Page 143 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

In fact, another sleepless hour and she was going to host a book burning right outside the store. She’d burn every love story left in the store—even if it was a side plot—but she’d start with the one that’d caused all the trouble in the first place, the book that had instilled hopeless romantic dreams for more than two centuries: Pride and Prejudice. How sweet it would be to watch those pages burn. Enjoying the end of all hope for Mr. Darcy and for love itself.

Sandy went to the window and looked down on the street, and as stupid as it was, she wondered whether George was up. Knowing him, he’d have already left for the airport to be three hours early. She let go of the blinds and returned to bed.

Eventually she grabbed her phone, put on her readers, and googled his name, George Briggs. There he was on LinkedIn.

He was too old, too organized. And he lived in Arizona. She wasn’t going back to the States. “No offense, US,” she whispered out loud. “You’re fine and all, but you’ve got nothing on Bologna.”

Still, she couldn’t let him leave without a proper goodbye. He’d been good to her. The least she could do was show up for him and say that it had been nice, them talking and getting to know each other. He was funny. Terrible shoes, but he was one of the few on earth who could make her laugh. Great hair too.

While she was at it, she had to admit that his love for his daughter, though clumsy at times, was the same kind of love she’d always felt for Jack, even now, eight years after her son had left this earth.

Sandy dressed and descended the steps. She decided she wasn’t going to do some stupid Nick Hornby–novel thing, where she chased George to the airport. He’d either be there or he wouldn’t. Note to self: Burn all the Nick Hornbys tomorrow!

Via Giulia was dead quiet at 3:15 a.m. Even the Italians had closed down their celebrations for the night. A street cat dashed into an alley. A mourning dove was perched on a wire waiting for the sun to peek through the buildings.

A lone taxi passed by, stopping in front of Bianca’s place a block down.

Sandy’s heart felt strange, the way it seemed to come to life. Then she saw him, dragging a bag over the hump of the doorway.

“George,” she called out.

He didn’t hear her.

Damn him, he was going to make her run, and that’s what she did.

If that wasn’t a sign for something.

Sandy was not one to run. Not even if she was caught in suede in the rain.

Sandy Cooke ran for no one.

But she was running for George and calling out his name as the taxi driver popped the trunk and climbed out.

George was slinging his bag into the back when he finally heard her. “Sandy? What are you doing?”

“I’ve no idea,” she said, their proximity driving her mad. “Couldn’t sleep. Nice cool night too.” She had to say more. She wasn’t here to comment about the stupid weather. She kept approaching, and she wasn’t sure whether she could tolerate another handshake or cheeky hug.

Sandy stopped three feet from him, this man who’d invaded her heart. What was she to do now? She looked at the taxi driver and said, “Potestri aspettare in macchina, per favore? Ho una queastione in sospeso con quest’uomo.” Will you please wait in the car? I have some unfinished business with this man.

He gave a nod and retreated to his seat, shutting the door.

Back to George, she said, “You kept me up all night.”

“Why’s that?”

She looked into his eyes. “Dammit, why are you doing this to me?”

Poor George looked at her like he’d done something wrong. “Doing what?”

Ripping the words from her throat, she said, “For some God-knows-what reason, I don’t want you to leave, and I think I’m sad about it.”

He gave his handsome laugh. “Ah.”

It wasn’t only his laugh. Something she’d said seemed to wake him, his face gathering color, his eyes widening.

Sandy moved closer, wanting to take his hand but terrified. “I don’t want you to go. There. I said it. And it’s your fault, all of it. I tried to stay out of the way, but I’m sad about you leaving. And yesterday. Last night when we said goodbye. All I could think about was how I couldn’t lose you. There was no way I could lose you, not see you again. Not see those stupid white tennis shoes and even stupider pink tools and your great hair. I hate the idea of you not being around to make your silly jokes, always trying to make me smile.”

George ran a hand through his hair, probably frustrated with her—or soaking up her “great hair” flattery.