“No, she usually had even less patience for our annual guests than she did for me,” I say with a wry smile. I drove Mafalda up the wall, but I know she loved me as if I were her own. I should have treated her better, looking back.

Oliver taps our glasses together and I smile at him, taking a long sip and leaning in closer, reaching out to brush a stray piece of piece of hair away from his forehead.

“What are you thinking for dessert?” I ask in a low voice, one that might be a little suggestive if he’d like to take it that way. I think I’d like very much to curl up on the sofa and be kissed by him. There are few things in life better, if anything at all.