“Not so good, but all will be well. Any advice for me, married guy?”
“Compromise, great sex, and consideration, Ro,” he listed off the bat. “Being rich helps too. It’s not a requirement, but it helps.”
I clicked my tongue, offering a heavy laugh. “I see.”
“So, you hitting the weights today?” Mikkel asked, changing the subject cheerfully.
“Yeah, thought I’d work off some steam,” I replied, grabbing a dumbbell and starting my set. “A lot on my mind.”
We three went through a rigorous session of interval training, focusing on cardio and core exercises. I was definitely going to need an ice bath after this.
We continued our workout, the clang of weights and the hum of conversation filling the air. Midst the physical exertion, my mind drifted back to Nina. Her laughter, the way she effortlessly lit up a room—it was hard to shake the memories and fuck it.
I didn’t want to.I desperately wanted to be around her.
After the workout, I said goodbye to my friends and headed home, unable to resist grabbing a slice of pizza from the nearby pizzeria, though it wasn’t as good as the one in Italy. As I sat alone at my table, the taste did little to distract me from thoughts of her.
Back home, I collapsed onto my bed and stared at the worn Polaroid in my wallet. One simple picture, yet it held everything—the sparkle in her eyes, the warmth of her smile.
I closed my eyes, chasing the echo of her laughter in my mind.
Chapter Nineteen
NINA
Present Day
ITALY
Aheavy sigh escaped me as I slumped in my boutique office, surrounded by a beautiful chaos of sketches and fabric swatches scattered across my desk. The day had dragged on, exhaustion stitching itself deeper with each passing hour.
I lingered on the words, memories of my twenty-ninth birthday last week filling the quiet room. It had been a simple night at home with Inaya and Alejandro, laughing over slices of tres leches cake that had mysteriously appeared at my door. It was my favorite, and deep down, I knew who had sent it. The more I thought about it, the more I realized thatevery anonymous gift I received on that day over the years unmistakably had his touch.
I glanced at my empty espresso cup, debating another shot of caffeine when a soft knock on the door broke the silence.
What followed stole my breath: an exquisite bouquet of hand-crocheted peonies, their hues ranging from deep red to rich purple. My heart quickened as I noticed the note tucked between the flowers, written in Ronan’s impeccable handwriting.
These won’t perish, and neither will my love for you.
Happy Birthday, tesoro.
- RR
RR, standing for Ronan Romano, of course.
A wave of warmth spread through me as I traced the script, picturing the teasing smirk that so often accompanied Ronan’s thoughtful gestures. But what truly captivated me was the art itself. As I lifted one of the peonies, its petals felt impossibly soft beneath my fingertips—each stitch meticulous, each detail exquisite.
Had he made these himself?
The yarn was unmistakably qiviut—luxuriously rare, costing nearly five hundred euros per yard. My pulse quickened as I held the delicate bloom closer, its presence a tangible echo of the man who had always had an uncanny way of unraveling me. Ronan Romano could be maddening, infuriating even, but his ability to offer such profound care and precision left me breathless.
Still, every act of tenderness was a double-edged sword—a history that both warmed and troubled my heart in equal measure.
“Always the charmer,” I murmured to myself, shaking my headfondly.
With a decisive nod, I instructed the delivery to be rerouted to my home, keeping one stalk to grace my cluttered desk.
As evening descended, I prepared for a prestigious fashion event I couldn’t afford to miss. Since myVogueinterview aired, the success, ratings, and attention had skyrocketed, making my presence at such events almost expected.
