“Good,” she said, “I can’t wait for you to make my wedding dress.”
Mara’s and my eyes shot up at her. “Wedding?” we asked in unison.
“I’m manifesting,” she said. “Anyway, I don’t think we even properly got introduced.”
And she was right. We spent the next few hours getting to know each other, and it felt natural—like I had known her for a long time. At some point, she casually mentioned she was super close with Ronan—close enough to know exactly what he had planned for our date the other day.
“Precious,” Dillon called out, his voice calmer than usual. “Let’s go. It’s getting late.”
I pressed the face of my watch and realized he was right.
“Coming,” she responded, standing up and wrapping Mara in a hug. “I can’t wait for us to hang out again. I’ll text you as soon as I get home, Nina.”
I smiled at her as she and Dillon made their way out.
“I saw your face when she mentioned Ronan. Are you okay?” Mara asked.
I nodded. “I actually am.”
“Wait,” she said, removing the milk pump from her breast. “Are you and him…?”
“Maybe,” I said, the biggest, stupidest grin spreading across my face.
“New York is definitely the city of love. First Dillon, then Mikkel, now Ronan?”
I laughed, taking up my purse as my Uber had arrived.
“Could be a coincidence,” I said.
She walked to the door. “Not coincidental. Perfect timing,mia cugina.”
I never thought of that till now. Definitely perfect timing.
Chapter Thirty-eight
RONAN
Present Day
NEW YORK CITY
Jealousy looked good on her.
Yeah, it was probably a little twisted, but every time that spark of possessiveness flared in Nina’s eyes, it felt like proof that I still mattered. That somewhere beneath the walls she pretended didn’t exist, I still owned a piece of her heart.
Her voice replayed in my head like a curse and a blessing.
I don’t fucking want her calling you Ronan. Sue me.
I smiled to myself as I stood in the middle of Nina’s soon-to-be boutique. Empty now but buzzing with potential. Bare walls, wide floors, and a future that was about to belong to her.
I paced the space with a critical eye while Marco, the contractor, trailed behind me with a notepad.
“Track lighting here,” I said, pointing up. “Soft lighting in the main area. I want an office back there with a desk and a fridge. Sewing stations along the wall with outlets and storage.”
He nodded, scribbling fast.
“Marble or high-end tile for the floors. Dressing rooms need to be big, with full-length mirrors, and perfect lighting. No compromises.”
