Read Online Flirting in Italian by Lauren Henderson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Henderson
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eyes and longer, silky light brown hair.
But if this were my choice of boys for the whole holiday
, I think as they hand us flutes of what looks like champagne, pale straw–colored, dense with tiny bubbles,
I could scarcely complain. They’re both really hot
.
Oh God. I hope I’m not blushing like Kelly! At least I managed to say
“piacere”
back at them, which is more than anyone else did …
“A toast to welcome our summer guests!” Catia says. “Elisa, Ilaria!” she snaps at the two girls who walked by the pool earlier; they’re smoking by the big french doors, their backs turned to the room. Tossing their heads and shrugging, they stub out their cigarettes in the big planter next to them, not seeming to care about the lemon tree it contains. Catia sighs audibly and mutters a reproach that Elisa completely ignores as she and Ilaria wriggle back into the dining room. That’s the best way I can describe how they move; though they’re rake-thin, it’s as if they’re somehow managing to rub their inner thighs together as they walk, writhing sinuously.
Gah
, I think gloomily.
Whereas I spend my time trying to get my inner thighs not to rub together. It’s very unfair
.
“This is
Prosecco di Veneto
,” Catia informs us, in the tone of one imparting a lesson. “It is sparkling wine made from the Prosecco grape. We drink it in Italy before meals, as an
aperitivo
. It is light and pleasant, not strong like champagne. And we say
Salute
when we toast. Okay! So!”
She raises her glass.
“Salute!”
she says, and we all echo obediently. Leonardoand Andrea smile charmingly at us as we take our first sip; the Italian girls do not.
“Introduce yourselves,” Catia says crossly to them as the bubbles burst on my tongue. I love the taste; I love any drink with bubbles in it, but this is really delicious.
“I am Elisa,” says the leader of the two, her Italian accent much stronger than Leonardo’s, her dark curly hair cropped short in a terrifyingly fashionable style that only someone very confident could carry off. She waves a hand at her friend, the gold bracelets on her thin tanned arm jingling as she does so. “Elisa Cerboni. That”—she points at Leonardo—“ees my leetle brother, Leonardo. That”—she points at Catia, with more jingling—“ees my mamma. And thees ees my friend Ilaria. Okay?” She says “okay” with such a strong Italian inflection it takes me a moment to recognize the word. I mouth the pronunciation to myself, trying to copy it. “So now we can sit down for the dinner, yes? I am very angry.”
Without waiting for an answer, Elisa stalks over to the long table laid with a white lace–inset tablecloth, and set with gleaming silver cutlery, gold-edged china plates, and arrangements of white roses in small silver bowls artfully placed along the center. She pulls out a chair and slumps into it as I stare at her incredulously, unable to believe she’s actually announced that she’s in a foul mood; what are we supposed to say to that?
Catia heaves another sigh.
“Hungry!” she says, taking her seat at the head of the table. “Hungry!” She emphasizes the
h
for effect. “ ‘Angry’
vuol dire incazzato
. ‘Hungry’
è affammato
.” She rubs her stomach, clearly illustrating what “hungry” means.
“Ma sono anche incazzata,”
Elisa says sourly.
“Perche—”
“Zitta!”
Catia snaps.
Leonardo grins at me and Kelly.
“My mother is telling my sister to shut up,” he says cheerfully. “That is what
‘zitta’
means.”
God
, I think nervously,
is this normal? Do they always squabble like this?
Apparently so. I look around; Ilaria is sitting down next to Elisa, gesturing for Andrea to take the seat beside her, and neither of them look at all fazed by the spat. And Leonardo is still smiling, not remotely bothered either.
“Your English is really good,” I say, a bit at random, as Paige, who clearly isn’t backward at coming forward, plunks herself down
But if this were my choice of boys for the whole holiday
, I think as they hand us flutes of what looks like champagne, pale straw–colored, dense with tiny bubbles,
I could scarcely complain. They’re both really hot
.
Oh God. I hope I’m not blushing like Kelly! At least I managed to say
“piacere”
back at them, which is more than anyone else did …
“A toast to welcome our summer guests!” Catia says. “Elisa, Ilaria!” she snaps at the two girls who walked by the pool earlier; they’re smoking by the big french doors, their backs turned to the room. Tossing their heads and shrugging, they stub out their cigarettes in the big planter next to them, not seeming to care about the lemon tree it contains. Catia sighs audibly and mutters a reproach that Elisa completely ignores as she and Ilaria wriggle back into the dining room. That’s the best way I can describe how they move; though they’re rake-thin, it’s as if they’re somehow managing to rub their inner thighs together as they walk, writhing sinuously.
Gah
, I think gloomily.
Whereas I spend my time trying to get my inner thighs not to rub together. It’s very unfair
.
“This is
Prosecco di Veneto
,” Catia informs us, in the tone of one imparting a lesson. “It is sparkling wine made from the Prosecco grape. We drink it in Italy before meals, as an
aperitivo
. It is light and pleasant, not strong like champagne. And we say
Salute
when we toast. Okay! So!”
She raises her glass.
“Salute!”
she says, and we all echo obediently. Leonardoand Andrea smile charmingly at us as we take our first sip; the Italian girls do not.
“Introduce yourselves,” Catia says crossly to them as the bubbles burst on my tongue. I love the taste; I love any drink with bubbles in it, but this is really delicious.
“I am Elisa,” says the leader of the two, her Italian accent much stronger than Leonardo’s, her dark curly hair cropped short in a terrifyingly fashionable style that only someone very confident could carry off. She waves a hand at her friend, the gold bracelets on her thin tanned arm jingling as she does so. “Elisa Cerboni. That”—she points at Leonardo—“ees my leetle brother, Leonardo. That”—she points at Catia, with more jingling—“ees my mamma. And thees ees my friend Ilaria. Okay?” She says “okay” with such a strong Italian inflection it takes me a moment to recognize the word. I mouth the pronunciation to myself, trying to copy it. “So now we can sit down for the dinner, yes? I am very angry.”
Without waiting for an answer, Elisa stalks over to the long table laid with a white lace–inset tablecloth, and set with gleaming silver cutlery, gold-edged china plates, and arrangements of white roses in small silver bowls artfully placed along the center. She pulls out a chair and slumps into it as I stare at her incredulously, unable to believe she’s actually announced that she’s in a foul mood; what are we supposed to say to that?
Catia heaves another sigh.
“Hungry!” she says, taking her seat at the head of the table. “Hungry!” She emphasizes the
h
for effect. “ ‘Angry’
vuol dire incazzato
. ‘Hungry’
è affammato
.” She rubs her stomach, clearly illustrating what “hungry” means.
“Ma sono anche incazzata,”
Elisa says sourly.
“Perche—”
“Zitta!”
Catia snaps.
Leonardo grins at me and Kelly.
“My mother is telling my sister to shut up,” he says cheerfully. “That is what
‘zitta’
means.”
God
, I think nervously,
is this normal? Do they always squabble like this?
Apparently so. I look around; Ilaria is sitting down next to Elisa, gesturing for Andrea to take the seat beside her, and neither of them look at all fazed by the spat. And Leonardo is still smiling, not remotely bothered either.
“Your English is really good,” I say, a bit at random, as Paige, who clearly isn’t backward at coming forward, plunks herself down
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