““Pippas,” he nearly whispers. “I tell you something that you do not know.” My heart picks up speed and I nestle deeper into the chair, waiting for his revelation. I know it’s not right to get hung up on appearance, but he’s so freaking hot. It’s hard not to get excited that he wants to spend time with me. I have no clue what it all means, but I’m going to soak it up while it lasts. Because it’s very likely it won’t ever happen again. According to Chiara, it isn’t even really happening now. Bruno strokes my cheek close to my ear with a couple of fingers, back and forth, back and forth. I’m tempted to think he might lean over and kiss me. I’d probably even let him. My body tingles at the thought. The anticipation. You know what he is, do you not? Nothing happens. His palm rests flat against my cheek, prompting me to look at him. A player. Shut up, Chiara. “Everything about you is lovely,” he says. My heart leaps, bounds, springs. Floats. Chiara has to be wrong about him. He’s kind and sweet and achingly romantic. And he thinks I’m lovely. He could have his pick of any Italian beauty he wants, and he thinks I’m lovely. Overwhelmed with the need to touch him, I reach out and trace along his sharp jawline, stopping just before his lips. I swallow hard. So does he. He clasps my hand in his and lightly kisses the tip of each finger, his eyes never breaking their gaze on mine. There’s something I’m supposed to say to him. Something in Italian. One word. My brain remembers one word. “ Bellissimo. ””
