He waited until I sat before pushing the chair in, the gesture careful and unhurried. Not overdone. Not possessive. Justattentive enough to make me aware that he was paying attention to everything.
Which was worse…or better.
I still hadn’t decided.
“You seem…” He studied me for a beat as he took his seat again. “Conflicted.”
“I’m—”
He lifted one hand, stopping the waiter hovering nearby from approaching. “Please. Continue.”
“I’m not very accustomed to all this,” I admitted. I gestured vaguely to the private corner, the waiter apparently assigned exclusively to our table, the flowers, the quiet little attentions woven into every part of the evening. It was not a lie. Even at the height of things with Adam, nothing ever felt like this.
Pietro’s expression did not change much, but something sharpened behind his eyes. “Then you accepted far less than you should have.”
I looked at him for a moment. “Do you do this often?”
A soft snort escaped him, and I found it strangely endearing. It didn’t fit his severe face at all.
“Hardly,” he said. “I don’t usually have the time or the inclination for this sort of thing.”
“And yet you made the time for me.”
He unfolded his napkin and set it across his lap with careless precision. “You are not just anyone, Emily Hart.”
I rolled my eyes automatically, but then the words actually registered and my whole body went still.
“How do you know my last name?”
His gaze held mine without wavering. “I asked around about the beautiful woman obsessed with medieval history.” He leaned forward slightly, resting one elbow on the table. “You are not about to tell me you didn’t look into me at all.”
I frowned. It would have made sense to. Maybe I should have. My fingers almost twitched toward my bag where my phone sat tucked away, as if I could correct the oversight now.
“No,” I said slowly. “Actually, I didn’t.”
“Oh.” He leaned back in his chair. “Not from lack of interest, I hope.” He pressed a hand lightly to his chest. “I would be wounded.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
He said nothing for a moment, just watched me with those unsettling blue eyes of his, studying my face so intently it felt almost physical.
His gaze dropped to my wrist.
“You wear that often,” he said.
I followed his eyes to the little seashell bracelet and felt my expression soften before I could stop it. “Always.”
“It doesn’t look like the rest of you.”
I laughed under my breath. “That is either very observant or very rude.”
“Observant.”
I turned my wrist, watching the uneven shells catch the candlelight. “Sophie made it after the accident. It was the first thing she finished on her own in rehab. The clasp is terrible, half the shells sit wrong, and it doesn’t match anything I own.”
His eyes lifted back to mine. “But it matters.”
“More than most things.”
