15. This isnt Pretty Woman.
"This isn't Pretty Woman. "
Lucy
I, Lucy Williams, am in an athletic store. I never thought the day would come. Actually, no one else will believe it either, so I snap a quick selfie to prove it.
“Just documenting the moment,” I tell Elio, who’s shooting me a confused look. “You know, my first time shopping for athletic wear.”
He chuckles, the low sound warming the chic retail space. “Happy to be a part of that milestone. Look around and get anything you want.”
“I just need one outfit. Don’t tempt me now. ”
He arches an eyebrow. “I think you need more than one. It’s your first time here, so grab a bunch of stuff. It’s my pleasure.”
“Mr. Spinelli,” greets a tall guy wearing the store’s uniform, coming toward us. “Che bella sorpresa. Come posso aiutarti oggi?”
“Hi,” Elio responds in English. “We’re actually not shopping for me today. But please, get Lucy everything she needs.”
I blush, my heart rate spiking at those five sexy words. When it comes to swoony lines, that one definitely tops the list for me. Still, I have to be reasonable. I don’t want to take advantage of Elio. This isn’t Pretty Woman .
“Um, I just need an outfit for working out,” I tell the store assistant.
“Great. Follow me,” he says. “I’m Enzo, by the way.”
“Lucy. Nice to meet you,” I say as we follow him to the women’s section.
And like the perfect store assistant, Enzo doesn’t even need to ask my size to find the perfect clothes for me, which saves me a whole lot of embarrassment. I’m pretty sure Elio has only ever been with size-zero girls, judging by the pictures I’ve seen on the tabloid covers.
Enzo places four outfits in the large dressing room—sneakers included.
“Can I wait out here?” Elio asks, motioning to the chairs along the wall just outside the dressing room. “You don’t have to show me, but since I do have an amazing sense of style, I can offer some guidance.”
I roll my eyes. “How kind of yo u.”
As I enter one of the stalls and close the curtain behind me, my heart thunders in my chest. The idea of showing Elio the outfit I’m trying on feels really domestic.
Which is weird, since I’ve never done this with any of my ex-boyfriends before.
The only person who’s seen me come out of a dressing room is my friend Daisy.
Either way, this isn’t some dress-up montage.
I definitely won’t be doing any dancing or goofy antics when I show him the outfits.
That is, if they fit me well and don’t exaggerate my love handles.
I try on a pair of black joggers and a T-shirt first, and it feels good. Not only do I love how smooth the fabric is, but I can move comfortably in it—well, as much as I can move in the cramped dressing room stall.
Right on cue, Elio calls my name. “Everything okay in there?”
I open the curtain to show him outfit number one, giving him a quick spin. “What do you think? It’s pretty good, right? I think black is my color.” Any color that hides my rolls is my friend.
He shakes his head slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies me. “Agreed. Definitely get this one. It looks comfortable too.”
“It totally is.”
“When fashion meets comfort, it’s a no-brainer,” he says, leaning back in his seat and interlacing his fingers behind his head.
I feel my mouth drop. Who is this masterpiece of a man?
“What?” He cocks his head. “Isn’t that true? It should be a saying or something.”
I clear my throat. “No, yeah. I agree one hundred percent. I’ll get it.”
He grins. “ Perfetto .”
Still baffled by that display of masculine perfection, I fumble a bit while trying on the second outfit, but I don’t like how it looks. The white fabric stretches out too much over my butt, making the pants almost transparent.
The third one is okay, and Elio convinces me to take it despite my insistence that the black-and-yellow pattern makes me look like a bumblebee.
“And last but not least,” I say, stepping out wearing the white-and-pink tracksuit with matching sneakers. “I look really cool in this. Like I belong in a commercial or something.”
“Oh yeah,” he agrees, looking me up and down. “You look great. Well, to be fair, you look great in all of them, Bella . Even in the one you refused to show me, I’m sure.”
My cheeks instantly catch fire, and I hurry back into the dressing room to change. “Well, um, thanks. I’ll take the three, then.”
“Perfect.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Lucy, can I ask you something?”
I freeze, the T-shirt halfway off. “Sure.”
“Why do you—”
“How’s everything going in here?” Enzo’s voice booms through the quiet room, making me gasp.
“All good,” I call back.
“She ’ll take three of them. The all-black, the black-and-yellow, and the pink-and-white.”
“Perfect. Let me grab those for you from the back.”
“I’ll go ahead and pay, Lucy,” Elio says. “Are you all right in there?”
I slip my shirt back on. “Absolutely. Thank you.”
Once I finish changing back into my clothes, I meet him in the store. He’s already waiting by the door, three shopping bags in hand.
We say goodbye to Enzo and the other store assistant, then head out on to the street.
“Thank you again, so, so much,” I say. “That was really nice of you.”
“I already told you, it’s my pleasure. Why have money if I can’t spend it to make people happy?” He flashes his usual bright smile, but it’s the sincerity in his eyes that tugs on my heartstrings. “Should we take pictures in front of the store or something? You know, for the feature.”
My blood freezes. Work. The reason I’m here. “Um, no need. I’ll just focus on the workout for today. It might be weird to talk about the shopping session when you didn’t even buy something for yourself.” I bite my lip, suddenly very aware that none of this was professional.
He nods. “Makes sense.”
“So, when is your meeting?” I ask as we’re approaching the street corner.
He raises his arm to check his wa tch, but his jacket is covering his wrist, and he can’t lift the sleeve because he’s still holding my bags.
“Oh gosh. Please, give me the bags,” I say, heat prickling my cheeks. “Why am I letting you carry my shopping?”
He moves away so I can’t grab them. “I don’t mind. Just tell me the time?”
Why does this man have to tick off so many boxes? I suppress a sigh and look at my phone. “It’s four-twenty.”
“So, the answer is: in ten minutes,” he says with a chuckle.
I jolt, glancing around. “Crap. We have to get going. Is it far from here?”
He shrugs. “Twenty minutes or so. It’ll be fine. I’ll drop you off back at your hotel, and—”
“Please, don’t. I insist,” I say, my tone firm. We’ve already crossed the line of professionalism too many times today. “I don’t want you to be even more late because of me. Just go to your meeting, and I’ll catch an Uber back.”
“Absolutely not,” he says.
I frown. “You guys do have Uber here, right?”
“We do, but—”
“No buts,” I say with finality. “You’re already making way too many accommodations for me. I crashed your lunch with your brother, and you just bought me clothes. I’ll take an Uber. I’m standing my ground on this one.”
He holds my gaze for a second, then gives up. “Fine. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
I nod. “I hav e something to do anyway. Hurry to your meeting.”
“Thanks,” he says as we reach the parking lot. “I’ll keep the clothes and get them washed for you for tomorrow.”
A man who washes his new clothes before wearing them? Another box ticked. I can almost hear the “check” sound in my head. “That’d be great. Thank you.”
He winks. “My pleasure, Bella . A domani .”
I smile back. “ Ciao .”
I ask the Uber driver to drop me off in front of the town hall, but my confidence falters as I walk up the stairs. What am I going to say? Are they even allowed to give me this information? Do they even speak English?
“ Ciao ,” a younger guy greets me as I enter the town hall. He’s sitting behind a counter and barely looks of age.
“Um, ciao . I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Italian. Hopefully you speak English?”
“A little,” he says with a sheepish smile.
“Okay. My mother’s name was Giulia Marchesi, and she grew up here. I think I still have relatives in town, but I’m having trouble locating them. Would you mind helping me? Maybe you have a list of people with the last name Marchesi who live here?”
“Um,” he says, frowning. “I ’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
Crap. “Um. Mia madre’s name is Marchesi. I’m,” I say, pointing at myself like an idiot, “looking for famiglia here in Portovino. Can you help me?”
That was absolutely terrible, and the guy winces.
I try again, miming the words, but that doesn’t work either. I’m nearly ready to give up when I remember it’s the twenty-first century, and online translators are a thing. I quickly type in my request and show it to him.
His expression morphs as he finally understands what I’m asking. “Oh, okay. Capisco .”
“Thank you,” I exclaim, giving him a thumbs up.
“ Un minuto .” He holds his finger up, telling me to hold on while he disappears into the office next door.
He comes back five minutes later, accompanied by a guy in his mid-fifties with thick eyebrows.
“I’m sorry,” the kid says with an apologetic smile. “We cannot help. Not possible.”
My chest constricts. “Oh, no. Why not?”
“No help,” the older guy barks, startling me.
“Please,” I say, giving them my best puppy-dog eyes.
They can’t turn me down when I’m this close to finding out if I still have family out there.
Sure, I was getting used to being on my own, but I hate the sense of emptiness that follows me around.
And if there’s even a small chance of rekindling a relationship with my long-lost relatives, I have to take it.
“No can help,” the older guy repeats before striding back to the office.
The kid just stands there, glancing between me and the door. And just like that, my dreams are crushed.
Swallowing hard, I sigh. “Okay, sorry. Grazie .”
To say this was a bust is an understatement—I’m back to square one. What are my options now? Walk around town looking at all the mailboxes to see if I spot the Marchesi name? Find a strategic place in the center of town, hoping someone will mistake me again for someone else?
The second option seems the most viable, given that my body is starting to feel all that exercising we did this morning.
Not to mention, after that awful rejection, I need some TLC in the form of a delicious gelato .
As I walk down the street, I begin to wonder.
What if my mom kept me away from these people for a reason?
No matter how much I want to know who they are, isn’t digging up the past betraying my mother’s wishes?
But they’re my family too. Don’t I have a right to know?