“For me?” She didn’t have to pretend the surprise. He’d actually come to find her and entice her back to his shop. It was awfully sweet. As if one customer more or less really mattered. No, as if she really mattered.
“Sì,” he held out the cup and then stood there, leaning forward and looking more worried than some supplicant wondering if he was to be beheaded at the Queen’s whim.
Everyone was watching her, but she knew most of them. Claire from the leather shop in for her teatime treat. Cedric, the carpenter who had come to Corniglia on school holiday forty years before and never gone back to Wales. Vanessa the baker, who was one of the most beautiful women Erica had ever seen. She was the perfect Italian that every woman wanted to be: long dark hair, lovely smile, and perfect dark-honey
