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“That’s Lucian. He’s a Popescu who drove me home from Nelu’s retirement party at the Met.”
“Oh, yesss,” she slurs. “How was the party? Nelu, that old fox. I don’t think he’ll stop working. What’s he going to do with his time, eh?”
“Yes, Mama,” I reply as I help her to sitting.
Lucian returns to my side, crouches down, and introduces himself. “Buna seara, I’m Lucian.”
“Buna seara,” she replies politely, as if she isn’t on the floor, legs sprawled out indecorously from her nightgown.
She looks at him critically. “A Popescu, huh?”
He’d taken off his jacket and tossed it over the sofa. His tie is long gone and his hair’s disheveled, but he still looks ruggedly handsome. “Ever since Cat married Luca, these Popescu boys have been sniffing around here.”
Lucian’s brows crash together, a deep slash etched on the bridge of his nose.
Over my mother’s head, I tap my temple to say that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
“Come on,” I say as I struggle to guide her to her feet.
Lucian comes to my aid, and together we make slow progress across the living room, into the foyer, and up the stairs. In her stupor, she rambles on about boyfriends that don’t exist, and then veers into a soliloquy about Lucian being my boyfriend.
With each wavering step, her incoherent blathering ratchets up my frustration. Ugh, she knows full well thatmafiegirls don’t have boyfriends. It’s either abstinence or marriage, at least officially.
Increasingly embarrassed, I mutter, “He’s just a friend, Mama.”
“Friend, harrumph. He better put a ring on it,” slurs my mother.
Help me, Lord.
Lucian swoops in to distract my mother with random pleasantries and easy questions while we maneuver her down the hall and into the bedroom. Once she’s on the bed, I sprint downstairs for a tall glass of water. We turn her to her side, and Lucian props a couple of pillows against her spine so she won’t accidently turn on her back, in case she vomits again.
I dim the lamp on the nightstand and drape a light blanket over her. Her eyes flutter closed. Her face softens with sleep, her clasped hands tucked beneath her cheek. She looks so serene in that moment.
I tiptoe out of the bedroom and softly close the door behind me with a sigh of relief. At least, that’s done. Craning my neck, I glimpse Lucian through the open door of my bedroom.
Ballsy of him to waltz right into my bedroom, I’ll give him that.
An inquisitive expression crosses his face. Something has caught his eye on the opposite side of my room and he moves toward it, out of my line of sight.
I approach my room cautiously and slowly push the door open wider.
His strong back is to me, perfectly encased in his tailored dress shirt, which creates a sharp angled line from his broad shoulders to his tapered waist. He’s staring at the map of the world I have tacked on the wall facing my bed. Big round colored pushpins poke through the cities I intend to visit. There’s a corresponding bucket list I have tucked away in the drawer of my night table.
He must sense my presence because, without turning, he says, “This is where you want to travel.”
I shift from one bare foot to the other and hedge, “At some point…”
I feel awkward with him in my private space. It’s neat enough, but I still have remnants of my childhood like my matching furniture set. I also haven’t gotten around to throwing out the ruffled bed skirt. In my defense, I never thought I’d have to host a guy in my bedroom.
Thankfully, he isn’t focused on anything other than the map in front of him. He traces a finger from one push pin to the other in the boot of Italy. “So many in Italy…”
Feeling exposed, I stay mute.
“Why?”
“Why Italy?” I ask, stalling.
“Yeah, why Italy?”
