Chapter 11 #3
“So... what are you two doing in what’s left of summer?” Felicity asks, trying to sound upbeat. “Oliver and I are taking the kids on our annual trip to Spain in August.”
I give her a grateful smile.
“Nice,” Mark says, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe you’ll run into Cecily over there. She’s planning a whole European tour, after all.”
“No way!” Felicity gasps excitedly. “When are you going? Which countries? Tell me everything.”
I sigh, exasperated, but let Mark use me as the distraction he clearly needs.
“They’re not plans. I was just writing things I’d like to do someday. And it won’t be anytime soon.”
“Why not?” they ask in perfect unison.
“Because I have two kids,” I say, giving them both a look. “And I can’t just pack up and fly across the world on a whim.”
Felicity straightens in her seat, sliding effortlessly into her businesswoman persona.
“First of all,” she says, holding up one finger, “you did not make those kids by yourself. They have a father, even if he’s not exactly winning awards for consistency.”
She lifts a second finger. “Second, your oldest is leaving for college soon. He won’t even be home.”
The waiter arrives with our drinks, and we all pause to thank him. The second he walks away, Felicity is back in attack mode, lifting a third finger.
“Third—girlfriend, you’re loaded. If Colin had one talent in life, it was spotting good investments. You’re set for the rest of your days.”
She shrugs, as if stating something obvious. “You have your own job… and one you can do from anywhere. So if you wake up tomorrow and feel like going to Europe, you just go.”
She finishes with a small sip of her margarita.
Mark gives me a serious look, even if he’s trying not to smirk.
“Excellent points,” Mark says, nodding. “And I have one more to add.”
He looks me right in the eye. “You dreamed about backpacking through Europe for years. I remember how you talked about it non-stop for over a year... and how every dollar you made at the bookstore went straight into your savings for that trip.”
Remembering that time makes me smile. I was so young, and life was so much simpler back then. “Dreams change,” I say, shrugging. “And even after everything, I don’t regret the choice I made.”
Mark places his hand over mine.
“I know. I love my niece and nephew too,” he says with a soft smile.
Then his expression changes, turning serious again.
“Dreams do change... but this is something you’ve always wanted.
And it would be huge for your blog. Just look at how your traffic skyrocketed after those posts about your last trip. ”
He’s right. There was a spike, more views, more subscribers, and two new three-month contracts with advertisers.
“I’m with Mark,” Felicity announces, clinking her glass against his. “One phone call and we make it happen in record time.”
I smile at them, grateful and overwhelmed, then quickly change the subject, steering us toward safer topics.
But their words keep circling in my mind.
Alexander
“I have something to ask you,” I say.
Cecilia lifts her eyes from her Limone Ripieno. The same dessert I ordered. The candlelight catches the curve of her cheek, her beautiful intrigued expression, and I just forget how to breathe.
I brought her here tonight, to one of my favorite restaurants in the city. Riverside tables. Direct views of the Hudson glittering under the evening sky, and the Manhattan skyline reflecting along dark water.
It’s the first time she’s accepted a dinner invitation from me. And over the last three weeks, something has changed between with us. There’s a new ease. A closeness that wasn’t there before.
The way her body leans into mine when my hand finds the small of her back. The way her fingers never pull away from mine too quickly. The way my lips brush her cheek... and linger. Longer every time.
We’ve met for coffee, lunches, and even a walk at Pier 1—a place she told me she goes when she needs a moment alone. She didn’t know I remembered that detail.
It was at Pier 1 that she first texted me asking to talk.
I ended up extending my stay in New York by one more week, an impulsive decision disguised as business. But next Sunday, there’s no avoiding it. I have to go home. No more delays.
“Should I be scared?” Cecilia asks playfully. “You got so serious.”
We’ve spent the last hour in easy conversation, laughter, tender comments, and looks that last a second too long. It’s getting harder every day to remember that I need to take my time with her and not come on too strong, waiting until she’s ready to show me we’re on the same page.
She’s bellissima tonight. Bellissima da far male[XXXVI].
Wearing a soft peach dress—high-necked, sleeveless—the color bringing a glow to her skin and making her look like the first blush of sunrise.
Her bright blue eyes spark whenever she talks excitedly about something.
Her smile lights up her entire face. And her freckles, the ones she never hides with makeup, look like constellations scattered across her cheeks.
And her mouth... her lips could be temptation itself.
I feel my own smile forming on my lips.
“It’s something important,” I say. “But nothing you need to fear.”
Her playfulness fades, replaced by curiosity.
“I have a proposal for you.”
That makes her straighten, leaning back in her chair as she studies me. She has no idea how carefully I’ve thought about this. Or how long I’ve wanted to ask.
“We’re preparing several special editions of the internal magazine to celebrate the fifteen-year anniversary of Santoro Marmo in New York,” I begin.
“The official date is in January, but the releases will start in November. Fifteen years since my family took a risk. Since we brought a piece of the Carrara mountains into the heart of Manhattan.”
Her eyes are fixed on me, attentive, so I continue.
“The directors want to turn it into a corporate report. Numbers. Targets. Forecasts.” I shake my head.
“But this branch wasn’t born from numbers.
It was born from history. From heritage.
I want the main feature to reflect that—the story of Santoro Marmo here.
Not as a global company, but as a family that built something new without losing its roots. ”
I lean forward. “And I want you to write it, Cecilia.”
Her lips part, surprise taking over her face.
“You have this rare talent,” I continue, dropping the business tone now. “You take something cold, technical... and you turn it into feeling. Into something human, making people care about it.”
“I want people to hear my family’s story through your words.”
There’s no mistaking the astonishment in her expression. But in her eyes... in her eyes there’s something else I can’t quite name.
“Alexander, besides the column, I only write for my blog,” Cecilia says, tucking a loose strand from her updo behind her ear. “And those posts are almost intimate, reflections of how I see things and places. I’m not sure I’d be the best choice for something more... corporate.”
I reach across the table and take her hand.
“But that’s exactly why I want you,” I say, leaving no doubt in my tone. “Your voice.”
My thumb glides over the inside of her wrist, and I swear I feel her pulse quicken beneath my touch.
“I admire your sensitivity,” I continue. “The way you breathe life into things most people wouldn’t spare a second look at. Or would just present as data.”
Her eyes relax, searching mine for sincerity, and finding it.
“There is no one else,” I say, meeting her eyes. “No one I would trust this deeply with the story of my family’s legacy.”
She looks down for a moment, weighing everything.
“You don’t have to answer now,” I add. “Take a few days. Think about it. And tell me when you’re ready.”
I keep her hand in mine a moment longer.
When she doesn’t answer, and her eyes wander toward the river, it occurs to me that she’s about to refuse me politely. But then she turns back to me. And there’s a smile on her lips.
“I don’t need to think about it,” she says. “I want to answer with what I feel... not with what my mind tells me to say.”
She’s using almost the exact words I said when I called to tell her I’d signed her up for the salsa class. Then she turns her hand in mine, her fingers brushing my palm, and murmurs:
“I accept. And it would be an honor to tell your family’s story.”
I don’t even try to hold back the smile that breaks across my face.
I lift her hand to my mouth and press a kiss to her palm, letting my lips stay there longer than I should. Long enough to feel the slight hitch of her breath and memorize the heat of her skin.
When I finally look up, her lips are parted, and the sight knocks the wind right out of me.
“You have no idea how happy this makes me, Cecilia,” I say, my voice roughened by something I don’t bother masking.
I lower her hand back to the table, but I don’t let go.
Just like she always does when I call her Cecilia, she gives that amused smile… the one that starts at her mouth but reaches her eyes too.
A few days ago, she asked what the Italian version of my name would be, so she could call me that.
I remember the look on her face when I told her no.
“I like how you say my name,” I’d said. “I like that you don’t shorten it or use nicknames.
And the way you say it, with that unique tone. .. it’s you. In a way only you can be.”
She had smiled then and kissed my cheek before getting into her car.
Just the thought of it makes me smile and say now:
“How would you feel about visiting the Santoro Marmo New York headquarters on Monday?”