I laughed, appreciating the diversion. “There it is.”
“Oh, it gets worse,” he said gleefully. “This man had cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and an accent that nearly made me commit immigration fraud.”
For the next hour, Marcus filled the apartment with chaotic stories from his trip—terrible hotel hookups, overpriced coffee, getting lost in London at two in the morning, and a near emotional breakdown over customs.
And me? I laughed harder than I had in days. Like really laughed. The kind that loosens something tight in my chest.
And for a little while, I almost forgot about Lorenzo Falcone and his dangerous eyes and impossible proposal.
Almost.
Eventually, the clock crept past midnight, and Marcus groaned as he stood from the couch.
“I have jet lag and emotionally supportive exhaustion,” he announced. “So I’m going to bed.”
“You’re so old.”
“I’m beautiful and tired,” he quipped.
He pointed at me as he shuffled toward his room. “And you are not allowed to spiral anymore tonight.”
“No promises.”
“Zara.”
I held up my hands innocently. “Fine. Minimal spiraling.”
“That’s all I ask.”
I held his gaze. “And Marcus? Thank you. For not judging me.”
“Oh, I’m judging you.” He grinned. “But I’m also loving you. That’s what best friends do.”
A moment later, his bedroom door clicked shut, leaving the apartment quiet except for the hum of the TV and distant city traffic outside the windows.
I curled deeper into the couch, staring up at the ceiling while the wine buzz fades slowly through my veins.
I was exhausted, but my mind kept drifting back to the bar.
To Lorenzo.
To the way his thumb brushed tears off my face, like it hurt him to see me cry.
To the way he saidI want youlike it was a confession and a warning all at once.
This is ridiculous.
Absolutely ridiculous.
I reached for my phone as it buzzed on the coffee table, expecting a work email or a spam notification.
Instead, an unknown number flashed across the screen.
Unknown
It’s Lorenzo. In case you change your mind.
I stared at the screen as my heart hammered against my ribs, fear slicing sharp and bright through my chest. How did he get my number? I never gave it to him—I didn’t even share my full name.
