Page 118 of Enzo

I don’t understand why he’s so insistent on making sure I’m okay.

I am okay.

But I didn’t sleep knowing that he was in my apartment. Something fluttered low in my belly every time I thought of him right there, on the other side of the wall.

It’s ridiculous for me to feel this way. A man like Enzo Knight would never look at someone like me in that way.

And yet … he’s done so much for me. He saved me from falling into the path of the taxi, and then he arranged for the private jet. He had security come up to the apartment. He takes care of me in a way no one has. My heart feels too big for my chest, full of something I don’t know, because I’ve never felt like this before.

He’s taken care of me since this entire mess started, and for once, instead of being the person worrying about everyone else, someone is worrying about me.

But then I remember I'm supposed to be walking away from Luca’s project. Enzo says he's here to do some work on it, but it sounds too convenient, like he’s searching for a reason to be here.

One thing is certain, it won’t be easy for me to walk away, not now, but I should.

I quickly finish up, get dressed, slipping into a turquoise top and a pair of flared jeans. I quickly towel dry my hair, look in the mirror and try to make myself a little presentable.

I find Enzo sitting at the small kitchen table. Am empty cup of coffee by his side.

“Good morning,” he says as soon as he sees me. He sounds oddly very perky and happy even though he looks rough. Large dark bags sag under his eyes. I wince at the thought of him sleeping on the couch.

“You didn't sleep well, did you?”

He sits back. “I was out like a light.”

He’s being polite. “Tell the truth, Enzo. Don’t be polite. Be honest.”

“I didn’t fall asleep for hours, but when I did, I was out like a light.”

“I knew it.”

“But I did sleep well later …”

Tonight, I’m not taking ‘No’ for an answer. He’s sleeping in my bed and I’m taking the couch. Now that he’s here, in my apartment, in my jurisdiction, I’m going to take care of him.

I open the fridge and look inside.

How the tide has turned. In the penthouse there was everything. The fridge was stocked. Here, because I've been away, my lettuce has gone limp. My bread is probably days past its best before date. I have a yogurt which is in date, just about, some eggs, and some chives.

“I don't want you to go to any trouble for me,” Enzo says, probably because I’m staring too look at the insides of my refrigerator, in dismay.

I close the door. “You can't stay here and not eat. Besides I like cooking.”

“I noticed that about you.”

“How about a cheese and chive omelet?” I pull out a block of cheese and sniffing it. He gets up from his seat with a dubious expression. “It’s not growing furry bits, is it?”

“I promise not to poison you. I wouldn’t want your father suing me.”

“Let’s not mention anything about my father …” He sounds tired, and seems easily irritable.

“I wish we could get into a taxi and …” I stop myself in time. The words sprang out at the memory of what we left behind.

“And what?” he asks, his voice soft.

“I wish we could go back to that nice coffee shop you took me to, or even the bookshop. I loved that. Even Central Park, the conservatory. No I didn't really thank you for all the places you took me to. I'm so grateful that you did. I'll probably never go back to New York again and I'll never forget that trip.”

He's watching me. “You never know.”