Chapter Eighteen
Quinn
I hang up the phone and toss it onto my nightstand. Wide awake and restless, I stand and pace around my bedroom, my eyebrows scrunched together, my hands jittery at my sides. Alessandra said she was happy, said everything was fine. But the moment her words hit my ears? I could only think one thing.
She’s lying.
Something’s wrong. I could hear it in her voice, and I can sense it now in my gut. A slow, gnawing feeling tells me to call her back, to make her tell me what’s going on.
I pick up my phone and immediately put it back down. She’s lying for a reason. What would make her be honest with me now?
I continue pacing my room, the restlessness in my bones growing harder to ignore by the second. I have to do something. Any chance of being able to sleep was lost the moment Alessandra called. I have to do something. I have to help her. There’s no way in hell I’m just going to sit here and pretend that nothing’s going on.
Without thinking, I open a travel app on my phone. If I can look in her eyes, I’ll know what’s going on. I can only help her if I get her to tell me what’s going on. And there’s only one way to be sure that happens.
I need to fly to Rome as soon as possible—and there’s something I can’t forget to take with me.
• • •
During the entire flight to Italy, my mind is racing with worries about Alessandra. Why would she lie to me? What is she hiding? After all we’ve been through together, after how much we’ve shared. . .it breaks my heart to think she feels like she can’t be honest.
Once we land, I take a taxi straight from the airport to Alessandra’s apartment. I called Deanna to get her address before I left this morning. While Deanna seemed suspicious at first, once I told her what I had planned, she immediately agreed to help. Romantic at heart, I guess.
When the taxi pulls up in front of Alessandra’s building, I get that strange fluttery feeling in my stomach again. No matter how badly I want to be annoyed with myself, I can’t help but smile. I know what that feeling means now, and I stopped being afraid of it weeks ago.
I’m in love with her.
I step out of the taxi, my sleek carry-on in tow, and walk up to the doorway. Scanning the intercom system, I find 3C. I take a deep breath and hit the call button, holding the buzzer down for a solid three seconds before letting go. My stomach is tighter than ever. My limbs feel jittery, and I can’t keep myself from grinning with excitement.
This is it. This is the moment. Our moment.
I know now why she was holding back, why she was afraid to be honest with me on the phone. I can’t wait to see her, to sweep her up in my arms, to feel the supple curves of her body pressing against mine.
My thoughts are interrupted by the static buzz of the intercom.
“Pronto,” an unfamiliar Italian voice barks at me.
I furrow my brow. I did hit 3C, right?
I stammer out the words in Italian, unable to hide the confusion in my voice. I’m looking for Alessandra.
“She’s not here,” the unfamiliar voice retorts.
My heart sinks. Of course she’s not here, you fucking idiot.
“Quando tornerà?” I ask. When will she be back?
But the voice doesn’t answer. I stand there in silence for a few moments before sighing and rubbing the back of my neck.
Stepping away from the doorstep and looking around, I notice the sign for the café next door. I go in, deciding to sit and wait for her there. It’s not like there’s anything else for me to do but wait.
I order a double espresso and take a seat near one of the front windows. Thank God for those Italian lessons. I knew they’d come in handy, but I didn’t think I’d be putting them to use this soon.
As I settle into my seat, I slip my hand into my pocket, running my fingers over the smooth gold band of my mother’s ring. My brothers and I were young when she died, and all these years, we’ve kept her most treasured possession tucked away, locked up in a box we never spoke of. It wasn’t until we started dating more seriously that we remembered we still had our mother’s ring. After two weeks of arguing, my brothers agreed that I should have it to give away—being the firstborn and all. It seems silly thinking about it now, but I’m glad my brothers left it to me. They’re both happily married, those lucky little fuckers, and right now, I can use all the help I can get.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a young couple approaching, laughing and joking in Italian. There’s a slight glare through the window, so I can’t quite see their faces, but from the sound of their laughter, they’re having a good time. I can’t quite hear what they’re saying over the din of the café, but I don’t need to—their body language says it all.
As they get closer, my stomach drops.
It’s Alessandra. Having the time of her life with some other guy. An Italian guy. An attractive Italian guy.
Fuck.
I am such a fucking idiot. I never should have come here.
Clearly, I misread the situation. She’s happy. She’s moved on. I’m the loser who’s been pining away every day since she left.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I quickly stand, desperate to get out of there and far away from Alessandra without her noticing. Gathering my things, I push my chair in and turn to leave, keeping my head down to keep her from seeing me. Just as I’m about to exit the café home-free, I run smack into an entering customer who yelps and berates me in Italian, yelling words I haven’t learned yet, but can guess their meaning from the look on the man’s face.
I mutter an apology as fast as I can while trying to get around him. But he blocks my way, stepping closer to me and yelling louder, until finally I’m able to push around him, exiting the café and walking briskly in the opposite direction of Alessandra.
Just as I think I’ve safely escaped, a familiar voice stops me dead in my tracks.
“Quinn?”
Fuck.
I stop and take a breath, bracing myself for the awkwardness about to happen. When I turn around, Alessandra is only a few feet away from me, her mouth hanging open, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Even now, she’s stunning. Her long, dark hair hangs loosely around her shoulders. Her hair is windblown, and her cheeks are rosy from walking around in the sunshine. But despite how happy she sounded earlier with the Italian guy, there’s something in her face I don’t recognize. A tinge that wasn’t there in Boston. Sadness? Discomfort? I can’t tell what it is, but it bothers me to see it.
I offer her a weak smile and she shakes her head.
“Wha-what are you doing here?”
I take a step backward, raising one hand in surrender. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. It’s clear now that you’ve moved on,” I say, nodding to the Italian guy, who’s now leaving on a moped.
Alessandra furrows her brow. “Antonio? No, he—I work with him. And his fiancée.” She crosses her arms.
Thank fucking God.
“Oh, uh. I—it looked like…” I stammer, unsure how to explain my jealousy. But before I can form a full sentence, Alessandra closes the distance between us, a curious smile spreading across her lips.
“I’ve missed you,” she says. When she rises on tiptoe to kiss my cheek, I relax at her touch, my cock suddenly stirring at the nearness of her ample curves. “Now, will you please tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”
I sigh and shake my head. “On the phone. . .you just, you sounded so sad. I had to come and make sure you were okay.”
Tears well in her eyes, and I can tell I’ve hit a nerve. I pull her into me, and she lays her head on my chest, so I can feel the warmth of her skin through my shirt. We hold each other for a few moments before Alessandra pulls away, wiping her eyes and letting out a small laugh.
She takes my hand in hers, nodding over her shoulder. “We should talk.”