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“This is—she’s my neighbor.”
“Catherine. I’m Catherine Flynn,” Mrs. Flynn said breathlessly.
“Caterina. Such a lovely name.” Marco smiled. “Emily and I are on our way to Paris, Caterina.”
“To—to—”
“Paris,” Emily said, what the hell, getting into the spirit of things.
“Oh, my,” Mrs. Flynn whispered.
Marco went up the concrete steps and eyed Emily’s suitcase.
“I can see you followed my directions,” he said wryly. “About not packing many things.”
It was as good a time as any to establish how she felt about being given orders.
“I’m not always good at following directions,” she said sweetly.
He grinned again, hoisted the suitcase as if it were weightless and handed it off to Charles, who stood at polite attention on the curb.
“Are you ready, cara?”
The cara seemed to sizzle.
“Ready,” Emily said.
He reached for her hand.
“Good,” he said softly. “So am I.”
He brought her hand to his mouth, pressed a light kiss to her palm and closed her fingers over the kiss.
How could she feel that kiss straight to the tips of her toes?
The last thing she saw before the Mercedes pulled into traffic was Mrs. Flynn staring after them, her hand plastered to her heart.
“Honestly,” Emily said, swinging around to face Marco, “that wasn’t—”
He was laughing. “It was. I suspect we made Caterina’s day.”
How could she not laugh, too?
“How about her entire year?”
“She is an annoyance, yes?”
“She complains about everything. Last week, she said we’d left the water running in the basement. There’s a washer and dryer there, and an old sink, but—”
“We?” he said, his smile suddenly tight.
“I have a roommate. Had a roommate. Nola.”
“Nola.”
“Yes. And—”
“Is there no man in your life?”
