He was already waiting at the corner. Afraid to touch in case one of our tour members lingered nearby, we stood close, our gazes locked on each other. “Hi. Where are we going?” I asked, a catch in my breath as his delicious scent rose to my nostrils.

“A cozy place near the Rialto. I left most of our group singing and drinking at Harry’s. What about Allegra and your mom?”

“Mom’s in bed. Allegra’s out with Ian, and Ian’s parents had reservations at one of the restaurants near the plaza.”

He nodded. “We’ll stay away from the tourist spots. Follow me.”

Our hands brushed as we walked side by side. He caught me when my foot stumbled on one of the cobblestones, and I felt his fingers burn into my skin. We walked for a while, and I enjoyed his quiet presence and the beautiful sounds of Venice at night. We reached the Rialto bridge, and he led me away from the main street, into a narrow alley with low archways and brick walls. I raised my brow. The buildings seemed like decaying shops that no longer accepted the public. Grabbing my hand, he guided me past two large barrels and through a door. The faded sign read cantina do spade.

I caught my breath when we walked in. The place was tiny and packed with people. The high mahogany bar was crammed with displays of food and treats, including a large case that featured an array of desserts, cheeses, and breads. A fully stocked bar took up the wall behind the counter. People squeezed around a few battered wooden tables, drinking and laughing, while small plates crowded every inch of the surface. My knees weakened at the delicious smells. “There’s no room,” I said, looking around.

He grinned and put up his hand, motioning toward the woman behind the cash register. He engaged in a lively conversation in Italian, and she laughed, pointing to a tiny two-person table in the farthest left corner. He thanked her—I recognized grazie and the word spritz—and gently led me to our table.

“This is one of the oldest bars in Venice. Casanova used to frequent the place. It’s filled with mostly locals, so we should be safe here.”

“Wow, I love it,” I said in awe, taking in the warmth and charming ambience.

“I ordered us two drinks—try the spritz; it’s one of their classics. A light type of bubbly wine like Prosecco. Have you eaten?”

I shook my head.

“They have wonderful cicchetti here.”

“What’s that?”

He frowned as if trying to think of how to explain it. “Little portions of food to try. Appetizers.”

“Oh, like tapas! So you can get a bigger variety and try different things.”

“Sì! Are you an adventurous eater?”