“Surely not too busy for a drink,” the man in front of her said, a cheesy smile spreading across his face before he slid into the empty seat next to her. She put her manual aside.
“Look, I'm sorry, but I really am working,” she tried to explain. He snapped his fingers in the air, summoning a waiter.
“Ah, just one drink. You can spare time for one drink,” he insisted, his accent thick and his gaze heavy. The waiter approached and her unwelcome-guest ignored her, speaking Italian and ordering a drink.
“I'm sorry, I don't want to sit with you,” she pressed.
“See? Is too late. Now you must drink with me,” the guy teased.
Misch was tired from a long day at work. Tired from a long life. She glared at the man.
“I don't want to drink with you. I don't know how to get that through your head. So you can leave, or I can leave,” she informed him.
“Or we can stay and you can get to know me, I am very fun guy,” he assured her.
Misch snorted, stood up, and began collecting her paperwork. The man stood up as well, and next thing she knew, he was pressed up against her side. She started to pull away, but he wrapped his arm around her waist.
“What are you doing!?” she was shocked.
“The night is young, and you are very beautiful. Come, let us get to know one another,” his voice was low as he leaned down towards her. She practically bent in half trying to get away.
“You're about to get to know my fist! Let go of me!” she snapped.
“American women are so feisty, I love it. I will show you -,”
“Babe! Sorry I took so long!”
Misch turned her head and stared in shock as a second man came up to her other side, grabbing her free hand and bringing it to his lips, kissing the backs of her fingers.
Am I releasing pheromones or something!?
“Excuse me!?” she squeaked. The new guy was tall, and though he blended in with the local scenery, his accent was American. He didn't look at her, just held her hand and glared at the other man.
“Can I help you?” he demanded.
“You know this woman?” the Italian guy questioned.
“I should hope so, I fucking married her,” new guy snapped, then grabbed her left hand, holding it up so the other man could see her wedding set.
“I am sorry. She said she was alone,” Cassanova began sliding away.
“Well, she's not alone anymore, so get the fuck out of here.”
Misch's mind was blown, and she didn't say anything as the American man hugged her close to his side. She watched as the Italian gentleman glared at them for a moment longer, then walked away, cursing in the other language. A deep voice chuckled from above her, and she was let go.
“Did you just save me?” she asked, moving away from her new friend.
“Yeah, you looked like you needed it,” he informed her, smiling down at her.
Oooohhhh, wow. And I picked tonight of all nights to not dress up ...
“I'm sorry, who are you?” she blurted out.
“Your savior.”
He was smiling, but she didn't feel like he was joking. His voice was low and his smile sly. He had incredibly thick, black hair, which almost shined and had waves on top of his head. His eyes were so dark, they almost looked black, matching his thick eyebrows and heavy lashes. His lips were on the fuller side, and he easily had two days worth of stubble on his jaw. Her heart started beating faster.
No, no, no. This can't be happening. I'm not doing this. I don't want this.
“I'm sorry,” Misch said with a dry laugh, putting a hand on her chest. “I'm a little … uh … thrown off, by that guy. Am I missing something?”
Her savior finally held out his hand.
“I'm Tal,” he introduced himself as she put her hand in his. She held still.
“Your name is 'tall'?” she asked, surprised. He smiled, showing a wide expanse of pretty, perfect, white teeth.
“Tal,” he corrected her pronunciation. “T-A-L. It's Hebrew. Means 'dew'.”
She felt stupid.
“Oh. I'm Mischa,” she finally shook his hand, realizing she'd been holding it the whole time. He squeezed her palm and she felt her heart rate increase.
“Mischa. Russian, 'Who is Like God',” he informed her.
“Are you a collector of names?” she tried to joke. Lamely. He let go of her hand.
“No, I've just been around a lot. Knew a Mischa. Please, sit,” he offered, before pulling out her chair. Misch was sliding into her seat before she even caught on to the fact that she'd just been invited to sit at her own table. But she didn't say anything as he sat across from her.
“Where are you from?” she asked, wondering what she should do, what she should say. He obviously knew she was married, and he had saved her from a creeper – surely he wasn't hitting on her, as well.
“All over. And you?” he returned the question, then lifted his hand. Snapped for a waiter.
It didn't seem offensive when he did it.
“The states. Michigan,” she told him.
“Ah. Detroit. Nice. Never been.”
And that was it. A waiter came, and Tal ordered in what sounded like perfect Italian, albeit with an American accent. Then they sat in silence. He stared at her, his dark eyes wandering over her face. Misch shifted nervously in her seat.
“So, uh, what brings you to Italy?” she tried another question.