the overheated restaurant. “What looks good to you?”

Mmm, was that a loaded question, especially when accented by the puff of air from those beautiful lips on my suddenly frantic skin. I closed my eyes to ground myself.

“Or is okay for me to decide?”

Yes, you decide. You decide it all: the how, the when, the where, the how many times, and the how loud I’ll scream.

Careful, Avery . . .

Not trusting my voice, I nodded, pointing to what looked good, and he shouted it out, gesturing wildly along with the guy behind the counter. They went back and forth a few times, finally deciding on four pieces, all different kinds. He carried the slices wrapped in grease-dotted paper while I grabbed a couple of drinks from the cooler, and we headed out to the street where it was less chaotic, snagging a tiny table just outside the front door.

He handed me a piece. “Start with this, very traditional. Ricotta, zucchini flower, fresh mozzarella. You will love.”

I bit into it, gooey, stringy cheese pulling back on itself while I chewed away. I moaned. “Thif eh suh goo.”

Marcello nodded, taking his own monster bite. As he chewed, his eyes closed in an expression I knew very well. He was satisfied.

“What kind is that?”

“Spicy ham, fried onions, and a small bit of apple.”

I was surprised. “Apple?”

He lifted his slice to my mouth. “Bite.”

I did, and of course it was fabulous. I licked my lips slowly and sighed a little in appreciation. His eyes watched as my tongue darted out to catch a little spot of tomato sauce just below my bottom lip.

“Madonna mia,” he mumbled, leaning against the side of the building. It was nice to know I could still make him rock back on his heels.

“So, have you been in Rome since you finished up in Barcelona?” I asked, digging into another piece. Cherries, foie gras, and fresh basil. Heaven.

He chewed slowly and methodically; possibly weighing his options? He finally swallowed and said, “I stayed in Barcelona for another year.”

“Working?”

He nodded, then arched an eyebrow. “Not just working.”

“Oh.” Oh . . .

Well you didn’t think he just pined away for nine years, did you?

I bit into my pizza, chewing furiously now. “Where’d you go then?”

Amused by my reaction, he smiled. “I worked in Dubai for eighteen months, new construction mostly. Spent almost a year in Jerusalem, where I started getting more into the green technology, upcycling original materials when we could, then spent a few months in New York—”

He was in New York? He’d been that close to me and hadn’t . . . How could he have gotten in touch with you? And better still, why would he have gotten in touch with you?

“—and then got a line on a job back in Rome.”

All the places he’d been. All the things he must have seen. Once more I felt that little pang that reminded me of how one could live a life when they grabbed it by the balls and just went for it.

“And now you’re here,” I said, still amazed at everything he’d accomplished.

“And now you’re here.” His eyes met mine, searching, wondering.