For a while, I forgot about the fashion show and the Bushrangers. I forget about everything except the ride and Bush.
Eventually, Bush slows and turns down a quieter street lined with restaurants and storefronts. He pulls to the curb in front of a warmly lit place with elegant lettering across the window.
Vita Gustosa.
The scent of garlic and baked bread drifts through the air as we step inside. A hostess seats us at a small table near the window. Soft lighting glows over white tablecloths, and quiet Italian music hums in the background.
Bush leans back in his chair, studying me. “So how’d rehearsal go?”
I grin. “Honestly? Really well. The models nailed their timing, and the clothes looked amazing under the lights. Even Viper and Bianca looked like they’d been doing runway work for years.”
He chuckles. “Doesn’t surprise me.”
The waiter arrives for drink orders, and once he leaves, Bush asks, “You ready for the main event tomorrow?”
My heart warms instantly.
“You remembered it’s tomorrow.”
“Of course I did.”
The simple fact that he paid attention makes me ridiculously happy.
“Are you coming?” I ask.
His answer is immediate. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Relief and excitement bubble through me.
I tell him more about the rehearsal—the quick changes, the lineup, the way Tony’s design practically stole the room during the final walk. Bush listens like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever heard.
Even after we order our drinks and dinner, we keep talking about the show. I describe the music cues, the lighting, and the moment Bianca steps onto the runway in my pink dress.
Bush nods thoughtfully. “Sounds like it’s gonna be a big deal.”
“It is,” I admit. “At least… it is to me.”
Before he can respond, a shadow falls across the table.
A man pulls out the empty chair and sits down, as if we invited him to join us.
Bush’s posture stiffens instantly.
“Well,” the man says casually, folding his hands on the table. “This is an interesting surprise.”
Bush’s voice drops a degree colder.
“Marcus.”
“Who is your beautiful companion?” Marcus asks, turning his attention to me.
“Zara Sutherland. Zara, this is Marcus Beraldi. He owns the restaurant.”
“Oh! It’s nice to meet you. Your restaurant is lovely and smells amazing,” I respond in surprise, offering him my hand. I’m nervous because I can’t figure out why Bush seems so tense.
Marcus chuckles. “The pleasure is mine,” he says, lifting my hand to place a soft kiss against my knuckles. He releases my hand and returns his focus to Bush.
“We had visitors today. My father is reaching out to your President about it. They talked with an accent similar to yours. I’m guessing you know them?”
