“Ciao, amore.”
This motherfucker is smooth as hell. And the voice? Pure leading-man energy. Think George Clooney, but deeper. Rougher.
More intense.
I should probably take notes.
Because it’s not just me, half the room can’t seem to look away from the sparks flying between them.
Or maybe it’s the Italian.
Do I need to download Duolingo, or does that kind of charm come preinstalled?
And my friend—who has never enjoyed being the center of attention—doesn’t even register it. Right now, only he exists for her.
I shake my head, breaking whatever spell they’ve cast over the place, and stand.
“Well,” I say, slipping into my most bored tone, “if you two are done making half the restaurant jealous and the other half deeply uncomfortable... mind if I introduce myself?”
Alexander’s sister bursts out laughing. Cecily leans her forehead against Alexander’s chest. He laughs too, his thumb brushing over the exposed back of her neck.
She pulls back and gestures between us. “This ray of sunshine, as you already know, is Mark. Mark, this is—”
“The guy who owns the jet that brought you back,” I cut in. “A jet, may I add, that only someone with more money than common sense would buy. Right?”
To my surprise, he reaches out and shakes my hand, laughing.
“Most people just call me Alexander. Or Alex,” he says easily. “And I apologize for the PDA. Next time I’ll try to remember that single lives matter. It’s just… when I see Cecilia, I can’t really help myself.”
Yeah. He’s good.
“And about the jet,” he adds, smiling, one arm staying firmly around Cecily’s waist, “if you ever want to see for yourself how much of an investment it is, and not a waste, just let me know.”
“Are you trying to bribe me so you can date my best friend?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
He considers it, wearing a serious expression that looks mildly amused. “Would it work?”
“Never.”
“Good,” he says without missing a beat. “Then I know she’s right to trust you.”
I give him a short nod.Point for you, Mr. Santoro.
“Well, if I’m clearly the extra here, I should probably get going,” the blonde says.
The sentence lands before I even turn. Her voice has this almost musical quality—soft, faintly sing-song—that makes it impossible not to pay attention.
I look at her, momentarily forgetting she was even part of the scene. My mistake.
She’s stunning. Pale skin, golden hair, and an off-white knit dress that covers almost everything. Long sleeves, high neckline, completely winter-appropriate until you see the bold cut right down the center of her chest. And just to make sure the point is made, there’s a slit running halfway up her thigh.
When I lift my eyes again, I catch her watching me. There’s no shyness in her gaze. Just a knowing smile.
“Oh sorry, Aurélie,” Cecily says, a touch of embarrassment in her voice. “Blame these two. They’re impossible.”
Aurélie laughs, and wraps Cecily in a hug.
“It’s good to see you again—sis.”
