My stomach drops. She stopped by already? So the realtor contacted her. “What did you tell her?”
“That I couldn’t discuss client information. But she’s smart. She’ll figure it out if she hasn’t already.”
I end the call and stare up at the dark windows of the apartment above the restaurant.
Is she up there now? Is she standing in that kitchen, running her hands over the new stove, trying to piece together what I’ve done?
Does she hate me for it?
She should. I fucking wish I hadn’t done that. I wish I was strong enough to sit down and explain things to her and hold her while she works to understand. And she would understand. She’d sacrifice herself for anyone. But I’m a fucking coward, andI had to get drunk to do it. And when I’m drunk, I’m the biggest fucking asshole on the planet.
My phone buzzes with a text from the linen service supplier.
Ms. Bellamorte called
asking about the
account. Very
insistent about
speaking to
whoever set it
up. What should
I tell her?
I type back quickly:
Tell her nothing.
All inquiries go
through my office.
Another buzz. This time it’s the furniture supplier.
She was here looking
at the proposals.
Wanted to know
who’s paying.
She’s not happy.
Good. Let her be unhappy. Let her be furious. Anything is better than the look in her eyes when I told her I didn’t want her.
My phone rings. Unknown number. I answer anyway.
“Vincenzo.” Her voice hits me like a bucket of ice.
“Sophie.”
“What did you do?” She sounds breathless, like she’s been running. “The restaurant, the kitchen, everything, what did you do?”
