“So,” he said, “shall we continue respecting tradition for at least another thirty seconds?”
I smiled reluctantly.
“Maybe twenty.”
“Scandalous.”
He took my hand without another word and led me down the hall to his room.
This time, when he opened the door, neither of us pretended I would be sleeping anywhere else. He let me step inside first, then closed the door quietly behind us, and the soft click of it seemed to settle something final over the evening.
I turned back toward him, still holding some of the warmth of dinner, of Lily’s kindness, of Victoria’s instant attachment, of Sandro’s measured welcome.
And that was when I realized something far worse than fear had happened.
His parents had not rejected me.
They had folded me into the house with such ease, such warmth, that some small, dangerous part of me had stopped bracing and started imagining what it would mean if this became real.
God help me, part of me wanted it to.
Wanted the warmth of that kitchen. Wanted Lily’s arm linked through mine. Wanted Victoria dragging me upstairs to evaluate dolls and declare future plans with terrifying certainty. Wanted the quiet, immovable center of the house and the impossible man now standing in front of me as if I had already altered the architecture of his world.
It was one thing to fall in love with Pietro.
It was another thing entirely to look at the life around him and feel my heart turn traitor for that too.
He must have seen something of it on my face because his expression changed, the teasing gone, the sharpness melting into something more careful.
“Emily?”
I let out a breath that felt almost like a laugh and almost like surrender.
“I think,” I said slowly, “that something much worse than me being scared just happened.”
One dark brow lifted. “Worse?”
I looked at him, at the man who had brought me here and then let me see exactly enough to understand the danger in wanting any of it.
“Your family didn’t reject me,” I said. “They made me feel like I belonged.”
For one suspended second he just stared at me.
Then his face softened so completely it nearly undid me.
“Sweetheart,” he said quietly, stepping closer, “you do.”
And God help me, that was exactly the problem.
CHAPTER 16
PIETRO
“Son, do you have a minute?”
I knew it sounded like a question, but coming from my father, the controlled tone left very little room for argument.
“I’m actually looking for Emily.”
