Page 4 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

“Yeah, sorry,” he replies. “I was following Carmen and then they started this piece from La Boehme that I love, and I stayed to hear the rest.” His Italian is good. Better than mine in fact. He’s wearing a dress shirt and dark pants.

He sees me and stops. “Oh, you must be Juliet. Carmen said she invited you. Glad you made it tonight.” His face is unremarkable until he smiles. Then his eyes sparkle and dimples pop out in each cheek and it’s harder to pretend he isn’t attractive.

“I’m Jake Fields,” he says. He leans in and kisses me on my cheeks. It should be weird since we’re both American, but it isn’t. I get a whiff of his aftershave, something fresh that makes me think of a lake surrounded by pine trees.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jake,” I say. “I’m Juliet Evans.” I suddenly feel self-conscious. Of my Italian, of my clothes, of everything.

Before I can stop myself I blurt out, “There was a misunderstanding. I thought we were going to a rock concert. I would have dressed up if I’d known it was opera. In a church.”

“Oh, that explains it,” Paolo whispers loudly to Diego. “I just assumed dressing up was against the American religion.”

My cheeks heat up, and I open my mouth to respond but Paolo takes my hand, places it on his arm and gives it a squeeze.

“No, no, don’t respond. I’m just being awful.

You get used to it after a while. You look lovely this evening, Julieta.

You needn’t change a thing. You will be my Julieta Dolcetta . ”

My heart flutters. Handsome Italian men calling me their little sweet? Yes please!

“And if you wish to acquire some Italian fashion staples,” Paolo says, “Carmen and I are going shopping tomorrow. We’d be honored to have the pleasure of your company.”

“I’d love to come,” I say immediately. Turns out Isa was right, I am the only one at school drop-off and pickup wearing jeans.

“Can I invite myself along as well?” Jake asks. “Milan’s colder than Arizona, and I could use a few things.”

“Well, there you have it, Carmen,” Paolo says. “You and I will show these Americans all the secrets of the Milan fashion world.”

Jake shoots me a raised eyebrow look that says, ‘What have we gotten ourselves into?’ and I reply with a smile and a shrug of ‘I’m not sure, but it could be fun.’

We head to a pizzeria near the church and my mind is blown at how something so simple can taste so amazing.

The crust is thin and chewy. The sauce tastes like fresh tomatoes from someone’s garden.

There are large circles of fresh mozzarella.

It makes me want to go back in time to the Juliet who ate Dominos and grab her by the shoulders and shake her.

‘That stuff is garbage,’ I would tell her. ‘No one should call that pizza!’

“I have never had pizza this good in my life,” I say to the group when I pause eating to breathe.

“The pizza here is fine,” Paolo says. “But if you want the best, you have to go down south. Sicilia has the greatest food you will ever eat.”

“Oh really? What is the best dish?” I ask.

Paolo waves his hands around as if that’s a supremely stupid question because there are so many delicious dishes it would be impossible to decide.

“My grandmother’s lasagna,” he finally says. “It’s a recipe handed down for five generations. When my great-grandparents had to leave their village during World War II, they saved a family photo album and that recipe.”

When I ask him to describe it, there are less words and more hand movements. And facial expressions that border on indecent.

I want to wrap Paolo up and send him to California so Maggie can see him. The way he dresses, the way he talks, the way he moves his hands and eyebrows and shoulders, it’s like the country of Italy perfectly embodied in one person.

“How did all of you meet?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s been so long, who can say?” Paolo says.

“I can,” Diego says. “The first time you met me you told me that my scarf was tied incorrectly.”

“Indeed it was,” Paolo says. “No thanks needed for helping you out with that issue.”

“What you call help, I call public ridicule,” Diego says, and I can see that it’s still a tender point.

“But look how much better you wear scarves now!” Paolo retorts. “It’s what a true friend does.”

“It’s a true friend when you’ve known them for more than an hour. It’s a pretentious snob when you’ve known them for less than an hour.”

“Hmm, that hour makes a big difference. What if your scarf had been bothering me for more than an hour, but I only mentioned it less than an hour after introducing myself?”

“We met at church,” Carmen interjects before Diego’s head can explode.

“This little church started a program to get young adults into community service. It only lasted two years, but we all kept hanging out together on Mondays and Wednesdays. Before Christie went back home—that was the nanny before you—she made us promise that we would call the new nanny and invite her to hang out with us.”

“Did Christie ever mention Isabella, the little girl I’m nannying?” I ask.

Carmen’s eyebrows go up, and she flashes Valentina a look. There’s an awkward pause.

“Christie said she could be challenging sometimes,” Valentina says.

“That child is a monster,” Paolo says matter-of-factly. “The last two nannies made that crystal clear.”

Well. That is unfortunate news.

“Jake, how did you meet up with this group?” I ask. He looks at me and shakes his head.

“We watched him get robbed,” Diego says.

My mouth falls open.

“Our whole group was hanging out on the steps,” Carmen says, “and we saw these two little girls distract Jake while a little boy grabbed his wallet from his back pocket.”

“Oh no! They took all your money?”

Jake opens his mouth to respond, but Paolo doesn’t give him the chance.

“That’s the best part!” Paolo says. “Apparently, our man Jake had seen the little hooligans at the edge of the piazza, figured he’d be the most likely target, and stashed his money, ID and credit cards in his backpack before he ever crossed the piazza.”

“So, they didn’t take your money?” I ask.

Paolo jumps in before Jake can respond. “This guy left money in his wallet for those thieving hooligans!”

Jake shrugs. “Kids gotta eat.”

“And that is how we met Jake,” Diego says.

“That’s a great story,” I say laughing. “You’re a good guy, Jake.”

Jake shrugs and smiles at me. I smile back.

It’s a little past midnight as we head back to il Duomo and say our goodbyes. The piazza is nearly empty and feels even bigger without all the people.

“I will see you tomorrow, la mia Dolcetta ,” Paolo says before kissing my cheeks. I hold my new nickname tightly in my heart like a happy child who’s just been given a balloon.

“Do you know which tram to take home?” Jake asks me.

“The 27.”

“Perfect, I’ll walk you to your stop.”

“You don’t have to.”

“It’s on my way. This way, I can walk you there like a gentleman instead of walking slightly behind you like a stalker.”

He offers me his arm and I take it, feeling like a character in a Jane Austen novel. Or a regular Italian, I guess.

“So, Carmen says you’re a doctor,” I say as we traverse the piazza, the cobblestones uneven under our feet.

“I’m not a doctor yet,” Jake says. “I just finished my undergrad. I’m doing an internship right now, and I’ll start med school next year.” We wait for a lone car to pass, then cross the street to my bus stop.

“What kind of work are you doing?” I ask, brushing one of my chunky braids out of my face.

“Almost all research,” he says. “And lucky for you, your tram is arriving, and you’ve just been spared a boring conversation about cancer cells in mice.”

“How do you know I would find it boring?” I ask, ignoring the squealing sound of the tram stopping next to us.

“Medical research is boring to pretty much everybody except the people researching it,” he says. “And you’ve already sat through two hours of opera tonight.”

“Fair enough,” I say. Jake leans in for two quick cheek kisses. Up close, I can see that he has three little freckles just below his bottom lip.

“Good night, Juliet,” he says. “Welcome to Italy.”

I climb onto the tram feeling all glowy from my first night with my new friends.

My brain is trying to remind me of the crucial detail that will spoil tomorrow’s shopping trip, but I refuse to let it.

Don’t ruin this for me, I tell my brain.

I’ll figure something out tomorrow . Tonight, I just want to bask in the happiness of delicious pizza and new friends.

* * *

The next morning, I wake up, throw some clothes on, and zip to the kitchen.

I’ve discovered that having Isa’s bowl, spoon, and cereal ready for her before she comes to the table puts her in a good mood.

I think it makes her feel like she has a personal servant.

I’m willing to let her think whatever she wants if it decreases the incidents of verbal assault and airborne cutlery.

The Rossis are still sleeping so I eat breakfast as quietly as possible, then sneak out the door. The sun is shining, the cobblestones are cobbling, it’s a perfect day to be in Italy.

Now, how to address the glaring obstacle to today’s shopping trip? I’m broke. I mean, I have my first week of nanny wages, but based on the three stores I walked through this week, that will buy me half of one sweater.

I start brainstorming plausible excuses for not buying any clothes. None of them are that believable since I’m wearing jeans again today. Stupid last-night Juliet. Why did she even make these plans?

When I arrive at il Duomo, Jake is waiting on the piazza steps.

“ Buon giorno !” he says.

“ Buon giorno !” I say back. “How is your Italian so good?” I’ve been wondering since last night. Not that I was thinking about Jake much. Just wondering about his Italian.

“We spent a lot of summers in Italy when I was a kid,” Jake says. “How about you? Your Italian is great, but you mentioned that this is your first time in Italy.”