Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
“I thought you worked the horse farm with your father?”
“Raising champion horses in the Dolomites is more my father’s thing. Although I love it up there. It’s absolutely beautiful, especially in winter.”
He placed a hand on my lower back and led me through the bustling piazza. As we navigated past various stalls and vendors, he continued. “I prefer the property development side of our family interests. I work closely with Milana, Cesare’s fiancée, who you’ll meet soon.”
It was impossible to miss all the turning heads as we made our way to a small cafe with heated outdoor seating on the other side of the piazza. Although I rarely liked being the center of attention, that was my sister’s job, it was hard not to feel a feminine thrill at being on the arm of Matteo Cavalieri. It was like I was walking the halls of school as the girlfriend of the best midfielder at the local football club.
He pulled out one of the wicker chairs for me before taking a seat across the small, round table. A server in a long white apron came rushing over. Without even asking me or looking at a menu, Matteo ordered an Amarena Spritz for me and an Americano Perfecto for himself. He then ordered some roasted olives, a small plate of pesto and tomato crostinis, a platter of spiedini di mare with shrimp and calamari, a frico, and some eggplant polpettine.
As the waiter scurried away to fill our order, Matteo propped his elbow on the back of his chair and leaned back. “Just a little apertivo, since we’ll be having dinner with the family later.”
As we waited for our drinks, I rubbed my upper arms. Despite the warm glow from the heaters, I had a chill. Abruzzo was much colder than Sicily.
Matteo leapt from his chair as he pulled off the wool blazer he had tossed over his T-shirt. “I’m an ass. I can’t believe I didn’t snag you a proper coat from Aunt Gabbie’s closet.”
My eyes closed briefly as the warm, cologne-scented fabric settled onto my shoulders. “It’s fine. I’m used to it, really. Antonia doesn’t”—I held my hands up to do air quotes—“believe in coats. That’s why there wasn’t one in her suitcase. She thinks they ruin her outfits. So whenever we go out, she won’t let me wear one either.”
He frowned down at me, then lifted his head. “Wait right here.”
Before I could object, he had left the small, enclosed area of the cafe.
When the waiter returned with our drinks, he raised an eyebrow at Matteo’s empty seat.
“He’ll be right back.”
The waiter didn’t look like he believed me. “Uh huh.”
Feeling peevish, I reached for the garnish pick in my drink and scraped my teeth along the wood to eat the three brandied cherries. Usually I saved them for last, but I figured I’d earned a small treat. I then used the garnish pick to stir the ice cubes, mixing the teaspoon of dark ruby cherry syrup and balsamic vinegar that had sunk to the bottom with the Punt e Mes and Carpano Bianco vermouths with the bubbly prosecco.
I took a sip, needing the fizzy sweet drink with its pungent bite of bitters. As I watched the bubbles from the pilsner beer coat the slice of orange garnish in Matteo’s drink, I resisted the urge to look for him over my shoulder.
It was bad enough I could feel all the curious gazes of the other patrons on me. I didn’t want to give the impression I was nervous or I had just been ditched.
The waiter returned and with what was definitely a smug look asked, “Perhaps you’d like to be moved to a less public table since it does not seem Signore Cavalieri is returning.”
I raised my chin. “This table suits me just fine.”
After a pause, the waiter nodded. He then raised his hands and clapped. Several more waiters streamed out of the restaurant. They weaved through the other cafe tables carrying trays like a demented parade of ants. One by one they dropped various plates, bowls, and platters, covering the table’s already small surface.
Clearing his throat, my new enemy, the waiter, announced each dish with a flourish of his hand. Pointing to the slightly greasy paper cone which had small fried breadcrumb balls spilling out of it onto a rectangular platter, he said, “Here we have your polpettine de melanzane.”
He then pointed to a small, still sizzling cast-iron pan. “And this, of course, is the frico made with Montasio cows' milk cheese. Please stop me if you don’t understand anything I’m saying, I know in Sicily you people choose to use different words from us Italians.”
I swallowed as I focused on the edge of the table, knowing my accent had given me away. It was no secret that mainland Italians viewed Sicilians with a certain amount of disdain. As popular as it was, that stupid American movie The Godfather painted all Italians as corrupt mobsters, and the mainland blamed the Sicilians.