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Mia stares at me intently, her lips pressed together like she’s deep in thought. “You have any idea where this sister of theirs is?”
I shake my head. “No. Nothing.”
“How strange.”
“Yeah, well families are strange, right?”
She smiles up at me. “Your family is wonderful though.”
“That’s because you’ve only met the nice ones,” I assure her.
That makes her laugh. “I like talking to you, Lorenzo. Or at you.” She grins at her own joke. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a friend.” Tears prick at her eyes, and she gives her head a brief shake.
A friend. The tension in my shoulders loosens a little. That’s all we are and there’s no need for me to fear being alone in her company. I hold out my hand. “Friends?”
“Friends.” She curls her delicate fingers around mine, and I try to ignore the warmth that spreads through my forearm at her touch, curling itself like a snake through my veins.
ChapterTwelve
MIA
Ifeel his presence in the room before I even see him, and my heart flutters in my chest at the sight of him sitting alone at the kitchen table. I’d like to say I have no idea why I enjoy his company so much, but I’d be lying to myself. Lorenzo Moretti is a complex and wonderful man, and he’s become a true friend to me the past three weeks. It’s been two days since he admitted that he missed me in the library. Two days since I felt the strange fluttering in my stomach—when he looked at me like that. When he made me believe, just for a second, that there might be another reason he missed me besides having grown used to my background noise.
But he’s just a friend. Nothing more. He’s clearly still grieving for his wife, and I’m still married.
I take a seat opposite him and pour myself a mug of coffee from the pot on the table. My eyes are drawn to the delicious-looking cheesecake he’s eating, and the scent of sweet caramel makes my stomach growl.
“I’m sorry. I took the last piece,” he says with an apologetic shrug.
“That’s okay. I had a snack earlier. Some carrots and cucumber sticks.”
His top lips curl with disgust. “You call that a snack?”
I smirk at him. “You don’t like vegetables?”
He tilts his head as though deep in thought. “I like them just fine, as an accompaniment to a meal. Except cucumber. That stuff’s the work of the devil.”
“Noted,” I say with a soft laugh. He’s funny even though he doesn’t mean to be. “Anyway, I don’t eat dessert.”
His eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why not?”
I blink at him. “What?”
“I asked you why not.”
I shift in my seat. “What kind of a question is that?”
A frown furrows his brow. “A straightforward one. Why don’t you eat dessert?”
Old memories and lingering shame cause heat to creep up my neck and cheeks. I don’t want to answer, but Lorenzo stares at me, patiently waiting for my reply. “Sugar and fat go straight to my ass. I’m always ten pounds heavier than I should be, and dessert does not look good on a body like mine.”
His jaw ticks. “Who told you that?”
“What?”
His frown deepens. “Are you having trouble hearing today? I asked who the hell told you that?”
I swallow a lump of emotion. Years of being belittled for my size and my tendency to put on a few pounds during the holidays, constant monitoring of what I ate and thinly veiled criticism if I ate even the slightest bit of anything sweet—all of that left a mark. “Brad told me—”
