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“And your father?”
“He isn’t too far away either.” We had a summer home in the heart of Tuscany, somewhere to retreat when all the tourists came. But he preferred spending his time in the city, in the center of all the hustle. It was the most convenient way to do business.
“Would you like to take a walk?”
I looked at him, surprised by the invitation.
“We can get a coffee.”
“I thought you had work to do.”
“Tomorrow.” He headed back inside to get dressed. “Not tonight.”
* * *
When we returned to his bedroom, dinner was set on the terrace. It was sunset, the sky a beautiful combination of pastel colors. It was a little cooler out now, so I pulled on a jacket before I sat at the table.
Bartholomew poured the wine then started to eat, his eyes on the city in front of us.
Every interaction we’d had before this had been about fucking—nothing else. We’d spent the entire day together, walking the streets I used to know with our coffees in hand, and now we had a private dinner on his terrace. It was probably the most romantic date I’d ever been on—especially since I knew I’d come at the end of it.
We sat at the small table and ate, our chairs slightly turned toward the Duomo, spending our evening in silence. The chef had prepared two Florentine steaks for us, a Tuscan delicacy that I hadn’t had in a very long time.
“Have you been inside the church?” I asked.
“Yes. Have you?”
“I’ve been on a tour inside. It’s beautiful. Imagine having a wedding there…”
“You don’t seem like a church wedding kind of woman.”
“Well, that’s where I had my first wedding.”
Bartholomew turned to look at me.
I drank from my glass, remembering my wedding day like it was yesterday. I was young at the time, stupidly believing my father knew best. I was gullible and naïve, not the woman I was today.
“Will he be there?”
“My ex?”
He continued to stare.
“I’m sure he will.”
Bartholomew’s stare was rigid, the coldness deep in his eyes. “Will you speak?”
“It’d be awkward if we didn’t.”
“Then you’re still on good terms.”
“I wouldn’t say that…given that we haven’t spoken since the day I left. He’s probably remarried by now.”
Bartholomew looked away, staring out across the terrace again. “You must be nervous.”
“I don’t get nervous. At least, not about stuff like that.”
“Then what does make you nervous?”
