He pulls my hands to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles. “We could be just as motivated, could we not? My fuckin’ God, Salvi. It took me so long to find you, I don’t know how I can walk away. I’ve spent all my life so far up my own arse I couldn’t have found my way out with satnav. You changed me. I won’t give up if you won’t.”
A sound of footsteps headed our way causes us to lean and peek around the corner. Maya stalls in her steps when she spots us, then rushes over.
“I was worried you’d both left! I came here to see you too, Sage. And I’m glad I ran intoyou, Alexander. I wanted to talk to you about what happened with my mom.”
I give him a suspicious smirk. “Wait, what’d you do?”
He holds his hands up as if about to deny something when Maya goes on. “No, nothing bad,” she tells us with a laugh. “I just need to thank you for what you said to her when she called you, and then for making that recommendation to your mom for the job.”
He looks almost sheepish, and I give him a playful sock on the arm. “Okay, spill it. There’s obviously a helluva story here.”
When he hesitates as if trying to find the words, Maya tells me, “My mom called him and lost her marbles because she thought he’d convinced me to write in my blog about, y’know, all the bad blood.”
“What the fuck?”
“Right? And he shot straight with her and said the problem between her and me was, like, her own fault—duh. Something about how she should tone down her ‘edge’ and she’d have more friends? Anyway, it hit home. I guess she was in the right place to hear it, since we’d had the big fight and she was mega sad.”
Alexander pulls me closer with his arm across my shoulders, and it feels so natural I could cry. I snake a hand around his waist, and he looks down and flashes a hopeful smile.
“But then the best part,” Maya says, looking from Alexander to me, “is that he told his mother to hire my mom to write forPâte à Pâtisserie Magazine. He got her a job, Sage! Can you even?”
I angle a stunned look up at him. “I cannot, no. Holy shit, Sandy. Why?”
“A little something I learned from Nefeli Laskaris herself. When I was making mischief, as a boy, rather than punishing me she’d give me something ‘important’ to do. A task to keep me busy and give me the attention I’d been craving. Go out and help the gardener pull weeds, wash dishes for our cook, hoover my father’s car—that sort of thing.” He shrugs. “It worked. So I reasoned that Ms. Ardley just needed a better outlet for her admittedly engaging writing skills.”
“And that wasperfect,” Maya says, “not only because it was a dream of hers to write for a magazine but also because you doing her a favor after she acted like a flaming B made her feel pretty guilty.” She laughs. “It’s like a reward but with a tiny punishment wrapped inside, just to keep things balanced.”
I think of how Priya often does something kind for me when I’ve been a jerk and realize it’s a little of both too: an olive branch, but also a reminder to me that I should be nicer.
“Pretty clever, Sandy-boy,” I tell him, stepping closer in his embrace and patting his chest.
Maya’s phone rings in her bag and she pulls it out. “Oop, it’s Tau. Gotta take this.” She backs up a few steps, swiping the screen. “Let’s all get together for dinner after the race!” she calls in parting. “Monday maybe?”
She waves before turning away and walking down the hall, and I watch her retreat. I shoot a side-eye at Alexander. “Hey, Sandy?”
“Yes, my seraph?” He brushes a knuckle along my jaw.
“You keep surprising me. I love it. And I loveyou. Can we have do-overs?”
“Hell yes. And I love you too, unreservedly and immoderately.” He combs his fingers into my hair and kisses my forehead. “I’m overjoyed that it all got sorted out.”
“Hmm, you’re pretty chill right now for a guy who’s ‘overjoyed’…” My other hand goes to his waist and I pull him tight against me. “Shit, youdidget skinny.”
His lips close in on mine. “Then feed me.”
EPILOGUE
FRANCE
THIRTEEN MONTHS LATER
ALEXANDER
Over in the wide, grassy area by the house, a few grape rows away from where Sage and I are strolling, we can hear Laurent calling to the dog in strident French: “Viens, Chouchou… non non non… Lâche!” Sage and I exchange an amused look.
“Bloody hell,” I say, “between the different names—Gaston or Chouchou—and commands in two languages, that poor feckin’ confused mutt doesn’t stand a chance of obedience. No wonder it’s so horrid.”
“How dare you say that about our godson,” Sage mock-scolds. “Or… uh, god-dog?”
