He fell silent, thinking. When he finally spoke, he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “No, I did not. I never thought I would see you again.” When he saw my face fall, he reached out and tenderly, so tenderly, brushed my cheek with his fingertips. “I didn’t say I didn’t think about you. I have, many times through the years. I wondered, where is she? Is she happy? Is she in love? Is she painting?” The faintest hint of hope flashed through his face. “Does she have children?”

I was struck with a sudden vision, walking hand in hand down the same streets we’d walked tonight. His other arm cradled a sleeping toddler, a toddler with my curly hair and Marcello’s warm brown eyes. I walked beside his father, holding his hand, while the other rested on my belly, round and full. The force of this vision made me shiver, so fully formed and complete it was a wonder that my mind had never shared it with me before, keeping hidden the possibility of what my life might be like if this man, this right man for me, wandered back into it.

I hadn’t let myself consider children again, not in years. What did it mean that I could envision it again, even for just a moment?

But before things could get too serious, that wolfish grin was back.

“I wondered if there was a man in your bed who could make you laugh right before he made you sigh.”

“No,” I answered honestly, laughing. Then sighing. To his great satisfaction. We finished our drink, asked for our meal to go, paid the man, and hurried home.

I REMEMBER READING AN ARTICLE in a cooking magazine once about the art of the Italian meal. Everyone had their special recipes tucked away, of course, usually handed down generation to generation, but that in summertime the heat would keep many out of their kitchens. Taking advantage of the wonderful markets around every corner, people would leave the cooking to the experts when the stifling summer temperatures hovered above eighty-six degrees, and today had been no exception.

So I did what all good Romans did. I opted to let someone else cook. I cruised the market on the way home, scooping up container after container of prepared salads, roasted vegetables, a few different kinds of beautiful cheese, and a box full of decadent pastries. Schlepping everything home on the bus had been an adventure, but I’d managed it without spilling one morsel. Proud of myself for navigating the city, with packages no less, I allowed myself a little extra strut as I made my way into the courtyard of Daisy’s apartment building, greeting neighbors like I’d been doing it for years.

Marcello was coming. Also, he’d be having dinner . . .

* * *

THERE WAS A KNOCK at the door a few minutes past seven, just as I was slipping into a fresh linen dress, sleeveless and airy. I tucked a few flyaway hairs back up into my messy bun and padded to the door. Taking a final look at everything I’d set out, I smiled and opened the door.

“Tesoro, I—” he started to say, but then stopped as the door widened further and he could peek inside. “Tesoro,” he said again, his slow smile matching my own.

I’d lit candles, candles, and more candles. I’d practically cleaned out a stall or two at the market. Tealights, tapers, tall and fat and short and stubby—I’d set candles on every flat surface in the entire apartment and the effect was exactly as intended. I’d created a little wonderland, and who didn’t look extra sexy in a wonderland lit by candlelight?

“Come in,” I whispered, my pulse beginning to beat faster just for seeing him, my skin pebbling in anticipation of his touch.

“Beautiful,” he told me, looking all around at the flickering light but only speaking when his gaze came to rest back on me. And what’s this?

“You brought me flowers,” I said as he handed me a nosegay of ruby-colored sweet peas and baby pink primrose, gathered with a bit of lace to hold them together. “You’re spoiling me.”

“You are meant to be spoiled,” he replied, stepping into the apartment and closing the door. Reaching out, he gathered me into his arms, crushing me against his chest. “I missed you today.” He bent his head, nuzzling my neck and inhaling deeply.

“You did?” Sighing, I wrapped my arms around him, twisting my hands into his hair, feeling the silky strands between my fingers.

I could feel him nodding against my skin. He dropped kisses along the column of my throat and up to my jawline, moving back along toward my ear. “I missed this face.”

“This face?” I said, although to be fair it was more like a squeak. Now I could feel him smiling against my skin.

“This face,” he echoed, dropping kisses on both of my cheeks. He continued kissing whatever he’d missed. “This mouth” kiss, “this neck” kiss, “this shoulder” kiss. His hands that were tight on my hips now moved down, slipping across my bottom and giving it a squeeze. “This beautiful sedere.”

“Good God, did I miss listening to you speak Italian,” I murmured in his ear, nipping at the skin just below. “You could make me come apart just with your voice.”

Words, filthy words, words like scopare and limonare and dolce figa spoke to me in a voice that I’d dreamed of for years yet knew I’d likely never hear again outside of my own perfect memories. He kissed me stupid, pushing us, guiding us both back into the apartment and onto the couch, where my dress was promptly pulled up and my new lingerie was revealed.

“Woman, what are you wearing?”

I raised up on my elbows and looked at him innocently. “Oh, this?” I lifted my bottom and pulled the dress up and over my head, tossing it across the room so he could get the full effect.