Becca.
We sat on the terrace of La Loggia under a white umbrella, a light breeze tickling at the tablecloth and the fabric of the umbrella.
“The boys” stood close by, but I was starting to get used to their presence and allowed them to fade into the background.
“How is the fruit?” James asked me, pointing a fork at the item I’d ordered.
It was some kind of tart, if I had to hazard a guess, but without the crust. “It’s exquisite,” I said. “And your… meat tower?”
James burst out laughing. “My ‘meat tower’ is delectable, thank you.”
“Good.” I blushed, but I didn’t know Italian, and James had ordered for us, so even if there had been English subtitles, I wouldn’t have seen them.
We shared what I thought was flan for dessert, which was decoratively covered in sauce. It was almost too beautiful to eat, but James dug in with a fork and held a small bite to my lips before I could protest.
It was melt-in-your-mouth delicious.
“Mmm,” I murmured, closing my eyes.
