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‘An excellent shoot; you’re a gifted woman,’ he said, kissing my hand once more. ‘See you soon, Signorina De Stella. Very soon, I hope.’
A few days later, we ran into each other at a London reception hosted by my editor at Panoramik Magazine.
Max spotted me the second he entered, broke away from his entourage of producers, and strode straight toward me.
He lifted my fingers to his lips, making me feel like the only person in the crowded room.
‘Signorina De Stella, we meet again.’
His tone and the soft gleam in his eyes made me feel precious, cherished in a way I had never experienced.
He remained by my side the entire evening, complimenting me on my Bottega Veneta champagne dress and jewelry.
He kept topping up my glass, made sure I got canapés, asked keen questions about my life, and made me feel like a princess with every smile, look, and gentle touch of his hand on mine.
Later, Massimo guided me away from the party to a quiet Kensington bistro.
We sat at a corner table under amber lights, sharing a bottle of Barolo and truffle tagliatelle until dawn.
His worldliness mesmerized me.
He made sophistication an art form, listening as I spoke about my photography.
He treated me like gold, making every moment feel straight out of a romantic movie.
Then he departed for a film set in Spain, leaving a quiet void behind.
Two weeks later, his message popped up in my Instagram inbox.
He responded to a post I shared about the chaos of night street photography and asked where I was.
I replied that I was in Nashville with Raff.
He asked how I was doing, and I mentioned my upcoming photography job with the Fashion Council in Rome the following week.
Max told me we needed to meet up while I was in the city.
My heart pounded against my ribs, and my hands trembled as I read his message.
Rome turned into a whirlwind of romance.
He booked us into a suite overlooking the Spanish Steps and took me to rooftop restaurants, where we dined on fresh seafood and chilled prosecco.
He expressed his feelings freely, pairing his words with smooth confidence.
On paper, Max had every quality I wanted in a partner, in the wake of my divorce from Deacon. He was everything my ex wasn’t: suave, multilingual, and charming to a fault.
Unlike Deacon’s broodiness, passion, intensity, and, at the time, unfledged.
I grew fascinated by Max, drawn to his patience and gentle touch.
He never pressured me into intimacy, acting like a gentleman every step of the way.
He held my hand through the cobblestone streets, pulling me close for lingering kisses under the warm glow of the evening streetlights.
We became inseparable, talking daily, sharing quiet mornings, making love, and always preparing breakfast together.
In bed, he was gentle, caring, attentive, and passionate.
