6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

O kay, so it seemed they did make one-seater vehicles.

They were not cars, though. They were motorbikes. And Donvino owned one. A raggedy old Suzuki with rusty exhaust pipes, a cracked windshield, and a tiny hole in the seat. I circled the motorbike as a mother would her daughter's prom date, unsure of just how safe this thing was and if it were to be trusted. Even the saddlebags seemed ready to fall to threads.

"She runs good," Donvino said, again, as he waited patiently, spare helmet in his hand, for me to get on or at least nod. "I fix myself. When I buy her from my friend she is sputtering bad, coughing big, but is only for bad fuel. Now she goes like cheetah."

I gave him a long look—one that showed my skepticism. "I'm not really sure," I finally confessed, my sight flicking from the edible man in jeans and a tee—and my did they fit him well—to the Suzuki balanced on a rickety-looking kickstand. I'd never been a fan of two-wheeled anything ever since I took that header off my handlebars while trying to learn how to ride a bike. Yes, it had been twenty years ago, but that kind of upper lip trauma stayed with a soul as sensitive as mine. Also, I wasn't sure I was dressed for motorbiking. I'd pulled on some dressy shorts, a short-sleeved shirt of robin's egg blue, and a dark blue corset. Donvino had given me a long, long, long perusal when I had burst out of the front door to greet him as he pushed his bike up the driveway. He was proving hard to read. My gaydar was confusingly silent, and that was making me edgy.

"If it runs so well, why did you push it to the front door?" I asked, my gaze resting on that seat. Had something moved in it? No, surely not. It was just a trick of the sunlight peeking through the swaying tendrils of a willow.

"Signora does not like the sound of a motorbike, so I turn her off in the street and then push to the shed," he explained, the wind of the river ruffling his hair slightly. He'd showered after his workout and then had spent time in the garden, scrubbing bird baths and mowing the lawn with a push mower that was easily as old as Ginerva. It was one of those reel mowers with blades that spun in circles. Not that I had been sitting on my patio making social media posts while he had been working down below, my attention drifting from showing the world how wonderful my trip had been—lies all of it but everyone lied on social media—to his powerful arms bulging as he pushed the mower back and forth. It was hard to even focus on a good selfie, what with my eyes trained on the hunk in the Ferrari Racing Team tee.

"Hmmm," I replied, tapping my lip as I gave the bike one final lap. "Okay, we'll try it. You do have a license, right?" He flattened those lush, kissable lips. "Fine, okay, I'm just being overly cautious. Please don't go too fast or crash. My knees and elbows are exposed, and I do not wish to be scarred."

He smiled in that way of his that made my toes curl, and then as if I wasn't already smitten enough, he took a step forward to pat my cheek.

"You are cute," he said, his voice a craggy whisper. "I am safe driver. You'll see. Now get on, please. I do not know Se?orina Capello, but if she is crazy set on time like signora, we should not show up late."

"Sure, yes, fine." He plunked the helmet on my head. It was a little big, but we cinched the strap tightly under my chin. He slung a thigh over the seat. Lord, if only I were that seat…

"You promise to obey all the traffic rules?" I enquired for the seventh time as he kicked the stand back to shoulder the weight of the bike all by his magnificent self.

"Sì, yes, of course." His helmet hung off one of the handlebars, so he plucked it off and pulled it on. I watched as he secured it. His was blue to match the scratched paint on the gas tank, and mine was black to match the hand-painted SUZUKI not-so-artfully applied to the rear fender. "You worry like a small bird at a bit of bread."

"If only I had wings," I lamented before snuggling into his back as tightly as I could. Oh yes, this was nice. Nicer than nice. This was wonderful. His burly back made a lovely cheek rest. I placed my hands on his belly. There was no objection or quick slap to make me move them, so I took that as a sign of possible queer boy inclination. My mind began to spin naughty scenarios as we drifted slowly down the drive, the slight incline barely noticeable in a car. I could slowly wiggle my hands down, inch by inch, during the ride, to gauge how comfortable he was with a man touching his lower abdomen. The gate creaked open. We eased out onto the narrow street, my head spinning with dirty fantasies. Then he cranked the bike over. I startled as the thing roared to life, the muffler obviously on its last leg before it let loose with a backfire that made me squeak.

"Fuel is too rich, maybe," he said and his voice flowed into my helmet. Then he said something else, but there was nothing but static. He reached back to gently thunk the side of my helmet. "Is working now?"

"It is," I replied, enjoying the side hug.

"Good. They come with the bike. Old but still good." His grin made me giddy. Then we peeled off at breakneck speed. All thoughts of tickling his firm tummy were blown out of my skull as we raced toward Florence. My fingers were too deeply embedded in his sides to tantalize the man. He was talking to me as we streaked along the winding road that the villa rested on, but what he said I wasn't catching. Just words here and there interspersed with static.

"Eggs." Static. "Time last year." Static. "M?neskin." Static. "Gander." Static.

He lifted an arm to wave at some young woman hanging up her wash at the farm where I'd been terrorized by a rooster all those years ago. There were cars of various conditions parked all around the front yard. "That is Bianca," he said as I thumped the side of my helmet. The static rose and then died off at the end of his sentence. "…girlfriend."

She waved back as we sped past. Was that his girlfriend? My head craned as we flew past the homestead. Hard to tell if she was pretty from this distance and at this speed. All I clocked was long black hair and a slim build. Hmm, well that kinked my plans of winning over the enigmatic rower.

I thought to ask whose girlfriend Bianca was, but the question got lodged in my throat. Donvino cursed, or at least I thought it was a curse filling my helmet, as he threw a foot down and then twisted the handlebars sharply. I was too spooked to speak.

"Bastardo!" he spat as we skidded around a corner, kicking up bits of stone and dust. Okay yes, that one was for sure a cuss. We swerved to avoid hitting a gaggle of white geese crossing the road. One of the geese ran up to us, wings out, and bit me on the calf. I cried out. Donvino gave the bird a soft shove with his foot, then gassed the bike. "Did he pinch you?"

"Yes, oh God, it hurts! I think he bit me right down to the bone!" I cried out, leaning to the left to try to touch my wound. The bike nearly went down on its side. It would have if not for Donvino wrestling it back up and then barking at me in rather good but abrupt English to "Sit the hell still!" as we picked up speed.

"Sorry, I did not mean to yell," he said, pulling off the road about a half mile from the attack gander. My eyes were watering profusely. I had a pain threshold of zero. It was truly pitiful to be such a sissy, but I couldn't help it. I once passed out when Maria had to remove a splinter from my finger. Just call me Young Sheldon. The bike sputtered to a halt beside a pasture thick with sheep, tall grasses, and perky yellow wildflowers. He threw his heel into the kickstand and slid off the seat, showing some nice flexibility. I hiked my leg up, eyes closed, and put my hand over the sore spot.

"I can't look. Oh my God, what if he tore a hunk off and you can see the bone?!" My head was feeling kind of woozy.

"No, it will not be that bad. It was a goose, not a wolf." I squeezed my eyes tighter. "Here, let me see." He moved around the bike as I whimpered. With the softest touch imaginable, he lifted my quaking fingers from my calf. "It's not so bad, Signor Arlo. Just a pinch. I think it will make a mark but no blood. See?" I dared a peek down, mostly to enjoy the sight of his strong rough fingers on my leg as he cradled it like a porcelain doll or a fine marble carving. "A bruise, I think, because your skin is so soft and pretty, but nothing more."

"Are you sure?"

He glanced up, his lips twisting into a sweet smile. "I am sure."

"When I was a kid, my mom would kiss my hurts," I teased, giving him my biggest coy look as I extended my leg to the side, toes pointed. His eyes flared. I could see the indecision warring with something much more primal. With work-rough hands, he cupped my calf, then lowered his head to press those sinful lips to my goose bite. The little bit of blood in my head rushed to my cock. The gaydar alarm engaged then. No straight man would kiss another man's gander mark if they weren't at the very least a bit bisexual. Which meant there was hope! Fuck you, Bianca!

"There, is better. Come, la madre." I nodded dully and let him lower my leg, my foot placed gingerly on the tiny peg. "Can you ride on?"

"Yes," I whispered, coughed, and then replied with more strength. "Yes, I can ride on. Thank you for being so kind."

His eyes searched mine for something before he moved back a step or two, his sight dropping to his shoes.

"You're the signora's nephew. I must take care of you for her."

Ouch. That stung nearly as bad as the goose pinch. Was he being nice to me just because he felt that he had to be? No, no, that kiss to the calf was not part of any kind of good employee boon.

"I'm sure she appreciates it," I muttered, leaning back to let him slide his leg over the seat. When he was settled, I snuggled in close, my nose on the nape of his neck, my chest flat to his back. "I appreciate it even more."

The fine hairs on his neck rose. He said nothing as I encircled his waist, my hands resting flat on his hard stomach. The bike coughed twice, then rolled over. I hugged him tightly as we sped off, the tone of the outing now very different. We'd gone about a mile when we found ourselves moving into the city proper. I cinched myself even closer to Donvino as the traffic grew denser. We joined a pack of motorbikes for a moment, then pulled ahead, our Suzuki weaving in and out of cars so quickly I couldn't bear to watch. I pushed my nose into his nape.

"Don't be scared," his warm voice filled my ears. Little did he know I was always scared when on anything that did not have four wheels and a steel frame around me. "We are good." We pulled up to a traffic light. His feet went to the ground. I picked up my head. We were on a long street with massive trees planted in the middle. On each side were apartment buildings in various shades of tan, yellow, and light pink. Some were white. All pale colors to reflect the heat, I assumed. Windows with shutters that opened up instead of sideways stood open, patios filled with plants seemed to go with every unit, and short clotheslines could be seen under most windows or attached to the balconies. Tiny bits of clothing danced in the hot wind.

"We're not in Kansas anymore," I murmured after we passed a row of large recycle bins along the curb, one of many I'd spied. Donvino chuckled. I snuggled in a bit closer, sighing at the feel of a big man in my arms. The light flicked to green. The person in front of us didn't move immediately and Donvino, along with seven or eight other people, hit their horns while yelling what I had to assume was "Move it, asshole!" in Italian. Wow. And I thought American drivers were speed demons. We zoomed around the pokey guy in a Panda, narrowly missing a woman in a business suit streaking past on a Vespa.

"Four more blocks." Static. "Good club nearby." Static. "Top DJ in area." Static. "Italian pines."

We sailed through a yellow light, picked up a turnaround, sped into that with four other maniacs on scooters, and then flew around a delivery truck trying to back up in a street that was barely wide enough for a baby stroller let alone the cars parked on each side of the road. Donvino gave the bike some gas. I yelped, and we whipped around the truck. The driver shouted something that I was sure was not complimentary.

"I'm going to die," I whimpered, then tensed when we sailed around a woman and two kids who had simply walked out into the road as if traffic would part for her as if she were Moses and the cars were the Red Sea. She called something to us as we moved around her and her offspring. Something that came with a hand gesture that was not a polite wave. "Oh my God, I am going to die!"

"No, no dying, is fine. Hold tight."

If I held any tighter, I'd be peeling his skin off his ribcage. We flew around a corner, hit a yellow light that he flew through, took another left, and then eased to the side of the road to park.

Parking, in this case, meant sliding his ride into a skinny slot, made just for motorbikes by the looks. I shook off the terror-induced muscle freeze and removed my skinny ass from that Suzuki as if it were on fire. My ass, not the bike.

"Oh thank all the gods we're stopped," I cried out as I wobbled forward two steps and fell to my knees, softly so as not to scrape them, and hugged the sidewalk. Two women walking past with shopping bags spoke sharply to me. A small hairy dog being walked by an old man sniffed my helmet. The old man also spoke sharply to me. I rolled to my back, sniffling in joy, and whispered thanks to any deity who looked over queer boys in corsets on motorbikes. "I'm walking home, hand to God…oh hello, ma'am."

An older woman, perhaps in her sixties, wearing a green dress with a white apron, stood to my left staring down at me. She spoke to Donvino who, I now saw, was at my feet, helmet off, staring down at me as if perplexed yet amused. Donvino, he of the good humor and to-die-for biceps, was now speaking to the lady in green.

"Signor Arlo," he started. I sat up, gingerly, for my head was loopy from the near-death ride as well as the goose attack.

"Please, just call me Arlo," I begged, bringing my legs to my chest and resting my brow on my kneecaps.

"I'm not sure that would be right," he replied. I shot him an eye roll. He dropped down into a crouch beside me, removed my helmet, and then tipped his head to the side to examine my face.

"It would be more than right. We're friends, yes?"

That brought him up short, but he did nod. His hair was rather flat, but it looked good on him. I was beginning to think that any kind of hairstyle would flatter the man, he was just that fucking pretty.

"Sì, yes, of course. Friends. Well, Arlo, this is Signora Briffa. She is the assistant to Se?orina Capello and is wishing to know if you are suffering a conniption fit. Are you?" He appeared to be a little distressed, the dear thing.

"No, no, I'll be fine. I just needed to sit down and count my blessings." I went to stand, remembered my goose bite, twisted my leg to examine it, and gasped. Oh my stars, it was already turning purple, and the skin was torn slightly as if something ragged had sliced into my flesh. "What the hell?! Why does it look like I tried to shave with a bread knife?"

"Geese have serrated beaks," he explained as he took my elbow and rose.

"What? What on earth? That is the most bizarre thing I have ever heard." I warily placed my feet on the sidewalk while Signora Briffa kept repeating "medico," over and over. "No, I'm good, just a little wobbly. No medical, well, perhaps some peroxide and a Band-Aid to keep the germs out of my goose bite. Why do geese have teeth on their bills? That's just outlandish."

Donvino finally convinced the tiny chubby Signora Briffa that I was perfectly okay. She kept side-eyeing me as I limped to the front door, a stately brown door set into a soft beige home behind a tallish security gate with hedges on either side. The yard was quite small, just a couple of patches of grass and a neatly trimmed fir with bright marigolds around its base.

"I will be over there," Donvino said, pausing at the short step leading to the recessed door. "When you have your hour done…" He pointed across the street to a little eatery of some sort. The shop was small, with two tables on either side of the open doorway. "If you need me before the hour, you can call?"

"I don't have your number." He slipped his phone out of his back pocket and added my number and I did the same for his. That felt kind of personal. I liked it. "So you're not going to wait nearby?"

"No, I have tasks to run for my grandmother and Ricci, my boss at the restaurant, but I will be there when you are done. I promise." He crossed his heart and winked. I wanted to sigh so badly, but I had an impatient maid personal assistant waiting in the door. From within the house, I could hear a small dog barking. Which was fine. I usually got along well with all animals. They could sense that I was a compassionate and delicate spirit. "Now go learn. We will practice on the way home. Soon your Italian will be as magnifico as my English."

I smiled widely, wishing I could peck his cheek. My perfectly trimmed scruff rubbing against his wild whiskers would be divine. The small dog's barking grew louder. Signora Briffa herded me into the home, slammed the door, and then caught what appeared to be a mangy raccoon as it launched itself at my leg. Signora Briffa was quick. I had to give her that. She scolded the hairless Chihuahua soundly, then glanced back at me, snarling dog under her arm, to jerk her chin at the stairs leading to the second floor.

"Grazie," I said as I made a wide berth around the mutant mutt. I glanced upward. The stairs were narrow, dimly lit, and crafted out of dark wood.

"Stanza de puzzle," she called out as I made my way up.

I nodded but had no clue what puzzles had to do with anything. My sight on the collection of small oil paintings on the wall as I climbed. There must have been two hundred, each about the size of a postcard and framed in cherry wood frames with fine filigree. Slowing to study them, I noted that each one was a landscape, probably of the city of Florence. I knew little of the city to be honest, but I did pick out a few famous sites such as the Florence Cathedral, the Uffizi Gallery, and the Basilica of San Lorenzo. As a child, I was sure my mother and father had dragged me to all the sites, but as an adult I recalled nothing of them. Whoever had painted the tiny oils had done a wonderful job. The scenes were crisp, bright, and detailed. As I moved up, I found paintings done in other parts of Italy. Many from Pisa and the famed tower, some from Rome, and a few of Venice. I was at the top of the stairs before I knew it. The air up here was warmer than on the ground floor. The smell of a pipe wafted by my nose, a sweet tobacco smell that I found not to be as horrendous as cigarette smoke. There were four doors, all opened, with shuttered sunshine flowing into them.

"Se?orina Capello?" I called as I took a cautious step in the direction of the smoke.

"Come," a croaky voice called out from the room directly in front of me. I gimped closer, peeked into the room, and saw a stately woman in a turban smoking a pink Meerschaum pipe. She had been tall at one time, but age had bowed her badly. Smoke from the pipe clenched between her teeth floated upward in rings that lingered a scant moment before floating to the shuttered windows. "You are the Bonetti boy?"

"Yes, I am," I tentatively replied, easing into a room filled with tables holding jigsaw puzzles. A dozen at least. One table was cleared, a round one beside the woman in the turban. Upon that one was a pencil, a notebook, and an orange.

"You look like Ginerva," she said, smoke leaked out of her long nose as she spoke. Her eyes were narrow, lost behind her spectacles, but they seemed to track me as I made my way closer. "Sit down over there. Have an orange."

"Thank you," I said, lowering my backside into a wooden chair. "My aunt fed me before I came. "

"Hmm, rude. She is rude. She knew I would have an orange for you." I couldn't quite place her accent. It was not pure Italian. "Take it with you."

"I will. Grazie." I reached out to pull the orange to me, easing it around the pencil and notebook. "If you wish, we can use my phone to access a ton of language apps that—"

She spit on the floor. Oh-kay. Guess that was her opinion on that.

"I have your book." She proudly handed over a primer that probably belonged to her as a toddler. Did toddlers read? Not a clue. I did my best to stay away from children and their snot. "This was mine when I first come to Italy as a child."

Bingo.

I lifted the worn cover with the small boy in short pants. The first page was numbers in Italian. Uno, due, tre, and so on to a hundred. The next page had drawings of animals and then their names: gatto next to a line drawing of a cat, cane next to a dog, and mucca beside a cow. Further in were foods, colors, and then simple words such as they, then, there, she, and he.

"It's charming," I said for lack of a better word. She inclined her head in the way a duchess would. Not unlike what Ginerva had done.

"You will study and write. Each word one hundred times each. To memorize." She tapped her brow just as two mangy raccoons aka hairless chihuahuas appeared, each wearing a sweater to match their mistress's yellow turban/ jumpsuit ensemble. "When you come back in two days, we will review. In Italian. If you do well with numbers, you will get an orange."

Right. I glanced around, sure that Donvino had delivered me to the Twilight Zone. "A hundred times for each word?"

"Correct. Memorization is key. Now begin."

"Oh, right now?"

"Yes, right now." She gathered the dogs into her lap, puffed on her pipe, and watched me intently as I picked up the pencil. This was without a doubt the weirdest damn tutor I had ever met, and I'd met some doozies during my younger years. Like Mr. Maple, who was with us exactly one week and then was fired for being found stoned off his ass on mushrooms, naked, up in an olive tree, was probs the top of the list. It was after that that I was sent off to a private school in Redwood City to continue to be a pain in every teacher's ass for years to come. Seems Dad would have made a few of those parent-teacher conferences instead of sending Nanny Ingrid. Maybe if he had, I'd not been such a shitter. Just saying…

Someone tapped my shoulder. I startled out of my revelry to find Signora Briffa at my side, holding out a small tray with some antiseptic spray, a few cotton balls, and one single bandage.

"Thank you," I replied and laid down my pencil.

"In Italiano," Se?orina Capello reminded me. I thought to roll my eyes, but the dogs were staring at me as if I were a lost child in the Australian outback and they dingoes. So, I kept my expressive face neutral to avoid being pounced on by sweatered-clad wild dogs.

"Grazie," I replied, got a smile from the lady in the green dress, and then set about cleaning out my goose bite. Did geese make spit? If so, would that spit now be in my bloodstream? On the next full moon would I transform into a were-goose who roamed the Tuscan country roads in search of innocent men—I had no interest in stalking maidens—to pinch? Would I soon turn the entire Italian population into waddling fiends, our honks heard in the dark of night sending those poor souls who were yet unturned fleeing to their villas?

"It is clean. Stop stalling and begin your lesson." I heard as a puff of smoke drifted under my nose. "You are easily distracted, Signor Arlo."

"I prefer to say that my mind likes to spin fanciful tales when it wishes," I answered, dropping the puff to the platter and then dressing my wound. "Do you know if geese make spit?" The old gals looked at me as if I had a mango reciting Hamlet atop my head. "Never mind." I nodded in thanks to Signora Briffa, sighed, and picked up my pencil.

Uno. Uno. Uno. Uno. Uno. Uno. Uno. Uno. Uno. Uno...

***

One hour later—and not a second before or a second after—I was dismissed. My hand had cramped after I had written my one hundred fours—pardon, my quattros—so I was given an orange break to recover. Which was nice. I tried to stretch out the break by asking my tutor about herself, but she shook her head, handed me a wet wipe, and told me to stop faffing about. This gave me a slight clue as to her heritage. British, or at least from the British Isles. Did any other country use faffing? I'd have to look it up as soon as I found a Wi-Fi hotspot. Imagine me, Arlo Bonetti, relying on free Wi-Fi. My followers would be shocked and likely sickened. I'd have to set up my own account in my own name since my relatives were being pickles about internet usage.

I'd gathered up my primer and then bolted out the door, exploding into the heat like a cheetah being released back into the wild. Like a shot, I darted through the front gate and to the curb, skidding to a halt to allow a red car with a dented fender pass. My sight went to the small caffè across the street as I waited to cross. There in all his glorious glory sat Donvino with some leggy brunette wearing a summery floral dress, sunglasses, and long dark hair. Thick hair, glossy, healthy. Humph. Why did all Italian women have to be so pretty?

Donvino spied me. The young woman turned, lowered her glasses, and then left as if she had seen a frothing platypus crossing the street. What was my thing with Australian wildlife today?

"Bianca is going to be jealous," I said as I neared his table.

"Oh? Why is that?" He rose to pull out a chair for me. I paused. I'd never had a man do that before and it was incredibly charming. Provincial some might say, but I would not agree.

"Well, thank you," I replied as I sat delicately and he eased my chair closer. The man next to us paid us little mind as he nibbled on what looked to be a tasty charcuterie board filled with meats, cheeses, and, of course, olives and dates. "I come out of my lessons to find you talking up a woman who…" I tapped the empty white cup that bore dark pink lipstick marks, "…is using a shade that does nothing for her based on skin tone and hair color."

"Is that so?" he replied with amusement dancing in his extraordinary eyes. Those lashes. There ought to be a law. He turned to yell into the caffè, got a gruff shout back, and then refocused on me as a trio of motorbikes sped past, the conversation among those on the zippy little bikes energized. "I order you a cappuccino to refresh your mouth."

"That sounds incredible." And it did. My coffee levels were quite low. Back in the States we—we meaning some Americans who were slaves to the coffee bean—drank it all day long. Here, it seemed they only drank it after meals. "So, your Bianca will be quite testy when she hears that you were having coffee with that young woman."

I sat back, crossing one leg over the other and bouncing the crossed leg, and locked him down with a curious look.

"You are trying to stir the shits," he teased, sitting up to study me over the empty cups splayed out in front of him.

"Moi?" I asked, fingertips resting between my collarbones. "I would never do such a thing. I'm just doing my best to protect the hearts of all the Tuscan beauties who are enthralled by you."

He laughed and sat back to allow an older gent with a black mustache and a yellow apron to place my coffee and a small dish with sweetener packets in front of me. I thanked him profusely then passed him some euros. I waved him off when he tried to make change.

After getting the coffee to my taste, I lifted my sight to Donvino, who seemed utterly engrossed in my coffee prep.

"You're staring," I whispered, taking a sip while batting my lashes.

"You are very…" he squished his face as he parsed, "prim and proper." I wiggled my lifted pinkie at him. "You can tell you come from monied family. That is no offense, please, it is just easy to notice you have airs." Now it was my turn to make a face. He started to offer apologies.

"No, please, it's fine. No need to apologize. I do have airs and elegant mannerisms. It's part of the Arlo brand. You, on the other hand, are quite adept at steering the conversation away from things you don't want to discuss. Bianca? Will she get angry?"

"She will not because she has no reason." His gaze stayed on me as we spoke, no matter what zoomed by behind me. I loved it. Yes, I was a little vain. Fine. A lot vain. But when I was trying to flirt with a man, I liked them to fixate on me. Call me shallow.

"Is that your way of saying that there is nothing between you and Bianca?" I prodded.

"I hope there is nothing between us." I arched a brow for him to continue as the glory that was strong coffee made its way into my bloodstream. "She is my cousin."

Oh. Well, that was fine. "So not kissing cousins?"

"No, no kissing cousins."

"And that young se?orita who left her tacky pink lipstick behind?"

"Signorina."

"Sorry, we didn't get past the number five today. That young signorina with the too-pink lip shade? Is she a cousin as well?"

"You are so catty for a man." I smiled sinfully, unable to argue. I totally was a catty bitch. Me and ow. "I like it," he tacked on.

"Yes, I suspected. Do you like it on me singularly or on women as well?" Enquiring minds—mine—wanted to know.

"I like it on you especially," he replied, his gaze softening as he examined my lips. I wet them because why not?

Damn the man. He was quite cagey. "Donvino, do I need to come out and ask?"

He fluttered those stupidly thick lashes. I rolled my eyes. He chuckled. "I like it on you, but I also like it on women."

"Understood. Did you kiss her goose bite as well?"

His mischievous glance made me flush. "I do not think she has been bitten by a goose."

I huffed, pouring on the flounce vibes yet staying put. "You're purposely foot-dragging!"

"Moi?" he asked so innocently I had to snicker behind my hand. "I am only replying to your questions. Perhaps you should ask more clear questions?"

I glanced at the man at the other table, caught him peeking at us, and then decided to lay it all on the line, or the tabletop as the case may be.

"Okay, reply to this." Donvino waited, his lips quivering with mirth. "Do you prefer to give men rides or women or both?" The man next to us coughed on his coffee. Served him right for eavesdropping. Donvino's gaze darted to the fellow trying to hide his hacking and then darted back to me. "Well?"

"I am happy to give all who need a ride one," he cleverly answered, pushed to his feet, and slipped a few euros under his empty cup. "We must go now. I have to get you home to signora, then work a shift at the restaurant."

"Oh, of course." I slugged back the final dredges of my cappuccino and added another few euros to the table even though I was aware tipping wasn't a thing here as it was back in the States. "Where do you work? Perhaps I can bribe my aunt to go out to eat tonight."

He stepped round the table, took my arm as if I were an elderly doddering gent, and led me across the street. I didn't object. Midway through, I slid my hand into the crook of his beefy arm as if we were a courting pair taking a midday stroll. Shame the stroll only lasted two minutes.

"I work at a small eatery by the Palazzo Vecchio called La Festa dei Leoni. The owners are family some distance as you say…distant cousin, yes?"

"Yes, that's right. What do they serve?"

He led me to the Suzuki, slid my primer into one of the saddlebags, and then secured my helmet to my head, his sight capturing mine. Gods he was beautiful.

"You should come and see," he replied, gave the strap a light tug, and then threw a long, strong leg over the seat.

"Such a damn tease," I whispered before taking a moment to cross myself.

Perhaps I should have a shot of something more bracing than coffee for the ride home. I'd just have to hold on extra tight. Lucky me.