Page 163 of Enzo

“You can.”

I turn back to him. “Good.”

“There's something else.”

“What?”

He moves away to the coffee table and picks up a small package, then hands it to me.

“You bought me something?”

“Open it.”

“Enzo—”

“Molly.”

I know that tone. I take the package and peel away the paper. Tears mist in my eyes. It's a book. Not just any book. It's the book of poems I was looking at in the bookshop. I run my fingers over the cover. “No.”

“Yes.”

I look at him.

“Emily Dickinson,” I whisper, stroking the cover gently likes it precious.

“I know.”

I’d picked it up, looked at the price and put it back again. But this man doesn't miss a thing. I open the cover carefully, hardly daring to touch the pages.

“You shouldn't have bought this. It was expensive.”

“Doesn't matter.”

I look up at him as a tear rolls down my cheek. “Enzo.”

“Molly.”

He wipes away my tear with his thumb.

I close the book. “You're impossible.”

“So I've been told.”

I place the book beside the photograph.

He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me against him.

“I love you.” I press a kiss against his lips.

My phone buzzes inside my bag.

I ignore it.

“Could be Miss T,” he says.

“She knows not to call me on weekends unless Oakleigh is on fire.”

“Kiki?”