Page 31 of My Dark Fairy Tale
I nodded, turning my smile on her. “Grazie mille, Signora.”
She laughed, a short, sharp exhalation. “It is my job.”
Within moments of my sitting down, an older server swept up to my table with a charming smile and exaggerated politeness.
“Signorina,” he said in Italian. “I am deeply pleased to welcome you here tonight.”
I laughed, charmed despite his obviousness. “Thank you. I’m really happy to be here.”
“American?” he asked in English. “Ah, but you look Italiana to me!”
“My father,” I explained. “He was born somewhere in the area.”
“Of course, this is why your beauty caught my eye from across the room,” he said shamelessly, but there was a twinkle in his eye that said he was just having fun.
It felt good after Raffa’s obvious rejection to have a little admiration.
“I’m sure you tell that to all the ladies,” I countered.
“Not her,” he assured me, gesturing to the woman who had seated me as she power walked through the room.
I muffled my laugh behind one hand, but the server didn’t bother to hide his.
“I’m Guinevere,” I said, because it felt wrong not to introduce myself somehow.
“Nicola. Now, what can I get you to drink?”
“What do you suggest?”
His face lit up even more, creasing the skin beside his eyes and cheeks handsomely. “Will you let me have the chef prepare a true Toscana meal for you tonight? We will start with a beautiful bottle of Sangiovese and apanzanella. It is bread salad, very good.”
“Just a glass, please,” I corrected, because I had to limit my alcohol intake as much as possible with my kidney transplant and condition. Transplants typically lasted twelve to fifteen years if you took good care of them, and I didn’t want to have any more surgeries than necessary in my lifetime.
“D’accordo. You have allergies?” When I shook my head, he clapped his hands together and whisked my menu away without my having opened it. “Bene, bene. Prepare yourself for culinary delights.”
I was still laughing when he spun away from the table toward the bar.
Even though it was my first time taking myself for dinner, I found I wasn’t embarrassed at all. The room was too filled with happy people and the vibrancy of live music, cliché jazz crooners that reminded everyone of Italy and made my foot tap along to the familiar beats. I wasn’t alone much, anyway. Nicola lingered by the table between courses and sent over some of the other servers when they weren’t busy to keep me company. Every dish came with an explanation about its origins—panzanella, a good use for stale, leftover bread, used by farmers for generations; potato tortellini drenched in a butter-sage sauce; and Tuscany’s famous pecorino cheese.
By the time Nicola insisted on serving me a plate of tiramisu on the house, along with biscotti and a glass of Vin Santo, a sweet, nutty dessert wine, I felt like I’d roll through the streets back to Raffa’s.
I was midlaughter when the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, an electrical current pulsing over my skin. My hand stilled halfway to my mouth, my glass of sweet wine arrested as I searched the room for danger.
I found it staring out from the golden-brown eyes of a man I’d come to know too well in such a short time.
Raffa stood in the open archway, torso turned toward the hostess who had ushered me, but his head tilted my way, eyes fixed on me so intensely I felt physically restrained by his scrutiny.
“Guinevere,va bene?” Nicola asked, blocking my view of Raffa as he bent closer, his features suffused with concern.
“I-I just thought I saw someone I knew,” I admitted, lowering my slightly trembling glass to the table without taking a sip.
But when Nicola moved, Raffa was gone, and I wondered if some part of my wistful imagination had conjured him out of thin air.
I turned my attention back to the live band and noticed a man with some friends at a table near an empty space around the musicians. It was as if he’d been waiting for me to look over for some time, because his brows lifted and his mouth pulled wide into a generous smile.
He was handsome, but I couldn’t help thinking of Raffa, with his dark hair threaded through with hints of copper and those metallic eyes glinting as cool as bronze coins. He was so beautiful, it hurt to think of him as anything but a dream, something that would dissolve as soon as I tried to touch it.
But my skin tingled over my left breast, where his fingers had made contact earlier that day. I was still wearing that same dress, the bows tied neatly by his hand.
