Neither of us moves.
“Alessandro.”
“Mmm?”
“If you don’t leave now, I’m going to kiss you again. And then I’m going to invite you to stay. And then...” I trail off, suddenly shy.
His eyes go almost black. “And then?”
“And then I think we both know where this would go. But I don’t want that yet. Not until I’m sure you’re not going to disappear on me the moment things get complicated.”
“Things are already complicated.”
“More complicated, then.”
He leans his forehead against mine, breathing hard. “You’re killing me.”
“Good. Consider it payback for the emotional whiplash of the past three days.”
This time he does smile, a real smile that transforms his whole face. “Tomorrow night. The Christmas market.”
“Six o’clock. And Alessandro? Wear jeans.”
“I don’t think I own jeans.”
“Then buy some. No suits allowed.”
He kisses my forehead, it’s soft, sweet, devastating and then he’s gone, leaving me standing alone in my apartment with my heart racing and my lips tingling and the distinct feeling my life has gone completely off the rails.
Mira is going to lose her mind when I tell her.
The next evening, I change my outfit three times before settling on dark jeans, boots, and a cream-colored sweater under my favorite red coat. My hair is down and wavy, and I’ve added actual makeup this time, mascara, a touch of blush, lipstick in a shade called “kiss me if you dare.”
Maybe I’m being too obvious.
At exactly six o’clock, because of course he’s exactly on time, there’s a knock at the shop door.
When I open it, my jaw nearly drops.
Alessandro De Luca is wearing jeans.
Dark wash, perfectly fitted, paired with a black henley and a charcoal wool coat. His hair is slightly less styled than usual, and he looks... God help me, he looks edible.
“You own jeans,” I manage.
“I bought them this afternoon.” He does a self-conscious half-turn. “Are they acceptable?”
“They’re more than acceptable.” Understatement of the century. “You look good. Really good.”
“So do you.” His eyes travel over me slowly, appreciatively, and heat pools low in my belly. “Beautiful.”
“Flatterer.”
“Honest.” He offers his arm. “Shall we?”
The Christmas market at Pike Place is packed with people, couples holding hands, families with kids sticky from candy canes, tourists taking photos of the lights. The air smells like roasted chestnuts and cinnamon, and every booth seems to be playing different Christmas music, creating a cheerful cacophony.
Alessandro looks like he’s been dropped into an alien landscape.
