The relief that floods through me is probably disproportionate to the situation.
“Great! Okay. It’s just upstairs.” I gesture toward the back of the shop where the stairs lead up to my apartment. “Fair warning, it’s small and probably messy because I wasn’t expecting company, but—”
“Elena.” He says my name like it’s something precious. “I’m sure it’s perfect.”
Oh, I am in so much trouble.
I lock the shop door behind us and lead him through the back room, past my worktable, supplies and the industrial sink where I clean my tools, to the narrow staircase. I’m acutely aware of him behind me, his presence like heat at my back.
My apartment is exactly what you’d expect from someone who lives above a flower shop, small, cozy, and filled with plants. There are succulents on the windowsills, a fiddle leaf fig in the corner, herbs growing in pots on the kitchen counter. The furniture is mostly secondhand, a worn velvet couch in dusty rose, a coffee table I refinished myself, bookshelves made from reclaimed wood and filled with paperbacks and vintage vases.
String lights are draped across the exposed brick wall, and there’s a small Christmas tree in the corner I decorated with handmade ornaments and dried flowers. It’s not fancy, but it’s mine, and I love it.
Alessandro stops just inside the doorway, taking it all in. His expression is unreadable.
Oh God, he hates it. It’s too much. Too cluttered. Too—
“This is incredible,” he says quietly.
I blink. “Really?”
“Really.” He moves further into the space, and I notice how out of place he looks, all sharp lines and expensive fabric in my soft, lived-in apartment. “It’s very,you.”
“Is that a good thing?”
He looks at me, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my breath catch. “It’s a very good thing.”
Okay. Okay. I can do this. I can have a normal conversation with an incredibly attractive man in my apartment without spontaneously combusting.
“Coffee,” I say, a little too brightly. “Let me make coffee.”
I escape to the kitchen, which is really just an alcove with a stove, sink, and counter. My espresso machine, a splurge I justified because I’m Italian and good coffee is non-negotiable, sits pride of place on the counter.
“How do you take it?” I call over my shoulder.
“Black.”
Of course he does. Probably dark and bitter, like his soul.
I immediately feel bad for thinking that. He hasn’t been anything but polite and intense. Very intense.
“One black coffee coming up.” I start the machine, grateful for something to do with my hands. “I also have biscotti if you want, homemade. Well, Mira made them. She’s the baker. I’m more of a ‘kill plants and bring them back to life’ person than a ‘follow recipes’ person.”
I’m babbling. I’m definitely babbling.
“Biscotti sounds perfect.”
I chance a glance at him and find he’s taken off his coat and is standing near my bookshelf, studying the spines. He looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him, though there’s still something coiled about him. As though he’s ready to spring into action at any moment.
“You read a lot,” he observes.
“Escapism is my drug of choice.” I pull down my tin of biscotti and arrange some on a plate. “Romance, mostly. Some mystery. The occasional literary fiction when I’m feeling pretentious.”
“No judgments on the romance novels.”
“Why would there be? They’re stories about people finding love and happiness. The world could use more of that.” The espresso machine hisses, and I pour two cups. “Do you read?”
“When I have time. Mostly history. Biographies.”
