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yet that didn’t deter Isabella. She dug her teeth into her lip for a moment, trying to work out where to start, not sure if she would regret this even as the words began to untangle inside of her of their own volition.

“I guess I came for answers,” she said cryptically, sipping her coffee. As she lifted it to her lips, she noticed there was a love heart in the pattern, an obvious accident, because this man would never do anything as twee as that, but it made her smile regardless.

“To what?”

“I never knew anything about my biological parents. I’m adopted,” she added, for unnecessary clarification. “And I always had questions. I mean, so much of who we are comes from our parents, I would have thought. I used to wonder about the physical stuff – like did my mum have red hair, or my dad?” She lifted her fingers to her ponytail, brushing her fingers over the feathery ends. “Or eyes like mine, skin like mine, a nose like mine?” She gestured to her tilted nose tip.

“And this led you to Italy?”

“When I turned eighteen, I was able to apply for information about my birth parents. My dad’s not listed on the certificate, but my biological mum is. Isabella Maria Varizzi,” she said the name she knew inside out, a name that had swirled through the recesses of her mind for many years.

“So you came to find her family?”

“No,” Isabella shook her head. “I know it sounds stupid, but I came to – to find myself, I guess,” she whispered the last words, embarrassed by the over sentimentality of it all.

“In what way?”

The question seemed genuine, not cynical or mocking.

“I wondered if I’d get here and feel an affinity to the people, the place. The food.”

“And do you?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes.” It was an admission she hadn’t even really made to herself. “But then, Italy has such star-power, doesn’t it? Everyone who comes here seems to fall in love with the place, so maybe there’s just an element of that?”

He was quiet, watchful.

“Or maybe I’m just so desperate to feel a connection to my biological parents that I’m looking for something that’s not there. I mean, for all I know, my mum was a third generation Aussie, and her connection to Italy is tenuous at best.”

“You haven’t met her?”

Isabella’s heart clunked in her chest. “There was a note attached to the file that she wanted to veto future contact with me. The records were only released to me on the basis that I would respect my mother’s wishes.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but otherwise his expression didn’t change.

“Then you were raised by adoptive parents?”

Isabella’s spirit of confiding clamped up. She spun away from him on the pretence of moving towards the fruit basket, her heart heavy. She lifted out an apple, wiping it on the thigh of her jeans. “For a time.” She bit into it, the chewing an excuse not to answer further. He watched, drinking his coffee, then looked towards the window.

“You will be stuck here for a while longer.”

She was glad he’d moved the conversation on; she’d half-feared he might push her to answer. And she wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t.

“How long, do you think?”

He finished his coffee, placing the cup in the sink then moving towards her. She bit into the apple again, in an effort to stall conversation and keep her nerves at bay. He stood in front of her, waiting for her to finish chewing.

“Several nights.”

She tried not to read into the fact he’d said ‘nights’ and not ‘days’.

“But not for Christmas?”

He looked to the windows once more, then back to her. “Probably.”

“Oh.” Her eyes dropped to the benchtop, so she didn’t realise what he was doing until she felt his fingers curl around hers, liberating the apple from her grip. As she watched, he lifted it to his own lips, taking a bite out of the side, his gaze locked to hers while he chewed. It shouldn’t have been sensual, but on every level, it was. She could only stare at his lips as they moved over the fruit, its core glistening and wet, his stubbled throat shifted as he swallowed. He reached for her hand once more, opening her fingers and placing the apple there.

“Do you –,” she hesitated, staring at the fruit, rather than him. Again, he lifted her face by her chin, but this time his thumb padded over her lower lip. She forced herself to finish her question. “Would you like me to stay out of your way? I can, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

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