"You've figured it out, then? What you want?"
I shook my head honestly. "Not yet. I'm still figuring it out." I met his eyes. "But I want to. Figure it out, I mean. With you."
Something shifted in his expression. Warmth flooding in, hope blooming, softening every line of his face.
"Bella," he breathed.
He reached for me. His hand cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone in a gesture that made my heart stutter.
"I've been thinking about you," he said quietly. "Since you ran away from me. Every day. Every hour."
"I'm sorry I ran."
"Don't be. You needed time. Space to think. I understand that, even if it was torture."
"I'm not running now."
"No." His smile was slow, devastating, filled with promise. "You're not."
He leaned in.
The kiss was soft at first. Gentle. His lips brushing mine like a question.
I answered by pressing closer, my hand finding the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric to pull him nearer.
He made a low sound and deepened the kiss. His other hand slid into my hair, cradling my head with careful reverence. I could taste champagne on his tongue, could feel the warmth of him radiating through his clothes.
The city glittered below us. The string lights swayed overhead. And I kissed Matteo Rossi on a rooftop in New York while the last light faded from the sky, and for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel confused.
I felt found.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he pressed his forehead to mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
"Milan," he said, his accent thick with emotion.
"Milan," I agreed.
"Dinner."
I nodded. "Dinner."
He laughed softly, the sound rumbling through his chest where I could feel it.
"I can't wait,Bella."
I smiled against his lips, feeling something click into place inside my chest.
"Neither can I."
15ISABELLE
Naomi's facefilled my phone screen, her braids piled on top of her head, a makeup brush in one hand.
"Hold on, they're doing something ridiculous to my eyebrows." She turned away, speaking rapid instructions to someone off-camera. "No, higher. Higher. That's too high. There. Perfect."
She turned back to me, rolling her eyes.
"London shoots are chaotic. The photographer keeps changing his mind about the lighting, and the stylist brought the wrong shoes, and I've been in this chair for three hours."
