Page 13 of Marcus

Still, everyone spoke highly of Cara.

She’d just never met her personally.

“Ah, well, my wife has certainly heard a lot about you.”

That piqued Cella’s interest. “Has she?”

“Adores your designs, believe it or not. One of our friends. In Maine, you did their vacation home, and we visited last summer. That was when Cara started really getting serious about wanting to hire you for a design. But your client list is long, and life always has a way of—”

“Getting in the way,” Cella interjected, laughing under her breath. “Tell me about it. I also have a waiting list.”

Gian made a face, one that managed to look both arrogant but slightly bashful at the same time. How was that even possible? “Well, I hoped my connection to your father and that very nice check I sent over would possibly put me at the top of said waiting list. And look, it worked.”

“Seems it did, yes. Is the penthouse the job?”

“How did you know? I was thinking about an entire redesign—whatever you want to do, as long as you think it’ll be tasteful and my wife will enjoy it, then you have free reign.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“But?”

“Outdated.”

Gian nodded. “It is, and Cara has mentioned that once or twice in the last few years.”

“Really, only once or twice?”

“Every single time we visit, honestly.”

Yeah.

Cella thought so.

“I thought maybe she would want to sell it—good and bad memories,” he added quieter, but didn’t bother to elaborate. “So, as far as she knows, it’s going on the market. Although, I have no intention of selling it. It’s been in my family for many years, and when we’re not using it, one of our five sons do for one thing or another.”

“Five?”

Gian glanced her way. “Pardon?”

“You have five sons.”

“We do.”

At that statement, his gaze dropped to her daughter. For the most part, Tiffany had been happy to silently listen to the conversation. Always wanting to learn, after all. No doubt, Cella would get the million and one questions about it later.

“And this is your petite fille, hmm?” Gian asked. “Sorry, second nature to use my French—your little girl, yes?”

“Yes, my Tiffany.”

“Hello, Tiffany.” He kneeled to be closer to eye-level with her daughter. “My wife would love that pink dress of yours.”

“Bonjour, Mr. Guzzi. Thank you very much. Ma bought it for me.”

Gian grinned widely, giving Cella a look. “Is that the only French she knows?”

Cella shrugged. “That, and how to tell someone to stop.”

Tiffany beamed. “My teacher at daycare showed me.”