“Let me guess, military strategy? Sun Tzu? Machiavelli?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “Yes, actually.”
“Figures.” I hand him his coffee and gesture to the couch. “You have that whole ‘I’ve-read-The-Prince-and-taken-notes’ vibe going on.”
“Should I be offended?”
“Depends. Have you read The Prince?”
“Multiple times.”
“Then no, you should be proud. It’s very on-brand for you.” I curl up on the opposite end of the couch, tucking my feet under me. “The mysterious, intense, possibly-dangerous thing you’ve got going on.”
Alessandro sits down carefully, like he’s afraid he might break something. He takes a sip of his coffee, and I watch his eyes close briefly in appreciation.
“This is excellent.”
“I told you I made good coffee.” I’m ridiculously pleased by his reaction. “So, Alessandro De Luca. Tell me about yourself. What do you do when you’re not buying ribbon at flower shops?”
He goes still, and I realize I’ve hit on something. A nerve, maybe.
“I run an import business. De Luca Imports.” He says it smoothly, but there’s something rehearsed about it. “We deal primarily in goods from Europe.”
“That sounds vague.”
“It’s not particularly interesting.”
“Try me. I spend my days elbow-deep in dirt and flower stems. Trust me, everything sounds interesting compared to explaining the difference between ranunculus and peonies to confused customers.”
He almost smiles. “What would you like to know?”
“I don’t know. What do you import? Wine? Olive oil? Stolen artwork?”
I’m joking, obviously. But something flickers across his face, it’s there and gone so quickly I almost miss it.
“Mostly wine and specialty foods,” he says. “Some textiles. It’s very boring, I promise.”
He’s lying. Or at least not telling me the whole truth.
The smart thing would be to press him on it. To demand answers about why a man who imports wine needs to wear a gun under his jacket, yes, I noticed that when he took his coat off, the slight bulk under his left arm and why he looks at my windows as though he’s calculating exit strategies.
But I don’t want to be smart right now. I want to have coffee with a handsome man who makes my heart race and my skin feel too tight.
“Okay, boring import business guy,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee. “What do you do for fun? When you’re not working?”
He looks genuinely stumped by this question.
“Fun,” he repeats, like it’s a foreign concept.
“Yeah, you know. Hobbies? Interests? Things that make you happy?”
“I work.”
“That’s not a hobby, Alessandro. That’s a lifestyle choice, and not a particularly healthy one.”
“I go to the gym.”
“Also not a hobby. That’s exercise.”
