Italian Escape. Liz Fielding

‘Walking boots and a fleece, I’ll have you know.’

      Luca seemed to be shaking and when she turned to him she saw, with some surprise, that he was laughing. She had made people laugh at ‘the tale of Minty’s three fiancés’ before, many times. But not like this.

      ‘You wore a fleece?’ he asked with some difficulty. ‘Did it have an attached waterproof?’

      ‘It was practical,’ she said, then bit her lip, a bubble of amusement rising up inside her, dispersing the ache.

      ‘You got engaged to a man who proposed to you in a fleece?’

      ‘We were up a mountain!’ But it was no use; the laughter that erupted from her wasn’t self-deprecating, sarcastic, a disguise. It was real, all-consuming. He was right; it had been ridiculous.

      ‘I think, cara, you had a lucky escape.’ Minty’s heart clenched at the endearment.

      ‘From Joe? It wasn’t all mountain-trekking; he liked pub quizzes as well.’

      Luca laughed again, deep and sensual. ‘From all of them. None of them were right for you.’

      ‘Most people think they had a lucky escape from me.’ Minty tried not to sound wistful.

      ‘Most people,’ he said, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head, ‘are fools.’