If we’re pretending that this is the possible beginning, I’m going to lean into it. “Aren’t I too old for you?”
“Not at all. Besides, a few years mean nothing in the span of a lifetime.” He opens the door for me.
“A lifetime?” I get in.
“That’s how long I’m planning to fight for you.” He closes the door.
My poor heart.
Earlier tonight, we drove in silence. This time Xander talks about the neighborhood, and drives a longer but more scenic way. Even though it’s dark, I get a glimpse of sites and places I haven’t discovered yet.
Somehow, we do a loop and enter the village again from the other end. Xander brings the car to a stop.
“This is not where I live,” I protest when he gets out of the car and gets around to open my door.
“We didn’t get dessert.”
He leads me through a narrow passage, and we end up in a small courtyard with blue doors.
We enter a small bakery with a few patrons drinking their espresso shots at a tiny counter. It’s really just a square room with stone walls, its glass front fogged from the heat of whatever miracle just came out of the oven.
“I didn’t know about this place.”
“I didn’t know about pistachio Danishes, and now I have several pounds to show for it. Consider it my revenge.”
“You seemed so scandalized by my bakery back home. And look at you now.”
“That wasn’t a bakery; it was a crime scene.”
I snort. “Was? I ate a Danish from there this morning.”
“It’s a respectable place since I bought it.”
I stare at him. “You bought the bakery?”
“It was the easiest way to make sure you can have your Danishes forever, especially since international shipping is required at the moment. But I might sell it after you try the local goods.”
I keep staring, because I’m not sure if I’m impressed or annoyed.
He tugs a strand behind my ear. “Come on, Coraline, I put your sister in charge. The busier she is, the less she bothers you.”
Now I don’t only stare, I gape. And I realize I’m not impressed, nor am I annoyed. I’m grateful. He might have his fucked-up way of caring for me, my needs, and my issues, but he does care. He does notice. He does see my issues before I even notice them.
To distract myself from the onslaught of emotions, I turn to the counter. A tray of sugar-dusted bomboloni sits in the middle, their golden shells puffed, oozing cream from delicate seams.
The smell alone could knock me over—vanilla, yeast, something citrusy—pure comfort wrapped in nostalgia.
It’s the kind of place you’d miss if you blinked. No chrome. No fancy lighting. Just the clink of espresso cups, handwritten prices on curling paper signs, and an older woman behind the counter who greets Xander like he’s one of her own.
I glance at him, watching as he leans in to order in perfect Italian, all suave charm and reverent tones like he’s requesting access to a private vault.
We take our pastries to the car, and he drives me back to the estate. Killing the engine, he turns to me. “I wanted to kiss you after the gala.”
I don’t know why we’re revisiting that night, but somehow it feels important. “Why didn’t you?” I swallow around the lump in my throat.
“I didn’t understand it at the time, but you feltdifferent, and I guess I didn’t want to follow my usual pattern.”
A wave of melancholy sweeps through me, and I say, “We would have had a one-night stand, probably.”
