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She tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘It’s a list.’ She frowned at him. ‘What do we need this for?’
‘Read it.’
Her eyes swept over the numbered bullet points on the list dated today:dress-fitting, hairstylist, photographer, wedding—
‘You want to get marriedtoday?’
‘It’s all arranged. We will arrive in Scarlata in three hours. Everything will be at the house waiting for us. Hairstylists. Flowers...’ He shrugged. ‘Tonight we will be married, and tomorrow—’ He dipped his head to the list in her clenched fingers.
She followed his gaze. Ran through the next bullet points, the following week mapped out for her, marking each day’s events. A nicely scripted list of what he expected her to do with her life.
‘The doctor?’ she asked, her eyes searching for the man he’d been last night.
But his face was a mask of shadows she didn’t understand. Cloaked in an air of finality...
Raffaele nodded. ‘That list comprises all the things that must be done before our new life can begin.’
‘But...’ She swallowed down on the anxiety bubbling in her chest. ‘I haven’t even chosen a dress.’
‘A dress is a dress,’ he dismissed evenly.
‘My mum would like to see it,’ she said. ‘Iwould like to see it. To choose—’
‘Choices will be available for you. Your mother will see photographs,’ he said, and her eyes widened.
After everything she’d told him of her family, the importance of her parents to her—had he forgotten? It was as if she’d never said it. Hadn’t told him about her lack of choices growing up.
‘The photographer—’ he pointed to the list ‘—number three,’ he said, redirecting her gaze, ‘will be there when the team gets you ready for the church.’
‘Church?’ she echoed.
For a week there had been no routines, no carefully executed plans, and yet here he was, presenting one to her with a documented list of how she was to spend her life. Without her input...
‘The church in Scarlata,’ he said. ‘It’s small. The building has been an ongoing restoration project for many years.’ He looked at the list, and she looked at him. ‘Our nuptials,’ he continued, ‘will be documented. For our child. But you can present the pictures to your family as well. It will be as if they were there with us.’
‘And whowillbe there?’
‘Only you and me,’ he answered.
‘Because we’re the only ones that matter?’
‘It is a legal binding. To give our child protection.Myprotection. Nothing else matters,’ he dismissed.
‘Then why a church?’ she asked. ‘Why not some office?’
‘When our child is grown—’
She halted him with a raised hand. ‘The church, the dress, the photographer...’ She pulled the sheet tighter around her. ‘Is all this for a baby who doesn’t have a name yet?’
‘It will havemyname,’ he corrected. ‘And so will you. By the end of today you will be my wife,’ he said. ‘Signora Flora Russo.’
‘And we’ll spend the first day of our marriage in a doctor’s surgery?’
‘We have spent the last three days in bed—’
‘Not all the time,’ she rejected—because they hadn’t. He had shown her the heights her body could reach in his arms. But he’d also held her in the dark, close to his body, folded her into the curve of his hips, and listened to her whisper stories of her life.
‘These last three days—’
