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My first kiss. And Levi would be the one to give it to me. I closed my eyes.
“Indy.” His voice was heavy and full of sadness. Or was that pity? “I’m sorry . . . I can’t.”
Even now I could still feel the pain of his rejection. “God, Sabrina, it was so humiliating.” I covered my face and tried to quash the tears that were building behind my eyes. “He never mentioned it again, thankfully.”
“I hate this guy even more now. He’s dead if I see him again,” she warned, pouring me another glass of wine and I snivel-laughed. “And I’m sorry, but your cousin. This is the one always crying to you about her husband?”
“Yeah, the guy she cheated on Levi with.” I swiped at my tears. “Levi proposed to her and she turned him down. Then a few months later, Josh had his accident.”
“You do not need this drama in your life. Not now.” Sabrina patted me. “What you need is some more Lambrusco and a little dancing. Who are you in the mood for?” She flipped her playlist open.
“Hmm, how about some Bad Bunny?”
“Now, we’re talking.” Sabrina put “NUEVAYol” on full blast and led me out onto our tiny living room floor.
Chapter 9
Diana
“Ilook like I slept in this thing!” I groaned in frustration as I studied my reflection in the mirror, rubbing ineffectually at the wrinkled material of the only pantsuit I owned. There was no time to change, we were already running late for our lunch with Helen Harris.
Sabrina, elegant in a mustard-colored shift dress, sighed. Her mouth curled in distaste as she pinched the slate-gray material of my suit. “I told you to wear the wrap dress. That suit is two sizes too big for you.”
“I was going for Diane Keaton in Annie Hall.”
“Well, you look more like Buster Keaton.” She opened the front door and swept me out. “It’s too late now. But I insist on being your clothing coordinator for the next luncheon.”
“Does that mean you’ll come to the next one?”
“Are you kidding? I’m only going to this one because you said you needed moral support. I cannot stand being around those fake, rich bitches.” She huffed and led me out to Pete’s waiting car. Sabrina had once again convinced Pete to be our chauffeur, dashing any hopes I had of him not being present today. But Helen Harris loved him and he had a standing invitation to her lunches, though he rarely came.
“They’re not so bad,” I said as I hopped into the back seat of the Jeep. “Hey, Pete.”
“Diana.” He nodded at me in the rearview mirror and took an extra-long side glance at Sabrina, then cleared his throat when our eyes met. “Who’s not so bad?”
“The ladies who lunch.” That was a big fat lie. I always felt out of place at Helen Harris’s monthly lunches. Helen was rich—the heiress to a British media company—the very one that had first given Reginald Harris a television show back in the ’90s. She invited her wealthy girlfriends, often wives of her husband’s patrons, to lunch in Venice once a month—usually someplace impossibly chic. I occasionally received an invitation—and I knew why: Helen loved hearing stories about my dashing fighter pilot fiancé, who also had a standing invitation, but oddly never showed up. Like me, Sabrina was sometimes invited, but never came to Helen’s lunches, saying she didn’t have the money or the credentials.
“You never know, maybe Professor Marcangeli will be there.” Sabrina had a major professional crush on Bruno Marcangeli, one of the foremost authorities on pre-Roman civilizations and Professor Harris’s longtime rival. Sabrina had abandoned her graduate studies a few years ago to work full-time as a field technician. She said she couldn’t stand the egos and the politics of academia, but she was deeply passionate about pre-Roman archaeology, and I’d been trying to convince her to enroll in the doctoral program at the University of Bologna run by Marcangeli.
“Yeah, right. Harris hates him,” Sabrina argued.
“It’s true. She’d never invite him, especially not when she’s trying to get more money from Visconti and the Etruria Foundation,” Pete agreed. “Plus, she and Bruno have been having an affair for years.”
“What? Shut up, you’re always creating sexual drama where there is none,” laughed Sabrina, pulling down her visor to put on mascara.
“Yeah, Pete, stop projecting. It makes you look hard up.” He glared at me in the rearview mirror.
“I can’t help being privy to certain things when I’ve worked so closely with them for the past five years.”
“And stop bragging.” Sabrina clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes.
An hour later we were seated around a large table at Oro, a Michelin-starred restaurant at Hotel Cipriani with a stunning view of Venice. This was arguably the best part of being invited to Helen’s lunches—getting to taste food that someone on a grad student budget like me could only dream of. As I stared at the menu, I couldn’t help but think that Levi would be in heaven in a place like this. He also would break the bank—even Helen Harris might have a tough time financing his voracious appetite.
I was not going to think about Levi now. I had a plan: talk to Signora Visconti about my research and, fingers crossed, get an invitation to the Etruria Foundation gala. No sooner had we sat down, however, Helen Harris announced that Signora Visconti would not be joining us. Sabrina caught my eye and mouthed, “Mierda.”
So much for my brilliant plan. At least the food was delicious and the view divine. As the conversation flowed around me, I sipped my wine and got lost in my thoughts. Of course, as my thoughts were wont to do lately, they ran straight to Levi.
I still could not believe that he’d shown up on my date. And then to insult me on top of it. I have never, nor will I ever think of Diana that way. I stabbed at my mushroom risotto. She’s just . . . just Indy. What did he mean by that? And how dare he look so damn beautiful while breaking my heart all over again.
