I burst out laughing. When I stop, he’s giving me a look that could melt my knickers. What the hell? Why not have a handsome, incredible date for my sister’s wedding? “I’d love that, Leo, thank you, but only if you’re sure. It’ll actually help, because everyone is trying to set me up with a total wanker in the wedding party.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say his face just flickered with jealousy. But that can’t be right, can it?
His face grows serious. “In that case, I definitely have to come. When is it?”
“August eighth,” I say, suddenly realizing his six months will be over before then. My heart pounds in my chest. “Are you still going to be here?”
Nodding, he says, “I’ll be here.”
Act casual, Brianna. Play it cool even though you have the sudden urge to run through the neighbourhood screaming with delight.“Great. Well, I should go get ready for work.”
“Okay, see you in a bit.”
“Brilliant, yeah,” I mumble, trying to force my feet to walk outside. I finally get them going, then turn back to him. “Listen, if you change your mind about the wedding, I’ll understand.”
“I won’t,” he says, and there’s something about his tone that tells me he means it.
Giving him a small smile, I say, “Right. Free food.”
I hurry out into the bright sunlight and let the world’s biggest grin cross my face. I stop short of fist-pumping the air and dancing back inside the house, which I’d say is a real sign of maturity. Leo Davenport, world’s hottest man, is going to be my date. Suck it, Evander Hammer! And you, too, Mum. I got my own date, and he’s hot as hell, and rich AF. Sort of. Not that that matters because I don’t fancy him for his money. I fancy him for his everything else. He’s sweet and smart and thoughtful and handsome and sexy and caring and amazing with Izzy and sexy—oh, I said that one already, didn’t I?
Nothing could spoil this day. This has officially become the greatest day of my life—not counting when Isabelle was born, which was completely overwhelming as far as feeling massive quantities of love goes. But since I didn’t just have fifteen hours of horribly painful labour, this day might actually be slightly better in a way. Obviously not as significant, but pretty freaking amazing. The man of my dreams has A) offered to be my plus-one at a wedding, and B) promised he’s not skipping town the moment his contract is up.
I don’t want to overthink that part of it, because maybe he’s only staying for a couple of weeks past the contract, but what if he’s staying permanently? Like forever?Don’t even let yourself hope for that, Bree. Just enjoy the moment because for once in your life, you get a win.
***
“Are you the concierge?”
I look up, only to have a large Styrofoam box thrust at my face. The woman doing the thrusting appears to be about twenty-five based on her face, but her neck’s got a good twenty extra years of wear and tear. Her blond hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and she has a severe expression that matches her thick Italian accent.
A short, tanned man stands next to her with the build of a bulldog and a shaved head. He could either be her father or her husband based on his leathery skin. His mouth curves up into a smile I’m sure he believes will melt my knickers. Spoiler alert: it won’t. “You are the head concierge,si?”
“Si, I am,” I say, taking the box from the woman. “How can I make your day better?”And by that, I mean, please flake off, you pushy be-otch.
“We are the Bianchis. These are one hundred butterflies. You will take care of them,” she says. “Then you bring to the beach for us tomorrow when the sun is setting and let them out.”
Her husband grins widely. “Yes, we make new wedding vows here at beach tomorrow.” His voice is loud, and there’s something desperate about the way he’s talking, like he wants everyone in the lobby to know what they’re doing.
Leo, who clearly has been listening from his spot near the luggage carts, makes his way over to me and smiles at them. “Congratulations,signorandsignora. How long have you been married?”
“Eighteen years,” he says, his smile never faltering even though his eyes are screaming for help. “But how you say… I make big mistake, so now we start again.”
Glaring at him, she lowers her voice. “Niente più errori.”
I don’t speak Italian, but based on the way she just mimed slitting her throat with that long, bright gold fingernail, I can guess what the mistake was.
Turning back to me, she says, “You open the box now. Put new…come si dice…ice bag on top to stay them cold. They sleep. Then you wake them up and make them fly.”
“Uh huh. Uh huh. Sure.” I say, nodding quickly, like I take care of dormant butterflies all the time. “And when exactly should I wake them?”
“Two hour before ceremony,” she says, holding up two fingers.
“No, tre ore, giusto?” Mr. Bianchi asks his wife.
She makes atskingsound and gestures as though she’s going to hit him upside the head with one hand. “Due! Due ore, idiota!”
“Va bene. Due ore.” Looking at me, he says. “Two hours.”
