His pristinely ironed shirt clung to his muscles, the pale blue color accentuating his olive skin. With his jet-black hair and nonchalant hooded gaze, he looked like a character on the cover of one of those classic romance novels—dark and smoldering personified.

Colette couldn’t help but stare.

“Luca!” Mama Elene sang out as she emerged from the kitchen, another plate of food in hand. She smacked a kiss on his cheek as she rushed past him on her way to Colette’s table. “Where have you been?” she heard the older woman ask in rapid Italian. “And how’s your mama?”

This time a portion of steaming bruschetta appeared on the table as Colette sat silently listening to the exchange between the two.

“I’ve been busy,” Luca answered distractedly, still staring in Colette’s direction. Or maybe it was just out at the view, she couldn’t tell. Still, she could feel a flush rise automatically up her neck and looked down at her food, doing her best to avoid making eye contact for fear of being drawn even more into the conversation.

But she couldn’t help it.

“So busy you can’t come to visit your other mama Elene? Shame on you,” she said as she smacked his arm playfully. “And look at you. So skinny. Because you don’t have me to cook for you, or a wife,” she chided. “When are you going to get married, eh?”

Colette couldn’t help it, her curiosity got the best of her and her eyes immediately strayed in Luca’s direction. Yep, he was looking right at her.

“I can feed myself, so there is no rush to find a wife.” He smirked. “Or are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Never!” Mama Elene squeezed his chin and affectionately turned his handsome face toward hers. “You are my boy and always will be. I just want to see you happy.”

“Somebody talking about me?”

It was like watching an Italian soap opera. As if on cue, a stunning woman wearing impossibly high heels teetered into the restaurant with a smile on her face and a shock of lustrous blonde hair that reached to her behind. She was wearing a stylish but skimpy outfit that showed off her every attribute—and there was plenty to be admired.

Again comparing herself to yet another paragon of Italian style, and finding herself sorely lacking in that department, Colette promptly stuffed a slice of bruschetta into her mouth.

The flavor of the tomato was rich but not overpowering, the basil was fresh, and the hint of garlic was just the right mix. Heavenly...

“Lidia,” Mama Elene greeted as Colette continued to listen. As ever, she was a silent observer of the lives of others. It seemed that even in Italy she couldn’t escape it. Though she noticed this time that the older woman’s greeting was not quite so effusive to the latest arrival.