Page 7 of In Italy for Love

‘I’m glad we cleared that up,’ she choked around stifled laughter. ‘We’re just twoattractivepeople having a drink with no expectations.’

The tension in him snapped as well and he sat back in his chair, matching her grin with an easy one of his own. Lifting his beer glass, he tapped it against hers. ‘I’m glad too. No expectations. Salût… Julia.’

‘Cheers, Alex,’ she responded to the toast and took a sip of her wine.

4

Jules would never in her life forget the moment when the busker with the gorgeous eyes had captured her gaze and said, ‘I find you attractive too.’

Although he smiled, there was a seriousness to him that had made those words sparkle in the air around them and mean more than they should have – certainly more than he’d intended, but Jules was determined to treasure them anyway.

Her time with Luca had been a disaster, but a handsome Friulian stranger called Alex found her attractive. A handsome stranger who had been quite nervous at the beginning of their ‘not date’ but was now speaking animatedly about his accordion while Jules tried not to laugh at his earnestness.

‘It’s actually more like a clarinet than a piano. The sound is produced by a series of reeds inside the frame.’

‘It sounds complicated,’ she responded. ‘Is it difficult to play?’

‘Not at all. To play well enough to accompany a song, it’s one of the easiest instruments available, but to play really well takes a lot of practice. You’re… not really interested in this, are you?’ He fiddled with his beer glass, rough fingers tracing the shape.

She wasn’t interested, but she did like listening to him talk while she enjoyed the gentle fizz and soft tang of her wine. ‘Your English is very good,’ she commented. ‘My Italian is terrible. Che peccato!’ She added the ‘what a shame’ with a hand gesture that reminded her of Luca’s mother.

‘But surely you haven’t been here long? I lived in London. That’s where I became fluent in English. “Mind the gap between the train and the platform”,’ he said in a perfect imitation of the announcements on the Underground, followed by a self-deprecating laugh.

‘I spent a few months in London when I first arrived in Europe. Did you play accordion on the Underground?’

‘I did, actually,’ he said, taking a sip of his beer. ‘At Tottenham Court Road. It took me years to get the licence.’

Years that he was living in London. She wondered what he’d done there and why he’d moved. Perhaps for love? Had it worked out better for him than it had for her? ‘Now you’re back here.’

He didn’t answer, only gave a nod and a lift of his eyebrows. ‘And you’re on your way back to Australia. Where’s home?’

‘Brisbane, on the east coast. I haven’t been back in a long time, though.’

‘You’ve been travelling for a while?’

She’d rather listen to him talk about the mechanics of the accordion than explain that she’d been backpacking, fallen foolishly in love and spent three years of her life on a failing business, two of those in a doomed relationship. ‘No, I’ve mostly been here in Italy, making mistakes and speaking bad Italian.’

‘Huh,’ he responded with another of his half-nods that felt like an articulate language that she just hadn’t learned yet. ‘Arco is an affectionate sort of dog, is he?’ he changed the subject abruptly.

‘Uh, yeah.’

Alex shifted, dropping his hand and Jules peered under the table to see Arco avidly licking his knee. He must have been at it for a while, given the wet patch on the denim.

‘Arco, stop!’ she hissed, fumbling for his harness. She pulled the pup away and gave him a harsh look, but he just gazed up at her, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, no clue that he’d embarrassed his owner.

‘I have a cat. Perhaps he can smell it?’

‘Really? A cat?’

He gave an affirmative shrug. ‘There’s a very old proverb here in Friûl: he who loves cats, loves women,’ he said with half a smile, before appearing to choke on his words. ‘Not that I?—’

Jules pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. ‘It’s okay. I asked you out, not the other way around. You clearly like women to an appropriate degree and nothing more.’

The pink in his cheeks was sweet. ‘What kind of dog is he?’ he asked, peering under the table. ‘What breed?’ He clicked his fingers and called Arco to him, rubbing his ears.

‘He’s a Lagotto Romagnolo. We— I took him in after his owner died.’

For a moment, she thought he would ask her more questions, but he seemed to reconsider. ‘A truffle dog, no? He must need a lot of exercise,’ was all he said.

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