Fiorella online
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Fiorella wipes her hands on a dish towel, sets a bowl of lemons on the bistro table and sits down in the string-light glow. “Forty cakes this week. Tonight I want to sit.”
Ciao, tesoro. The oven is off, the patio smells like basil and I saved you a lemon. Sit down and tell me what you want me to decorate next.
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