It’s half instinct, half alcohol, that has me rising to my feet, looking for him. He’s not at the bar, though, nor anywhere else inside. I wander around the large, softly lit courtyard in the back, enjoying the soothing feeling of being outside at dusk as the first few stars begin to blink into view. Wondering if Nyota switched my and Conor’s plate herself, because she wants to give me a chance with him that badly. That’s when I hear the tinny sound of something metallic hitting the floor.

A silver hoop earring gleams on the cobblestone. I crouch down to pick it up.

“I believe that’s mine,” says a man with light brown hair. When I glance at his earlobes, I find no piercing holes.

“Is it?” I ask.

“Well, my girlfriend’s.” He points at a girl in a pink sundress who’s on the phone right outside the courtyard gate. She was at the pasta lesson. Asked a question, and—was she American? I think so. Midwestern, maybe.

“Here you go.” I drop the loop in the man’s palm.

“Thank you. For this, and for the many educational opportunities you and your partner provided during the class.”

“Hey. There is a learning curve to pasta making.”

He smiles. “A steep one, clearly.”

I squint at him. He’s around my age. Built like some kind of athlete. He has an accent, definitely not Italian. German, maybe? “How did yours turn out?”

“Excellent. But only thanks to you modeling what not to do.”

I refuse to show my amusement. “I’ll leave you to your meal, then. Do choke on your excellent tagliatelle.” He chuckles. I’m about to go back toward my table, but freeze like a statue when I notice a pair of dark eyes staring at me.

Conor is at the bar, sitting back against a stool, feet spread apart on the floor and arms folded on his chest. The quintessential How long are you going to keep this bullshit up? pose. His eyebrows are sunk together, the picture of unhappy irritation.

As though he thinks that I’m doing something wrong. As though he has a right to.

And that’s the thing about my temper: it goes from zero to a million really quickly. Annoyance bubbles up with so much force, I instantly whirl back to the German. “This is going to sound really weird. However.”

His expression is patient.

I continue: “Could you please flirt with me?”

The words my and girlfriend are out of his mouth in less than a millisecond. And I must admit, they endear him to me.

“Oh, I’m not hitting on you,” I hurry to say. “But, and do not let him catch you staring, there is a man at the bar. Tall. Dark hair, bit of gray. Couple days’ stubble. Cute.”

“The guy angrily eyeing me?”

“Yes.”

“He’s not really my type.”

“More for me, then.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

“Nope.”

“Brother?”

“No.”

He purses his lips. “He’s not your father, is he?”

“Yikes. What’s up with everyone thinking that we are related?”