I feel my own smile forming on my lips.
“It’s something important,” I say. “But nothing you need to fear.”
Her playfulness fades, replaced by curiosity.
“I have a proposal for you.”
That makes her straighten, leaning back in her chair as she studies me. She has no idea how carefully I’ve thought about this. Or how long I’ve wanted to ask.
“We’re preparing several special editions of the internal magazine to celebrate the fifteen-year anniversary of Santoro Marmo in New York,” I begin. “The official date is in January,but the releases will start in November. Fifteen years since my family took a risk. Since we brought a piece of the Carrara mountains into the heart of Manhattan.”
Her eyes are fixed on me, attentive, so I continue.
“The directors want to turn it into a corporate report. Numbers. Targets. Forecasts.” I shake my head. “But this branch wasn’t born from numbers. It was born from history. From heritage. I want the main feature to reflect that—the story of Santoro Marmo here. Not as a global company, but as a family that built something new without losing its roots.”
I lean forward. “And I wantyouto write it, Cecilia.”
Her lips part, surprise taking over her face.
“You have this rare talent,” I continue, dropping the business tone now. “You take something cold, technical... and you turn it into feeling. Into something human, making people care about it.”
“I want people to hear my family’s story through your words.”
There’s no mistaking the astonishment in her expression. But in her eyes... in her eyes there’s something else I can’t quite name.
“Alexander, besides the column, I only write for my blog,” Cecilia says, tucking a loose strand from her updo behind her ear. “And those posts are almost intimate, reflections of how I see things and places. I’m not sure I’d be the best choice for something more... corporate.”
I reach across the table and take her hand.
“But that’s exactly why I want you,” I say, leaving no doubt in my tone. “Yourvoice.”
My thumb glides over the inside of her wrist, and I swear I feel her pulse quicken beneath my touch.
“I admire your sensitivity,” I continue. “The way you breathe life into things most people wouldn’t spare a second look at. Or would just present as data.”
Her eyes relax, searching mine for sincerity, and finding it.
“There is no one else,” I say, meeting her eyes. “No one I would trust this deeply with the story of my family’s legacy.”
She looks down for a moment, weighing everything.
“You don’t have to answer now,” I add. “Take a few days. Think about it. And tell me when you’re ready.”
I keep her hand in mine a moment longer.
When she doesn’t answer, and her eyes wander toward the river, it occurs to me that she’s about to refuse me politely. But then she turns back to me. And there’s a smile on her lips.
“I don’t need to think about it,” she says. “I want to answer with what I feel... not with what my mind tells me to say.”
She’s using almost the exact words I said when I called to tell her I’d signed her up for the salsa class. Then she turns her hand in mine, her fingers brushing my palm, and murmurs:
“I accept. And it would be an honor to tell your family’s story.”
I don’t even try to hold back the smile that breaks across my face.
I lift her hand to my mouth and press a kiss to her palm, letting my lips stay there longer than I should. Long enough to feel the slight hitch of her breath and memorize the heat of her skin.
When I finally look up, her lips are parted, and the sight knocks the wind right out of me.
