Saar
How is that going for you?
Failing miserably.
Saar
Make him grovel, but for what it’s worth I believe you belong together.
I thought you bet against us.
Saar
Only because I hate his guts for the pain he caused.
I love you all.
The shy winter sun seeps through the window, the curtain billowing. I left the window open last night, and now I don’t want to get out from under the soft, warm covers.
I don’t have to.
The thought stretches the corners of my mouth into a smile. For years I had been waking up with afrown, a jolt of anxiety, and a rush. Always catching up, always late, always hurrying.
I guess Tuscany is my new paradise. A place where I can shut down the outer world, the responsibilities, and just let my work ripple out to the world with passion.
Fuck, I’m happy.
I grin like an idiot, replaying the past two weeks in my head. The man is dating me. No kissing. No holding hands. No sex.
Only attention, care, laughter, companionship. It’s like we’re rediscovering pieces of who we were together, but at the same time we dance around it, too afraid to fully dive in.
Okay, I’m the one that’s scared, and unlike before, he’s just standing beside me, waiting for my cue. For my heart to trust again.
Because let’s face it, my body has been onboard, and if the man kisses my hand one more time, I may just combust.
Xander has been respectful.
There is a part of me that is holding back, waiting for the reveal of another manipulation. Everything suggests he learned the lesson, but everything seemed perfect before as well.
Because it fucking was perfect, minus the origin story.
I slide out of my bed and take a long, warm shower. As I go through my morning routine, I spend half the time smiling as I replay our recent encounters, and the other half frowning and deliberating on where we go from here.
I’m so mad at him for what he did to us.
I’m so in love with him at the same time.
I make a cup of coffee and cut a small piece of pistachio Danish and bomboloni from yesterday. Because yes, after that first dinner, Xander started sending both every morning.
I told him to stop sending them, because as much as I love the pastries and the gesture, I don’t want to deal with the consequences of this overindulgence.
As every day, right at ten, the delivery truck pulls up to the front, I take my coffee out to greet him.
“Buongiorno, signorina.” He shuts the rear door and carries a bunch of sunflowers to me.
“Grazie.” I take the flowers from him, balancing them in one hand, waiting for the white box that always comes with them.
The delivery guy salutes me and walks back to his truck.
