They talked easily and happily, occupying the space of Penny’s home together as if they’d done this many times before, eating their brunch and drinking their tea and talking their talk. He kept looking at her intently, asking questions and listening to her answers, nodding as he processed what she said, laughing when she was being funny, and saying lovely, insightful things when Penny asked him about his life, his job, his ambitions. He seemed to be enjoying himself, and so Penny let herself enjoy it, too.

‘This is good. You. Me. This,’ Penny offered, letting the spring sunshine warm her face as it bounced off the water. They’d decided to walk off brunch with a meander to the reservoir. It was freezing – she’d needed a scarf and a hat – but bright, which made all the difference.

‘I think so too,’ Francesco answered, smiling. ‘And to think it almost didn’t happen because you weren’t going to text me …’

Penny let out a ‘ha!’ sound. ‘No! I would have done!’ she said, playfully hitting his arm.

‘No you wouldn’t! A month had already passed!’

‘I was building up to it!’ she insisted.

‘Lies! You were blowing me off.’

‘Okay,’ Penny cackled. ‘I was blowing you off.’

Francesco’s face fell. ‘You were?’

She shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know. We’d spoken three words to each other before Stuart cornered you to write your number down. How was I supposed to know you were actually interested?’

‘Ah, yes, I can see how me writing my number down and saying “I look forward to hearing from you” must have given off all kinds of mixed signals.’

Penny rolled her eyes. ‘So you just … gave me your number? How often do you do that? Because that sort of nonchalance makes me think you do it all the time.’

‘Gotta take your chances,’ Francesco said, moving a branch out of the way for them both.

‘So you do do it all the time!’

‘I do not often get invited to leave my number for good-looking café owners who hold eye contact for an uncomfortable length of time, no,’ Francesco said. ‘But it felt like there was a connection, or something. I don’t know. And then when I saw you at Dofi’s restaurant, too. When stuff like that happens it feels like sort of a cosmic obligation to take a leap of faith, don’t you think?’

‘What if the leap means you fall and break an ankle?’

‘Dark,’ Francesco lamented, shaking his head. He was mocking her.

‘I’m serious! I’m thirty years old. I’ve leapt many, many times, and somehow it never pays off. I’m not like “woe-is-me” or anything, I just mean … How do you stay optimistic? Not the general you, I mean you, specifically. How do you, Francesco Cipolla, stay optimistic in matters of the heart?’