Page 114 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“Are we back from our travels?” she asked.

“Word gets around, doesn’t it?”

“A friend of Bianca’s was in a couple of days ago, mentioned it.”

George approached hesitantly. An instant longing came over him. So many questions that all centered around Could there have ever been a world where you and I worked?

They held eye contact for a while. He felt his cheeks swell into an uncomfortable smile, but she wasn’t budging.

Were he not so infatuated with her, in love with her, captivated by her—some damn thing—then he would have walked away and let it die.

Something kept him there, though.

He crossed his arms. “I’m leaving in a few days and . . . and I didn’t want my last memory of you to be you running from me.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Technically, you ran from me twice. First after a heck of a slap. Then when I came here to find you a few days later.”

She set down her glasses and massaged her temples.

“Hey, I get it. I’m not here to convince you. I totally understand if you’re not interested, but I want to be friends.” The words sounded dumb as they left his mouth. What the hell, though. He meant it.

“What does that mean, George? What are we going to get out of being friends?”

“Well, you might have a stock of friends, but I don’t. There aren’t too many people I want to spend time with, get to know, but you’re one of them.” He held her gaze. “I’d like to call or email you from the US. There’s a good chance my daughter’s not going anywhere, so I might even be back before too long. Would it be so bad if we kept in touch?”

She looked left past the postcards.

“Anyway, I’m not here to harass you. It’s just that meeting someone like you doesn’t happen to me every day, and you can bet I’m going to fight to get to know you, to be your friend.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “You realize that people call me The Porcupine behind my back. Why in the world would you want to get to know me? Trust me, George, it gets worse the closer you get.”

George touched his chest. “I’m not looking for perfect. I’m far from it.” A pause to collect himself. “You come across just a few people in life that . . . that you connect with. You’re one of those for me. And if all we’re meant to be is friends, then so be it.”

She shook her head at him. “You’re a real problem, George Briggs. You know that, right?”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

They looked at each other for a while, then she asked, “How’s it going with Bianca?”

“We had a great trip—mostly. You would have been proud of me. Venice, Verona, Lake Garda, then down to Florence, Naples, and Ischia. Finished in Rome. Got new shoes.”

She leaned over the counter to check them out. Gave a thumbs-up.

“But I continue to screw things up every once in a while. I guess that’s what dads do.” He couldn’t help but think about Corrado. If only he hadn’t run into him.

“I’m sure she knows you’re trying,” Sandy said.

“It’s true, I am trying. A long way to go, though.”

“A work in progress.”

“That’s right.”

“Aren’t we all?” she said. “Look, George, in another life, we maybe would have had something. But I’m in no shape to ever be in another relationship, not a serious one.”

He raised a hand like he was swearing an oath. “Yeah, I understand.”