and unwelcome feeling inside me. But I chastise myself quickly. I am a big girl and won’t let myself feel jealous because of his past—especially because how horrid it was.
As we planned, we stay in bed all day, and not even a moment of it is boring. We talk, we sleep, and we make love again and again.
I want this man to be in my life forever. But forever is a long time, and if I expect that, I may get hurt again. Will we manage to keep alive this thing we have? I can’t help but worry. Ugh, old habits die hard.
ELEVEN
“It doesn’t matter what you do in the bedroom as long as you don’t do it in the street and frighten the horses.”
Mrs. Patrick Campbell
Colin’s twenty-seventh birthday is tomorrow, and I have no idea what to get him. What do you get a guy for his birthday that’s not cheesy like a tie or something? I’m not good at it. I asked Ali at work, but she was totally preoccupied with sorting through new customer profiles, so her advice wasn’t original at all: ‘just dress up as a French maid and tie his wrists to the bed with your stockings.’ Yeah, yeah, and gag him with my garter belt. Like I couldn’t think of that on my own. Honestly, I don’t think gagging Colin is my best bet. Or dressing up in French maid costume.
I text Jena, but she’s in class and can’t talk. I call Caroline, but get her voicemail. Where are your friends when you need them? I open the fridge and contemplate the contents: milk, croissants, fat free vanilla yogurt, baby carrots. Well, there are a few other items like soda and turkey breast, but my mind is wandering, and can’t concentrate on food. So I close the fridge and flip through the People magazine on the kitchen counter. One photo catches my eye—a model in some really cool lingerie, stilettos, and a chef’s hat, holding a cupcake on the palm of her uplifted hand.
That image just rings the big-gun bells in my head. The longer I study the photo, the clearer it becomes what I’m about to do for Colin’s birthday. I grab my purse, put my shoes and a coat on, and go to my car. I’m going to drive to Garnelli’s bakery. Their birthday cakes are to die for.
Garnelli’s is crowded. Or it rather looks like it since the place is tiny, and a couple of customers make a good crowd inside. Mr. Garnelli and his wife are both taking orders and moving with a grace and speed normally reserved for people fifty years younger than these two tiny Sicilians.
When my turn comes, Mrs. Garnelli smiles widely at me. The smile makes the deep creases around her eyes even deeper and longer. “Ah, Natalie, my dear,” she says in the thickest Italian accent possible. “What would you like? Try these Tartufi al cioccolato.” She gestures to the small, chocolate truffles displayed behind her.
My salivary glands are already working overtime, and pretty soon I might start drooling. And my stomach decides to clench and whine. I cave in. “Yes, I will take a dozen. No, make it two.”
She beams at me and hands me a napkin with a truffle to sample. I’m easily persuaded, of course, and so I immediately stuff the chocolate in my mouth. My senses explode, and I experience a short but satisfying case of culinary orgasm. I immediately envision myself at home, curtains drawn, doors locked, eating one truffle after the next, and shooting nervous glances around in deep resolve not to share this heavenly creation with anyone else.
“Ohh, that is good,” I moan.
“La mia ricetta preferita.” She giggles.
“Your favorite recipe?” My Italian is a bit rusty, but I understand that one.
“Yes, from Sicily. From the aunt on Benito’s father’s side.” She points to her husband, Benito, who’s shouting something in rapid Italian into the ancient-looking rotary phone.
I nod. “Oh, I need to order a cake. A birthday cake. What would you suggest?”
“For Miss Allison?”
“No, for… uhm… for my boyfriend.”
As we planned, we stay in bed all day, and not even a moment of it is boring. We talk, we sleep, and we make love again and again.
I want this man to be in my life forever. But forever is a long time, and if I expect that, I may get hurt again. Will we manage to keep alive this thing we have? I can’t help but worry. Ugh, old habits die hard.
ELEVEN
“It doesn’t matter what you do in the bedroom as long as you don’t do it in the street and frighten the horses.”
Mrs. Patrick Campbell
Colin’s twenty-seventh birthday is tomorrow, and I have no idea what to get him. What do you get a guy for his birthday that’s not cheesy like a tie or something? I’m not good at it. I asked Ali at work, but she was totally preoccupied with sorting through new customer profiles, so her advice wasn’t original at all: ‘just dress up as a French maid and tie his wrists to the bed with your stockings.’ Yeah, yeah, and gag him with my garter belt. Like I couldn’t think of that on my own. Honestly, I don’t think gagging Colin is my best bet. Or dressing up in French maid costume.
I text Jena, but she’s in class and can’t talk. I call Caroline, but get her voicemail. Where are your friends when you need them? I open the fridge and contemplate the contents: milk, croissants, fat free vanilla yogurt, baby carrots. Well, there are a few other items like soda and turkey breast, but my mind is wandering, and can’t concentrate on food. So I close the fridge and flip through the People magazine on the kitchen counter. One photo catches my eye—a model in some really cool lingerie, stilettos, and a chef’s hat, holding a cupcake on the palm of her uplifted hand.
That image just rings the big-gun bells in my head. The longer I study the photo, the clearer it becomes what I’m about to do for Colin’s birthday. I grab my purse, put my shoes and a coat on, and go to my car. I’m going to drive to Garnelli’s bakery. Their birthday cakes are to die for.
Garnelli’s is crowded. Or it rather looks like it since the place is tiny, and a couple of customers make a good crowd inside. Mr. Garnelli and his wife are both taking orders and moving with a grace and speed normally reserved for people fifty years younger than these two tiny Sicilians.
When my turn comes, Mrs. Garnelli smiles widely at me. The smile makes the deep creases around her eyes even deeper and longer. “Ah, Natalie, my dear,” she says in the thickest Italian accent possible. “What would you like? Try these Tartufi al cioccolato.” She gestures to the small, chocolate truffles displayed behind her.
My salivary glands are already working overtime, and pretty soon I might start drooling. And my stomach decides to clench and whine. I cave in. “Yes, I will take a dozen. No, make it two.”
She beams at me and hands me a napkin with a truffle to sample. I’m easily persuaded, of course, and so I immediately stuff the chocolate in my mouth. My senses explode, and I experience a short but satisfying case of culinary orgasm. I immediately envision myself at home, curtains drawn, doors locked, eating one truffle after the next, and shooting nervous glances around in deep resolve not to share this heavenly creation with anyone else.
“Ohh, that is good,” I moan.
“La mia ricetta preferita.” She giggles.
“Your favorite recipe?” My Italian is a bit rusty, but I understand that one.
“Yes, from Sicily. From the aunt on Benito’s father’s side.” She points to her husband, Benito, who’s shouting something in rapid Italian into the ancient-looking rotary phone.
I nod. “Oh, I need to order a cake. A birthday cake. What would you suggest?”
“For Miss Allison?”
“No, for… uhm… for my boyfriend.”
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