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He’s still standing near the iron railing of the terrace and conversing with Gordon when I make my way to the table to check on all the food the staff brought out. They ordered from the catering menu, which we normally offer guests staying more than three nights.
Before I freak out over the Mancinis staying four or more days, I remember that Severio is a special kind of guest and that it’s possible Tiki let him order from whichever menu he wanted.
“Is everything as it should be?” he asks beside me.
I look up into ocean-blue eyes, and their beauty makes me forget what he asked.
“Cristina,” he says, reminding me I’m not lost at sea.
“Everything looks great.” I want to ask him about the menu choices and why he chose this spread instead of the others, but he walks into the villa, heading for the bedroom. Seconds later, he’s back out with a pair of slippers.
Severio stops in front of me, but when I think he’ll drop the slippers on the floor and tell me to wear them, he doesn’t. He sneaks a hand around my waist and lifts me as if I weigh nothing. I hold on to his shoulders. Our eyes are locked, but thankfully briefly, only long enough for him to walk two steps to the table and plop me on there. Porcelain plates clatter and at least one glass topples.
He holds my ankle firmly while he slips on one slipper and then the other.
Once done, he offers me his hand, and I slide off the table as if I’m stepping down from a carriage. Severio Mancini, the gentleman.
“The floor is cold.” He pulls out a chair left of the one at the head of the table.
When I stand there wondering if Severio is really worried about my being cold and that’s why he insisted on me wearing the slippers, he points at the procured chair.
“Sit.”
It’s not a good time to tease him, but if he continues to order me around like this, eventually, I’ll bark.
Once I’m settled, he unfurls the cloth napkin and drops it into my lap before seating himself.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks, folding the newspaper on his right. I haven’t seen anyone read a physical paper in ages.
I right the glass that fell when he dropped me on the table. “I did. You?”
“Not at all.” He picks up my plate. “Ham, turkey? Roast beef?” He offers a tray of sandwiches.
“There’s no roast beef,” I say. “There was a delay in shipment, and the beef will arrive next week.”
“Turkey, then?”
“I can serve myself.”
“Good for you.” He puts the turkey sandwich on my plate. “Salad?”
Clearly, Severio heard me, but is doing whatever he wants. “Yes, please. The spinach and feta one.”
Severio serves me and then piles more food onto his plate. “Do you want coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Juice?”
“I’ll get it later.”
Severio sighs. “Why aren’t you eating?”
“I’m not hungry yet.”
He looks longingly at the food, but leans back instead of starting his meal. It occurs to me that his family ate brunch already, and he didn’t.
“Do you want to ask me something?” he prompts.
