Page 43 of Love Lessons
“Say something else in Italian,” he demands.
“Lasagne. Fettuccini.”
Everyone laughs, but Ian just shakes his head. “Christ, contessa. Until ten minutes ago, I thought Bellagio was just a hotel in Vegas.”
“You know what? So did I, until I started googling Lago di Como,” I admit. “I’ve always wanted to go to Italy, but I could never afford to.”
He gives me a glance that’s part puzzlement, part warmth.
“Seguitemi, ragazzi,” Neil says, beckoning.
“What did Mr. Fancy say?” Ian asks.
“Follow me, kids,” I translate.
We’re led into a candlelit room that overlooks the lake and to a table set for ten. The setting is outrageously romantic. I watch my beautiful new friends seat themselves around the table and have the sensation that I’m finally living my dreams.
I do that thing where you hold back a little to see if the hot guy saves you a seat. And when Ian Crikey holds out a chair for me as I’d hoped, I feel victorious.
“Grazie, signore,” I say in a silky voice.
His eyes flare. “I hope that means something dirty.”
The table laughs, as if he was joking. But his eyes say that he wasn’t.
I take the menu that I’m handed, and I try to read it. But I’m overly conscious of the man seated next to me. I wait for his hand to find my knee under the table. But it doesn’t. Not yet.
The menu is written in Italian but translated into English, too. I consider a pesto dish but change my mind at the last second. Pesto is loaded with fresh garlic, and I don’t want to reek if Ian kisses me later.
He’d better. I can’t wait to see what he does next. I edge my knee a little closer to his and wait.
* * *
And wait.
And wait some more.
Dinner is taking a very long time. When is the man going to make his move? I’ve chosen aprimiof buttery risotto and asecondiof lightly grilled fish with olives and herbs. Each one proves delicious.
I’ve sipped my wine slowly, like a good girl. If Ian doesn’t want me to get drunk, then I’ll behave.
Yet he hasn’t touched me or teased me at all. Not once. I spend the whole meal in reach of his appealing bulk, but not even one fingertip has found my hand under the table. He’s as cool as theacqua frizzantethe waiter keeps pouring into my water glass.
But I am not cool. I’m practically melting with expectation. Every time he laughs, I feel it low in my belly. Every time he smiles, I want to lick him like a brand-new flavor of gelato.
He hasn’t made a move, though. What did I do wrong?
Maybe he wised up, my inner critic suggests.You’re awfully needy.
Yeah, yeah.
When the dessert is finally served and the men settle into their grappa, I can’t take it anymore. I excuse myself to go to the ladies’ room, but it’s just a pretense. I head outside to stand on a darkened terrace, where the cool stonework of the half-height wall feels lovely against my overheated palms.
The lake sparkles under a quarter moon, and I can see lit-up towns on the distant shores. It’s beautiful here. But I’m so frustrated.
Sexually frustrated.
“Contessa.”
