Page 148 of Claimed At First Sight

“See what?”

I glance toward the two men still arguing in Sicilian outside the café, before locking onto her eyes again.

“Chicago has Italians. Sicilians. Food you’ll recognize. People who speak your language.”

Her eyes search mine, trying to determine whether there’s some ulterior motive hidden beneath the words.

“You’ll find pieces of home here, Mia.”

Silence settles between us. It’s not uncomfortable. Just… different.

Her gaze drifts back toward the bakery and the Italian flags fluttering above the street.

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Living here won’t be so bad,” I continue. “And if you ever feel homesick, you can come here and surround yourself with something familiar.”

Her gaze drops to our hands, and I follow it down. Mine is still covering hers atop the blood orange. Somehow, neither of us noticed.

Mia immediately withdraws her hand and tucks it into her coat pocket before lifting her chin, that familiar defiance returning to her expression.

“Yes, if I were living here,” she says. “But I’m going home to Sicily, remember? This is just a visit.”

I sigh, wondering how she will take the news that she definitely isn’t.

“Don’t spoil the moment,” I tease, not wanting to dwell on more trouble ahead.

She turns, laughing, and saunters down the sidewalk. I follow, enjoying the sway of her hips as she walks a few steps ahead of me.

A few shops down, Mia comes to an abrupt stop. She stares through the front window of a small bakery tucked between a café and a specialty grocer. The display case inside is filled with pastries.

Excitement lights her face. Catching my sleeve, she drags me to the door. I glance down at the hand wrapped around my arm, delighted that she initiated the touch.

“Come on,” she urges.

A bell jingles as we step inside. Warm air wraps around us. The scent of almonds, vanilla, and citrus fills the room.

Behind the counter, an elderly woman smiles in greeting, but Mia doesn’t notice. She’s already moving toward the display case.

“Look.”

I step beside her, and she points to a tray containing small pastries dusted with powdered sugar.

“Those are genovesi.”

Her expression suggests I should recognize them. I look at her blankly.

“They’re from Erice.”

The way she says it tells me that explanation should be sufficient. Unfortunately for her, it isn’t.

“Which means?”

She sighs dramatically.

“It’s a hilltop town in western Sicily. They’re famous for them.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”