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This side of him is charming, although I’m not foolish enough to let my guard down completely. But I’ll play.
“A white cake, of course.”
“Ahh. Of course. I should have known. A traditionalist. A cake as pure as the bride.” His eyes twinkle at my expense. It’s another subtle dig at how young I am—how inexperienced.
Hopefully my face isn’t as red as it feels.
Fortunately, he pulls a phone from his jacket pocket and glances at the screen, sparing me some embarrassment.
“I’m happy to hear that nothing’s for sale,” he murmurs, still preoccupied with the screen. “When the time comes, I’m sure you’ll hold out for a high price. That’s what girls like you are taught from the womb.”
He scowls at the phone, ignoring me as though I’m not even here.
Girls like me. He didn’t say it in a nasty way—and he’s not entirely wrong either. Althoughgirls like medon’t set their price, because they don’t have complete freedom to choose who they marry. Some have no freedom.
But I do. And I’m definitely not for sale, and with any luck, I won’t have to sell the property either. Eventually, I want to come back to Porto. Someday, when it’s safe again, I want to come home.
My chest tightens, welling with emotion I’m having trouble controlling. It’s almost as though the reality of leaving Porto, of leavinghome, hits me now, for the first time. I’ve been so wrapped up with my father’s deteriorating health, then the funeral, and the vineyards, and the preparations to leave, that I haven’t stopped to think about, toreallythink about what leaving will mean not only for me, but for all of us.
The sacrifice is enormous—especially for Isabel and Jorge. I’ll add it to all the other things they’ve done for me that I can never repay.
You can’t have a meltdown now. Not in front of him.
I cough to cover a sob that’s threatening to spill out into the room, but it only calls attention to my distress.
Antonio lifts his head and opens his mouth as if to say something, but instead, he gives me a moment to collect myself.
“I apologize,” I murmur. “It’s been a long few weeks.”
“Don’t apologize. Raw emotion is honest. Being honest with me always pays off.Always.”
I simply nod, because I don’t trust the words to come out without wobbling. I don’t care one iota about being honest with him. With any luck, our paths will never cross again.
“Now I’m going to be honest with you. I need to make a call.”
Thank God.I start to stand, thinking he’s leaving, but he shakes his head. “Don’t get up. I’ll only be a minute.”
So much for God’s mercy. At least I’ll have a small break from him and his intensity.
10
Daniela
Antonio walks over to the window on the far end of the room and looks out so that I can’t catch more than cryptic bits and pieces of the conversation. Although it doesn’t matter. I’m not interested in his call.
I’m focused on his back. Wide at the top, tapering gently into a perfect vee.
His suit jacket fits like a glove. The luxurious fabric stretches across his broad shoulders in a way that makes my mouth water.
It’s true. I wish it wasn’t, but I won’t kid myself.
He holds the phone to his ear with his left hand, while the right is high on the window jamb. The set of his arm, with his long fingers against the wood, evokes a memory. My eyes glaze over, and I feel the fluttering between my legs again.
I’m mesmerized by those strong hands.
Just like that day.
When we were tweeners, my friends and I stalked Antonio and his buddies, Cristiano and Lucas, like they were celebrities. Although my crush was one-sided, it didn’t stop mefrom scribbling “Daniela + Antonio” inside hand-drawn hearts in my notebooks.
