Page 138 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

It wasn’t the diamond that shone. It was Alice. The girl could still command a room, be it a coffee shop or a fancy restaurant, by simply walking into it. Renzo admittedly had a way about him, too, so smooth and effortless, a model right out of GQ.

Harold was minorly relieved when the host guided Alice and her evil guardian to a table on the other side of the restaurant.

“What’s wrong?” Bianca asked him, then followed his gaze. “Ah. Is that the redhead you talked about yesterday?”

A nod.

As Renzo helped Alice into her chair, he happened to glance up and see the table of gawkers staring at him. A second later, he locked eyes with Harold. The man confidently extended his middle finger.

“Ouch,” Bianca said.

“Asshole, right?” Harold said, incredulous. This wasn’t even about Alice. Not now. If anything, this was more about Renzo and Harold than Alice and Harold.

“I can’t believe they’re here,” Moira said. “What are the chances?”

Harold was trying not to look, but he noticed Alice pull her napkin onto her lap, then say something to the server. He hoped she was ordering that fancy Arctic water. The least she could do was waste Renzo’s money.

Harold had gotten over her. Aroldo would want her back, but only for the game of it. And it didn’t matter because Aroldo was dead. Alice had never really known Harold and certainly had never loved him. And now he wasn’t even sure he’d ever loved her. Only in the last day or so had he felt like himself, and she hadn’t held much weight in his mind.

“This must hurt,” Sandy said. Everyone at the table was silent, picking at tentacles and oysters, sitting in the discomfort of this unfortunate coincidence.

“Oh, c’mon, guys,” Harold said. “We’re having so much fun. Anyone else have another secret worth sharing? I wish I could say something like I was undercover right now, busting bookstores that didn’t have romance sections. But I have nothing else. A few days and I’ll be back in my mom’s house and trying to figure out how to pay her and the credit card companies back for financing my trip. Then maybe I can take out some loans for college.”

Sandy seized that nugget. “And what will you do with a degree, dear Harold? I’m proud of you, by the way. We’re going to miss you here. Who else will I tango with?”

Harold dipped a spoon into the sea urchin. After a bite that was somewhere between delicious and bizarre, he said, “That’s very sweet of you, and you know what, I did have a fleeting thought, that despite my clumsy sensibilities, I might find a dance class back in Denver. The tango resonated with me.”

“Let me tell you something. And I promise I’m not sugarcoating. You have an innate talent on the dance floor. I so hope you’ll keep dancing.”

“Thanks, Sandy. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

Two courses later, Chef Corrado appeared at the table. “How’s everyone enjoying the meal?”

George gave a thumbs-up and swooned over the slow-cooked scorpion fish ragù. It was the most normal and delicious course so far. Sandy and Bianca golf-clapped and professed their love of everything.

Harold had to ask, “Just curious. See that couple over there? How’d they get into your special night? Friends of yours?”

Corrado looked over, then: “Yes, Renzo. He built the hotel, so he receives good treatment. Do you know him?”

“Barely.” He only tried to ruin my life and is now taunting me.

Corrado left with, “If I can do anything for you, let me know. The best is yet to come.”

The five of them returned to their remaining courses. A duck liver pâté, a roasted pigeon breast scattered with cocoa nibs. Foods that Harold had never even heard of before, but he tried them with an open mind.

“What do you think about all this?” Moira asked Harold on the seventh course. The others had fallen into their own conversation.

“I think I’m drunk and can’t eat another bite.”

“I’m a wee bit tipsy too,” she whispered. “I can’t believe we have two more courses to go.”

“That’s almost as shocking as you dropping the biggest nuclear bomb of a secret in the history of secrets.”

“I know, I know. Regret is currently nipping at my heels.”

Harold rubbed his belly. “Would it be strange if I stuck my finger down my throat in the bathroom? Just so I can keep going.”

“No, I think it’s a great idea. You could even start all over.” She chuckled. “No, Harold. No fingers down your throat. It’s not even funny.”