Not that there was any more less press or photographers, but Italy and Florence were just so rustic, relaxed and old world that you couldn’t help but slow down a little, take pleasure in the leisure. It meant that I couldn’t help but take Leah out, holding her hand or planting searing kisses on her lips when we turned the corner of an old church hallway or at the top of the Duomo. I took her to the Boboli Gardens, where we walked hand in hand through the fragrant flowers and collections of statues. Leah goofed off, posing with some of the weathered, half naked bodies, joking that I should be jealous of some of their anatomy. I had to pull her under the privacy of a big oak tree and show her just how unenvious I was. We were due home to London tomorrow, and I wasn’t quite done romancing Leah. After everything I’d put her through with the Judarski thing and dropping the Eve bomb on her, she deserved it. And there was also something about her, and being in Italy together, that made me a sappy wanker.
