Not wanting to miss the chance to see him, I suggest, “But... maybe coffee? If you’d like that.”
“I’d like that,” he says immediately.
We make plans to meet at a patisserie I’ve been wanting to try for ages, and I promise to tell him more about my trip with the kids.
When we hang up a few minutes later, I’m smiling at my phone, feeling the first stirrings of anticipation knowing I’ll see him tomorrow.
Alexander holds the door open for me, letting me step out first, and we walk into the late–afternoon air. It’s cooler now than it was a little over an hour ago when we arrived.
Seeing him again the moment I got here felt both strange and unexpectedly good. While I was wondering if I should just shake his hand or greet him with a kiss on the cheek, Alexander pulled me into a quick hug. It was brief, but still enough for me to feel the scruff of his beard grazing my skin as I breathed him in.
Clean cedar, sandalwood and something expensive underneath it, unmistakably him.
When we stepped back, he leaned in and kissed my cheek.“Ciao, cara mia.”
That good feeling I can’t name moved through me, and before I could let myself linger on it, we headed inside the patisserie.
We spent the whole time sampling their tasting menu and talking about everything and nothing, slipping effortlessly into a rhythm that felt both new and comfortingly familiar.
Now that we’re each supposed to be heading in different directions, I realize I’m not ready to say goodbye. So I ask, almost without thinking,
“There’s a park on the next block. Want to take a quick walk with me?”
Alexander gives me a contained smile, but something in his amber eyes changes, brightening like an ember catching light.
“Lead the way,” he says, his tone rough.
We’ve barely taken two steps when he stops, and I notice his gaze drop to my feet.
“Are you sure you want to walk in those shoes? They can’t be comfortable for this,” he says gently.
I follow his eyes to the black heels contrasting with the beige hem of my trousers, paired with a sheer black button-down and a black camisole underneath. A smile tugs at my lips. Because he not only noticed, but he cares.
“Actually,” I say, amused, “I was going to suggest a quick stop by my car first.”
He lifts an eyebrow, waiting.
“I keep a pair of ballet flats in there. Especially when I know I’ll be walking around a lot.”
I say it as a confession, and his laugh tells me he finds it endearing rather than ridiculous.
We walk to where my car is parked, tucked away in a secluded corner of the lot. I unlock the back door and slide onto the seat, reaching under the front seat for the bag. Alexander stands by the open door, one hand resting lightly on the roof of the car, watching me.
I’m caught off guard when he takes the bag from my hands and says, “May I?”
I blink at him, confused... until he crouches down.
“Alexander, what are you doing?” I ask, between a laugh and exasperation.
“May I?” he repeats, already kneeling beside the car, and something in his eyes makes me nod before I even think about it.
He takes the flats from the bag and sets them neatly to the side. And when his long fingers circle my ankle and he gently slips off my heel, I hold my breath. It’s careful, respectful, yet there’s a tenderness in it that unsettles me.
He slides the first flat onto my foot and his thumb brushes lightly over the exposed skin. A barely–there touch, but enough to send a shiver through my whole body. He repeats the gesture with the other foot, and I find myself watching him the entire time.
Alexander—kneeling in an almost empty parking lot, dressed in a black suit tailored to near perfection—changing my shoes as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if this is something he’s done a thousand times before.
When he stands, he leans forward to place the heels inside the car, bringing us within inches of each other. For a second, I feel his presence like a soft current pulling me in. He sets the shoes inside and straightens to his full height. I’m still watching him, unable not to as he extends his hand, and I take it.
