 Photo by Jochen van Wylick on Unsplash  LAYLA
“Porta qui i tuoi fichi!” The booming voice of the fruit merchant rings out as I laugh, pressing my hat firmly on my head, my hand gripping Ryan’s as we weave through the busy marketplace. Our honeymoon in the Seychelles was magical, but this is our first proper holiday since then. It’s been a busy year at the office since our wedding. Well, a busy seven months. Ryan planned this trip and sprung it on me. I was never going to say no. Four weeks in Italy? Yes, please. Tim and Angie came to Tuscany for their honeymoon. They bought a villa, and we’re staying in it. I love it. Italy is magical. Now I know why Angie says that if Tim could live anywhere, it would be Tuscany. They plan on coming back every year, and William can even say a few words in Italian. “I want to buy figs!” I call to Ryan, but he shakes his head, still dragging me through the crowd. “Later! I want to show you something first!” Okay, but we’re definitely coming back for those figs, they look mouth-watering, and ever since I first glimpsed them when we arrived at this marketplace, I’ve been craving them. The sky is bright blue, and the sun beats down on us as we make our way through the thronging crowds. Italian is being shouted all around us, and it’s sensory overload. I’m relieved when we walk into a small café. The sound drops away almost immediately, replaced by the lower, quieter buzz of smaller conversations. Ryan steers me across the flagged stone floor, seating me at a vacant table by the window. He calls something out to the waiter, dropping into the chair across from me and plucking up my hand as he grins. “You wanted to show me the view?” I guess, tipping my head toward the window. It’s pretty spectacular. The café looks over the top of the ancient wall that runs around the city, down over the green trees and fields spread out below. “That and the menu.” My eyebrows shoot up. It’s ten o’clock in the morning. He can’t have ordered wine. Surely. Besides, we only arrived last night. One glass, and we’d be out cold. Well, he would be. The waiter arrives, placing two small cups in front of us. The aroma of coffee teases my nostrils, not smelling as unpleasant as it usually does. “Coffee?” “Espresso,” Ryan corrects before the waiter can have a heart attack. The man leaves us with a flourish, and I eye the small cup with trepidation. “It’s not iced.” “No. Nor is it sugary, cinnamony, or any other ‘ie’.” I make a face at his judgmental tone. Maybe if he tried iced coffee, he’d realize it is superior and give up this fruitless exercise. I fix Ryan with a disbelieving look. “You brought me all the way to this café to show me coffee? We could have stopped and bought those figs.” Ryan grins, plucking up his tiny cup. “Oh, babe. I brought you all the way to Italy to introduce you to real coffee.” Wow, that’s rude and also dedicated. I’d expect nothing less from my husband. Well, there’s nothing for it. With a sigh, I pick up my cup, tapping it against his and sniffing the liquid. Again, not as gross as it usually smells. With a grimace, I sip. It is taking everything I have not to hold my nose as I do. I blink in surprise as the coffee warms down my throat. Hey, that’s not bad. Ryan grins at the look of surprise on my face. “Not as bad as you thought it would be?” “No. But that’s probably because it’s a million times better than the swill back home.” “Duh, that’s why I brought you here before I got you to try it.” “Fine, but I’m only having one.” “I’ll take what I can get.” Laughing, I sip my coffee, letting Ryan trace circles on my palm with his thumb. After this, we are getting those figs and stopping back at the villa to eat them on the balcony. Maybe Ryan can rub my feet. That’s my idea of heaven. I only have to battle my way through the hell that is this coffee first. My eyes catch Ryan’s twinkling blue ones. Ah, who am I kidding? I’d walk through hell every day to be with him. Totally worth it. RYAN Layla clutches her bag of figs to her chest like it’s an Olympic gold medal. She sure has fixated on them. I lead her through the villa to the balcony I found her on this morning, looking out over the vineyards as she sipped cold water. She looks fantastic as she sinks into the same seat, removing her straw fedora and flinging it back through the open door. Tuscany agrees with Layla. She’s practically glowing. Dropping into the other chair, I laugh as Layla’s foot lands in my lap, a sure-fire way of her asking for a foot rub without even opening her mouth. Slipping off her sandal, I work the ball of her foot with my thumbs as she eagerly bites into a fig. “Is it as good as you were imagining?” I tease. Layla doesn’t take the bait, tipping her head back, her eyes closed as she savors her fruit. “Better.” Well, I suppose that’s a good thing. “Better than your coffee?” “Oh my stars, so much better. There isn’t even a comparison.” Well, that’s just rude. “Come on. The coffee wasn’t that bad. You didn’t even turn your nose up at it.” “It wasn’t that bad,” she agrees grudgingly. “It’s just not something I plan on drinking every day, even in Italy.” “Not even a small cup?” Tipping her head forward, Layla smiles at me, her head tilting to the side. I know that look. She’s planning something. “And exactly how much coffee a day is a pregnant woman allowed to drink?” Wh-what? My tongue has swollen in my dry mouth as I stare at her, my lips moving and absolutely no sound coming out. Layla watches me mimic a guppy with amusement, taking another bite of her fig. “You’re pregnant?” I manage to splutter out, my brain still not fully computing. Slowly, Layla nods, shrugging and giving a little grimace. “Sorry. Not much wine and coffee for me on this trip. A bit of a waste, really.” I drop her foot, surging out of my seat to scoop her up and carry her inside. Layla shrieks, laughing as I set her down on the bed with infinite care. “I’m pregnant, not breakable,” she scolds me. “And I’m only, like, just pregnant. Like nine weeks.” Shaking my head in disbelief, I tug her striped linen maxi dress up, exposing her slightly rounded stomach. It’s barely different from normal. No wonder I didn’t notice anything. I pepper her stomach with kisses as Layla squeals with laughter, trying to shove my head away. “What are you doing?” “Kissing my wife and baby.” “You’re such a sap.” “Yeah, but I’m your sap, and you wouldn’t want me any other way.” Layla holds my gaze, rolling her eyes, though her giggles somewhat ruin the gesture. “That’s very true.” Lowering my face to her stomach again, I press another kiss right below her belly button. “This is the best vacation of my life.” Layla grins, but it’s a little absent. Oh, right, she’s here in Tuscany, in the middle of a working vineyard, and she can’t drink any wine. Maybe it’s not the best vacation of her life. I grin back at her, waggling my eyebrows. “I’ll bring you back next year so you can enjoy it too.” Well, when I make that promise, she reaches for me eagerly. I chuckle as I slide up her body, my lips tickling her ear. “Are you going to be a good girl?” “You know I am.” The End. |
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