What I won’t tell him, or Alicia, is that the beard makes me look like someone completely different. I’d never let it grow before.
I’m afraid that if I shave it off, I’ll see that same arrogant fool staring back at me. The one who thought he ruled the world andeveryone in it. The one who, deep down, was just another idiot who wanted to have his cake and eat it too.
Alexander
I put another jar of passata back on the shelf and exhale, resigned. Homemade it is.
I move to the produce section and start selecting tomatoes one by one. I’m focused, but then that awareness runs up the back of my neck. I lift my head to see Cecilia a few feet away, looking right at me... smiling.
Before I can move toward her, she pushes her cart in my direction. When she’s close enough, I pull her into a half hug, and her scent hits me. I’ve associated Italian bergamot with Cecilia ever since the first time I stood close enough to breathe her in.
Before pulling back, I kiss her cheek.
“If this supermarket weren’t conveniently located between where we both live, I’d say you’re following me, Alexander,” she says, pretending to sound serious.
“Who said I’m not?” I lift a brow.
A few seconds pass as we simply... look at each other.
“I thought you were only arriving tonight,” she says, smiling.
“I managed to wrap up everything sooner and flew in last night. Got here a few hours ago. I was going to call you later,” I say, never taking my eyes off her.
Cecilia glances at the basket in my hand. “Tomato sauce for dinner?” she teases.
“Yes. I’m making the passata myself—couldn’t find a single brand that doesn’t taste like preservatives and artificial flavoring.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Expecting a lot of guests?”
I let out a short laugh. “It takes more tomatoes than you’d think to make proper Italian red sauce. But no, I’m only cooking for two tonight.”
“Oh.” She looks away.
My heart kicks hard when I realize how that might have sounded.
“My sister’s coming over for dinner. She’s a disaster in the kitchen, and she insists my gnocchi with red sauce is the best she’s ever had, so she asks for it almost every time we’re in the same city.”
She looks up at me, the smile back on her face.
Does she care who I’m having dinner with?
“Your sister is lucky to have you,” she says. “Are you going to be long? I just need to grab some potatoes and head to the checkout. If you have a few minutes to spare... maybe we could get a coffee? There’s a really good bakery across the street.”
I nod, trying not to smile.
“Of course,” I say. “I just need pure olive oil, but it’s on the way to the register.”
And despite her halfhearted protests, I take the cart from her hands and push it while she finishes her shopping.
At the checkout, I don’t even try to pay for her groceries—I know the gesture wouldn’t be well received. At least not yet.
Outside, I place my two bags on the passenger seat of my car, parked near the store entrance, then walk over to help Cecilia load her things into the trunk of her white hybrid Volvo parked a few rows down.
We walk in comfortable silence until we reach the bakery. I order a macchiato, Cecilia gets a latte, and we both choose the lemon tart. We learned a few weeks ago that we share a weakness for citrus desserts.
I’ll never mention that to Aurélie. She’d treat it as more evidence for her soulmate theory.
I pay for our order, and Cecilia just shakes her head.
