Part III
“Do not be afraid; our fate cannot
be taken from us; it is a gift.”
Dante Alighieri
Chapter 01
April
“Ciao, bella,”
Cecily
“I don’t even need to ask who you’re talking to,” Mark says, his tone dripping with mischief. “That smile of yours, the same one I’ve been seeing these past few days... there’s only one person it could be about.”
I glance at him, narrowing my eyes.
“Alexander Santoro,” he declares, using the worst fake Italian accent I’ve ever heard. He even does the pinched-finger gesture, like a caricature straight out of a movie.
I sigh and turn my phone toward him. “I doubt even you could keep a straight face after this.”
The second he sees the video, Sam darting after a tiny black puppy through a tangle of bushes, Mark bursts out laughing.
“That Italian guy is smooth, huh? Using his dog—and a puppy, no less—to work his way into your heart,” he says with a wicked grin.
“Can you not?” I snatch my phone back, shaking my head. “I’ve told you a million times, he’s just been a good friend. Nothing more.”
And it’s not as if I even have the head, or the heart, for anything like that. Right now, all my focus is on my children, on myself, and on my work.
Nevertheless, I can’t deny it’s been nice having Alexander as a friend.
It continues to surprises me how easily I open up to him. It’s strange, really, considering we’ve only met three times, and one of those was... less than pleasant. Yet whenever we text or talk—though it’s only been a handful of times over the past weeks—it feels as if we’ve known each other for years.
He’s in Belgium at the moment on business, but he’ll be in New York in two weeks. We’ve already made plans to have lunch on his second day here. And when I think about it, my stomach does that little flip again. It’ll be the first time I’ve seen him in person since December.
“Fine,” Mark says, throwing up his hands. “You know I’m just teasing you.”
He drops onto the couch in front of me with theatrical despair. “Unfortunately, unlike your best friend here, you don’t believe in my very scientific theory that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Or on top. Equal opportunity, of course.”
I arch a brow, smiling without judgment. “To each their own.”
“But seriously,” he says, his tone softening. “If you need me, I’ll run a full background check on this guy. Browser history included. Just in case our charming Don Juan has any skeletons in his closet.”
I laugh, because of course he’d say that.
“Don Juan was Spanish, not Italian,” I sing-song, teasingly.
Mark narrows his eyes. “Details.”
I just shake my head, smiling as I ask him about the new program he’s coding—the one he was telling me about before I got distracted by my phone. I’d left home early to buy a few supplies and decided to stop by his place for a quick visit before the afternoon rush.
We talk for a while longer and soon enough I’m saying goodbye, heading out to pick up Alicia from school.
As soon as Alicia spots my car, she quickens her pace and pulls open the passenger door.
“He’s not coming today?” she asks, instead of saying hello.
