He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’m… not bad at it.”

“I bet.” Who knew I had a thing for Adam’s apples? I very much do.

My fingertips are still touching his, and he gently twines our fingers together. His hand is strong and warm, and everywhere our skin touches feels sensitive, like the nerves are directly connected to my tightening belly.

The waiter arrives with our wine, and Michael raises his glass while keeping one hand linked with mine. “To seeing the true potential despite the flaws.” We clink our glasses. In the candlelight, his brown eyes look almost amber from beneath his thick, long lashes. His thumb is tracing circles on my palm, spreading heat along my skin. My breathing starts to go wonky.

It feels a little too intense, so I pull my hand away. I also instinctively work to calm the tingling sensation in my hands. The tingling is something that often happens when I’m nervous or excited, but I don’t want to worry about that right now, even though it has everything to do with why I’m in Florence in the first place.

I take a sip of wine. It’s tart and, honestly, not very tasty. But definitely better than the craft beer that Kor likes (and that I pretend to like to impress him). I take another sip and feel it warm my empty stomach and my excited nerves.

“You seem really familiar with the area,” I say to Michael. “Do you live here?”

“No. I live quite far away.” He doesn’t elaborate, and his expression tells me I have reason to be curious.

“Where’s far away?”

“I doubt you’ve heard of it,” he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Why is he being cagey?

The gemstone in his earring glitters in the candlelight, and I feel a fizzing in my blood, a return of that nagging feeling from earlier. He approached me first. He won’t tell me where he’s from. He knows more about Renaissance history than the average college guy.

No. I’m being silly. He asked me out because I shamelessly flirted with him. Do I really find it so hard to believe someone would want to go out with me without ulterior motives?

“What about you? Where are you from?” Michael asks, diverting the attention away from himself.

I shake off the feeling that this is anything other than what it is. “New York City,” I respond, and take another sip of wine. “How did you know about this place?” Maybe it’s the alcohol in my blood that encourages me to shift closer to be heard over the rising noise in the room, so close our thighs press together.