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“The kind with all the raw ingredients?” I asked. “That you prepare yourself?”
Her pretty face twisted with annoyance. “No, Ihatethose. Way too much work. Mine are pre-made. I just throw them in the microwave.”
I groaned. “That’s a crime against cooking. The food police should lock you up and throw away the key.”
She leaned across the table and grinned at me. “Sometimes, when I’m feelingreallyfancy, instead of microwaving the meals Ibakethem.”
“That’s not much better.”
She waved a dismissive hand at me. “I don’t want to think about those. For now, the only thing I want in my mouth is whatever you feed me.”
I started to respond with a joke, but then I thought about something she had just said.
For now.
It was yet another reminder of the fact we had both been trying to avoid: all of this was temporary. Our cutesy hotel relationship had an expiration date, just like the food in the fridge. Eventually it would have to be thrown out.
I pushed the thought away. I didn’t want to think about it right now. Instead, I pulled out my phone. I had another email update about my status on the flight waiting list. They were sending me reminders every day now.
I felt a flash of annoyance.It’s like they’re taunting me.
“Have you gotten an update on your status?” I asked. “For the flight waiting list.”
“I haven’t gotten one since last week,” she mumbled around a mouthful of sandwich. “Let me login and check. Let’s see, status update, name…” She swallowed. “Nope. It still sayspending.”
I exhaled out my nose. “Why is it still pending? It’s been too long. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Relax,” she said, putting her hand on mine. “Look on the bright side: we’ve been here so long that we can probably claim Italian citizenship.”
I smiled and replied, “Rome is nicer than Boston. I bet the winters are better, too.”
“I’ve decided to accept that this is our home now,” Molly said firmly. “We’re never going back to America. We’re Romans now. Buongiorno!”
“You need to learn more Italian if we end up staying here forever,” I pointed out.
“I know plenty of phrases. Pasta primavera! E pluribus unum! Carpe diem!”
“Those last two are Latin. You do know the difference between Latin and Italian, right?”
Molly glared at me. “Gelato, risotto. Focaccia Americana? Lasagna!”
She said the garbling of Italian words with such a ridiculous accent and extravagant hand gestures that I couldn’t help but laugh. She grinned at me like she had proved her point.
Christ, this woman makes me happy.
I plopped the last piece of my sandwich in my mouth and said, “Now that lunch is over, I have a surprise for you.”
“Is it dessert?”
“It’s not something you can eat.”
“My interest is rapidly disappearing,” she said.
I got up and took her hand. “Trust me, you’re going to want to see this.”
I led her out of the restaurant and across the lobby to the office behind the concierge desk. The computer monitors for the security station were all on.
“The security system,” Molly said. “You left it on?”
