"Or start a war if someone served her bad espresso."
"Also true."
We reach the oak tree. Valentino leans against its trunk, his gaze drifting across the garden toward the compound's high walls.
"Your mother worries about you," he says quietly.
"Mamma worries about everyone."
"She worries about you specifically. About this engagement to the Russian."
I stiffen. "Did she ask you to talk to me?"
"No." Valentino holds up his hands. "I'm not here as her messenger. I'm here as your cousin who hasn't seen you in two years and wants to know if you're happy."
The question catches me off guard.
Happy.
Such a simple word for such a complicated feeling.
"I don't know," I admit. "I think I might be. Or I could be. If I let myself."
Valentino looks at me with those dark, perceptive eyes.
"What about you?" I turn the question back on him. "Have you found love hiding somewhere in Sicily?"
Valentino laughs.
I stare at him. In all my memories of Valentino, I've never seen him laugh like this.
"What?" I demand. "What's so funny?"
He wipes his eyes, still chuckling. "Love. Me. The concept is..." He shakes his head, another laugh escaping. "Dio mio, Vittoria. You have no idea."
"Enlighten me."
Valentino leans back against the oak tree, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The laughter fades, but amusement still dances in his expression.
"I have a problem," he says. "A curse, really. I am only attracted to women who are..." He searches for the word."Grumpy. All the time. Perpetually unhappy. The kind who scowl at sunshine and complain about everything."
I blink. "That's... specific."
"It's a nightmare." He runs a hand through his dark hair. "I see a beautiful woman smiling, laughing, enjoying life? Nothing. No interest. But a woman who looks like she wants to murder everyone in the room? My heart races."
"That can't be true."
"I wish it wasn't." Valentino's expression turns rueful. "My longest relationship lasted two months. And that was only because I was traveling to Chicago constantly during that period. The distance kept us from killing each other."
"Two months?" I can't hide my disbelief. "Valentino, you're thirty-seven years old."
"Thirty-eight."
"Even worse." I shake my head. "Italian women are... they're something else. Passionate, beautiful, devoted. You're telling me not one of them has captured your attention for longer than eight weeks?"
Valentino's jaw tightens slightly. "The problem isn't finding women who want me. It's finding women I want who don't make me want to throw myself off a cliff after a week of their company."
"The grumpy ones."
