A waiter approaches, obstructing my view of the couple, and places a bottle of white wine on the table in front of me.
“Miss,” he says, “the gentleman from that table has sent this for you.”
I don’t get the chance to reject it because a hand reaches over from behind me, grips the bottle, and thrusts it back into the confused waiter’s chest.
“Mrs. Rossi is not interested,” Luca’s deep voice barks above my head.
I take a deep breath. He came. I feel this silly need to squeak with happiness, but I bottle it up and school my features, glancing at him over my shoulder. “You were in the neighborhood?”
“Yes,” he says, his eyes focused on the table next to ours.
Yeah, right. I sigh and take a sip of my orange juice.
I’ve been drunk just once in my life, from barely two glasses of wine on th
