Page 253 of Lorenzo

I find myself watching as she tears off a piece of bread and uses it to catch the last of the sauce from her plate.

Naturally, she notices.

“What?”

“You like the pasta.”

“Yes.”

“You have had three servings.”

“Is there a problem?” she asks with narrowed eyes. “Are you trying to say something to me?”

“Uh oh,” Diego mutters under his breath. “This might be over sooner than we thought.”

I shoot him a glare, but I'm speaking to Donna when I say, “Absolutely not. I am merely gathering information.”

“For what?”

“So I know what to feed you.”

She looks at me suspiciously for a moment.

“He's not lying,” Victoria says. “He likes to feed people. Well, they all do. But Lorenzo in particular.”

“Now that, I’ve noticed,” Donna says.

Dinner stretches on because nobody seems in any hurry to end it. Rain continues tapping softly against the windows in time with the flow of conversation, and eventually the dinner plates are cleared away to make room for dessert.

A warm apple crostata with a flaky crust appears, along with bowls of whipped mascarpone, and small almond cookies that disappear almost as quickly as they are set down.

Donna looks at the crostata with immediate interest.

I reach for the serving knife.

She puts a hand over mine.

I pause and lift a brow. “Would you like me to serve you?”

“You were going for the piece with the most crust,” she says.

I look at the crostata.

Then at her.

She's right, but I can't let her know that.

“That is an outrageous accusation,” I say arrogantly.

“Don’t BS me,” she says. “I pay attention too. I want half.”

“Half of the crostata? People might object. You might be mauled over it.”

“Half of that piece, smartass.”

I consider her for a moment, the woman I love, and finally concede to share the best slice of apple crostata with her.

“I suppose,” I say finally and divide the piece between our plates.