“I would never let that happen.”
“You can’t promise that. You can’t control what your world does to people.”
Marco was quiet for a long moment. The bird on the railing flew away. Inside, someone laughed—Ryan, probably, or one of his friends.
“You’re right,” Marco said finally. “I can’t promise my world won’t be difficult. I can’t promise the press won’t be intrusive, or my father won’t be demanding, or that there won’t be galas and obligations. But I can promise that I’m not asking you to become someone else. I’m not asking you to give up Blueberry Hill or your family or anything that matters to you.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“A compromise.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne. “Six months here, six months there. More here while Violet’s young—I fly wherever I need to be. Summers at the lake, holidays with your family. And when we’re in Milan or New York, you’d have your own space, your own life. Not a gilded cage. A partnership.”
Christina’s throat tightened. “And if it doesn’t work?”
“Then we figure something else out. Together.” Marco reached out, brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I’m not trying to own you, Christina. I’m trying to be with you.”
Violet chose that moment to spit up on the christening gown. Christina grabbed for the burp cloth she’d tucked into her pocket—always prepared now, always ready—and Marco was already there with a napkin, dabbing at the lace with careful hands that made her chest ache.
“This gown survived three generations,” she said. “It can survive a little spit-up.”
“She’s marking her territory. Very Castellano of her.”
Christina laughed despite herself, the sound catching in her throat. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious.” Marco’s hand covered hers, warm and steady. “I love you too. In case that wasn’t clear.”
“It wasn’t entirely unclear.”
“I love you, and I love her, and I want to figure this out. Not perfectly. Not all at once. Just—day by day.”
Day by day. The same words that had gotten them through the past month. Christina looked at the man in front of her—rumpled now, genuine now, so different from the glossy playboy she’d read about in magazines—and made a decision.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay?”
“Okay, we’ll try your compromise. Six months here and six months in Milan or New York, adjusted as needed.” She squared her shoulders. “But I want it in writing. Not because I don’t trust you, but because I need to know that if something goes wrong, Violet stays with me.”
“I’ll have my lawyers draw something up. Full custody to you, with generous visitation for me. Whatever makes you feel safe.”
“That easy?”
“She’s your daughter first.” Marco’s voice was quiet. “I’m just grateful you’re letting me be a part of her life at all.”
The French doors opened behind them, and Tara’s head poked out. “There you are. Sophia’s about to do the toast, and Evan’s asking if Marco wants to hold Grace for the family photo.”
“We’re coming,” Christina said.
Tara’s gaze moved between them, reading something in their faces. Her expression softened. “Take your time. The cider’s still warm.”
She disappeared back inside, and Christina turned to Marco one last time. “This isn’t going to be easy.”
“Nothing worth having ever is.”
“That’s a cliché.”
“It’s also true.” He offered his arm, old-world formal, slightly absurd given the spit-up on both of them. “Ready to face the family?”
Christina tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
