“You go speak to the butcher’s mother, and I’ll get us a couple of coffees to go,” Mia said with a huge grin. “I know how you love a good macchiato and I know you’re fluent in Italian, meaning I’m here just for show. Might as well make myself useful, right?”
Mark grinned back at her, the familiarity and flirting in her voice washing away his resolve to conduct his interviews by the book before it even fully surfaced.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” he said. “One sugar.”
She smiled and nodded. “I remember that too.”
He had to fight the urge to look after her to see if her hips still swayed as enticingly as they used to, as she walked past him and diagonally across the square toward the cafe.
The butcher shop was right in front of him. Its sign was on a board over the door, red letters painted
