““ Eccentrica ,” he says finally. “Oh God!” My face drops. “It’s that bad?” “ Cosa? ” He looks confused. “Bad?” “In English, ‘eccentric’ is sort of like ‘mad,’” I explain. “If you’re really posh, especially. You could be a raving loony who eats bats for breakfast, and as long as you have a title, they’d call you eccentric and think it was charming.” Luca, clearly, hasn’t understood all of this. But he’s thrown his head back and is laughing so hard that I see people beyond us turning to look in curiosity. He looks absolutely gorgeous when he laughs, his mouth curving up, tiny lines creasing around his eyes; his usual cool demeanor is wiped away, and he looks younger, sweeter, much more approachable. “Bats for breakfast?” he says, when he manages to speak. “ Pipistrelli per colazione? You are not eccentric, Violetta mia , you are mad.” I’m bridling, when he adds: “I like this very much. You are not boring.” “Wow,” I say as coldly as I can. “Thanks a lot.” My brain is racing at the fact that I think “Violetta mia ” means “my Violet.” Which is, doubtless, just the way they talk in Italy, but sounds…I can’t even think about that. I push it to the very back of my brain to be pulled out much later, when I’m alone, and turned over and over like a precious stone glinting in my palms. I can’t meet his eyes. They’re full of amusement, bright and blue; it’s almost as if I’m afraid of being hypnotized, like a rabbit looking at a snake.””
