“Come on, I need to call you something cute.” He pulled open the restaurant door and grinned. “I’ve got it.” “What?” “I’ll call you mia polpetta.” My heart fluttered. “Italian! That’s good, I like it. What does it mean?” I asked as I led the way toward the room at the back we’d booked to accommodate our large group. Behind me, Enzo put his hand on the small of my back and began to laugh. “My little meatball. Now smile, polpetta, we’re on.”
