Page 65 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

No. She was definitely not ready. She was the furthest possible thing from ready. But she could start by throwing the first coin. The return to Rome one. That one was safe, right? And it would buy her a few extra seconds to figure out what to do with coins two and three. Unless she was supposed to throw all three in at once…

She shook her head, dismissing that idea. She was doing this her way. Taking a deep breath, she shifted two euros to her left hand and raised her right arm to throw the remaining one.

“Dio mio. Dante, is that you?”

Dante swore softly. At least Zoe was pretty sure what he said was a swear. A month in Italy had improved her language skills, but there was still a lot she missed. And Italians had a lot of creative curse words.

She let her arm fall and opened her eyes. A reedy, middle-aged woman in an emerald-green designer suit and matching broad-brimmed hat was striding across the piazza toward them, a handsome, equally, if more subtly well-dressed man trailing a few steps behind her.

“It is you,” the woman said as they got closer. Zoe could have sworn she saw tears in her eyes. “Aldo. Look who’s here. It’s Dante.”

Dante made sort of a strangled groan, and Zoe looked at him for the first time since opening her eyes. In the short time they were closed, he’d gone from happy-go-lucky to as pale as Moby Dick. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. Who were these people to him?

“Ah,vita mia.” The woman threw her arms around Dante. He stiffened, then reluctantly returned the gesture, awkwardly patting her back.

When she finally released him, her companion stuck out his hand. “It’s good to see you,mio figlio.”

Dante bristled at the last word, whatever it was, but managed to compose himself enough to shake the man’s hand. “Aldo. Flavia, what a surprise to see you in Rome.”

Zoe shifted from one foot to the other. And it wasn’t because her shoes hurt. It was the strange, uncomfortable current swirling around them since Aldo and Flavia’s arrival. Zoe wondered again who they were and how Dante knew them. Watching them interact was cringe-inducing. Like watching a car crash. Excruciating and tragic, but impossible to look away.

“We’re here for the Roma-Lazio football game.” Aldo addressed Dante, still clinging tightly to his wife’s hand. “I’m equally surprised to see you here. Carmella told us you were on the coast.”

“Yes.” Dante nodded. “But I had business to attend to in the city. I arrived a few days ago.”

“And who is your friend?” Flavia, who seemed to have composed herself enough to remember her manners, asked. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Dante turned to Zoe with a confused, painfully twisted half smile, almost as if he’d forgotten she was there. “This is Zoe. She’s renting the villa in Positano.”

“Isn’t that where you’ve been staying?” Aldo asked.

“The villa is more than big enough for two.” Dante’s voice was flat. Clipped. And his face had gone even more pale, if that was possible. “We barely saw each other.”

Zoe reeled back. His words were like a slap in the face. A dose of ice-cold reality. The trio talked a few minutes more, but Zoe didn’t hear a word that was said. Instead, she stood there awkwardly, feeling like a third—or fourth—wheel, and quietly slipped the coins into her purse. No point throwing them now.

The fairy tale was over.

…

Dante had almost forgotten how life could change in the blink of an eye. A freak accident. A sudden loss. A chance encounter with the parents of his dead fiancée.

Barely an hour ago, somewhere in the middle of Mimi and Rudolfo’s final duet, as he watched Zoe cry along with the doomed lovers, he’d half convinced himself that his friends and his brother were right. That Nicole’s death wasn’t his fault and that she would want him to find love again. That loving someone was worth the risk of losing them. That maybe, with Zoe’s help, he could be brave enough to take that plunge.

Those thoughts vanished the second he heard Flavia’s voice. All the guilt and self-doubt and fear he’d felt since Nicole’s death came flooding back, paralyzing him.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “We should head back to the apartment. I’m sure Houdini is tired of being in his crate and in need of a walk.”

Zoe drew herself up to her full height—about five-eight in those killer heels, he estimated—and glared at him, hands balled into fists on her hips. It reminded him of the first time he saw her, standing in his foyer, unwilling to back down even when faced with him at his most intimidating. And his most naked.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this again.”

“Doing what?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?”

“It was nothing,” he lied, avoiding her eyes.

“Whatever that was”—she waved a hand in the direction Flavia and Aldo had gone—“it was not nothing.”