Page 149 of Claimed At First Sight

She looks offended.

“The problem with you, Maximo, is that you’re tragically uncultured.”

I stare at her. She stares back, while the woman behind the counter covers a laugh.

A few minutes later, we’re seated at a small table by the window waiting for our coffees and pastries.

Outside, snow continues to drift lazily through the air while the sky grows grayer as the afternoon wears on. It doesn’t seem to bother anyone. People continue wandering past with shopping bags and takeaway coffees.

I bring my attention back to Mia. She’s watching the shopkeeper who’s currently warming up the genovesi, one foot tapping beneath the table in anticipation.

“Mialina isn’t a traditional Italian name,” I say to distract her from the wait. “I’ve never heard it before.”

She drags her gaze to me.

“That’s because it isn’t.” Her thumb rubs absentmindedly along the edge of the napkin. “My grandfather used to call my mother that when she was little. Mia, as you know, means mine in Italian, and Lena is short for Helena, which means light.”

“My light,” I repeat.

She nods. “Mamma loved it so much that she gave me that name. It’s also her way of honoring her father.”

I find myself oddly pleased by the story. It suits her. More than she’d probably like.

“Your grandfather must have adored your mother.”

“He did.”

The answer comes without hesitation.

“Then she was his favorite.”

Mia shakes her head. “Parents aren’t supposed to have favorites.”

“But they absolutely do.”

She huffs. “Good parents don’t.”

“Good parents hide it better.”

Her lips twitch. “I refuse to believe that.”

I lean back in my chair. “That’s because you’re an optimist.”

“And here I thought you took on that role for both of us,” she teases.

“What about you? Are you Alfonso Marco’s favorite?”

I chuckle. “No. My father preferred whichever son wasn’t causing him a headache.”

That earns me a smile.

“And your mother?”

The question catches me off guard.

“She loved us all equally—”

“Aha,” Mia exclaims triumphantly.