Chapter 22
Desert Rose
Alexander
I wake up and reach for Cecilia, but the other side of the bed is empty.
We arrived in Pisa late last night and came straight home, both too exhausted for anything beyond a hot shower and the comfort of each other’s arms. She barely managed a whispered goodnight before falling asleep, her body tucked into my side.
I lie there for a moment, listening. No shower or footsteps.
Getting up, I head to the bathroom to get cleaned up, then wander downstairs barefoot, wearing nothing but my gray sweatpants. Halfway down the steps, the smell of citrus hits me.
Did Nonna come over?
But when I reach the kitchen, it’s Cecilia. She’s standing there alone, barefoot in a light blue nightgown, dusting powdered sugar over a freshly baked Caprese al Limone.
“Who told you?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.
She jumps, the sieve wobbling in her hand. “Alexander!” She presses a hand to her chest, eyes wide.
Stepping closer, I kiss her bare shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I watch as she finishes decorating it, delicate lemon slices arranged with care, two thin candles placed side by side.
She turns to me then, her eyes soft... almost cautious. “I overheard your cousins before we left for Rome,” she says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I’ve never cared much for birthdays. For being the center of attention. This year in particular might have passed unnoticed, because she alone holds all my focus.
“I’ve never been one for celebrations,” I say, meeting her eyes.
“You could have told me anyway.”
“You didn’t tell me your birthday either,” I tease. “I had to find out on my own. And you would’ve discovered mine today, when they ambushed us at lunch with cake, noise... and far too much food.”
I don’t bother saying they shouldn’t do anything. With my family, every excuse becomes a celebration.
She smiles knowingly.
“Was that why you changed your plans and decided to leave tomorrow instead of today?”
“Do you really have to ask?” she replies, lips curving into a smile.
I kiss her forehead, the bridge of her nose. Then her mouth, taking my time. “Is it Nonna’s recipe?” I ask.
She nods. “I asked Anna to leave the ingredients here before we got back so I could make it before you woke up. I was going to bring it to you in bed.”
That alone feels like a gift.
“When did she teach you?” I ask. “We’ve hardly been apart since Edinburgh.”
“She overheard my conversation with your cousins. I kept asking myself what to give a man who already has everything.”
I take her by the waist and pull her flush to my body. “Now I do,” I say, making sure she understands exactly what I mean.
She doesn’t look away when I guide her hand to my chest. “Go on,” I murmur.
“Nonna said there was nothing you’d love more than your favorite cake... made by me.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. Nonna has always known me better than I know myself.
“So she let me take pictures of her recipe notebook,” she adds. “I used an app to translate it—”
“She showed you the notebook? And you took pictures?”
She blinks. “Yes...?”
A laugh breaks free, surprising both of us. Then I kiss her, thoroughly this time, until she’s laughing into my mouth.
“Nonna doesn’t let anyone near those notebooks,” I say. “Not her sons, her daughters, or her grandchildren. Just her sister, Zia Teresa—because a good number of those recipes were their mother’s.”
Smiling, she says, “I’ll thank her again.”
Welcome to the family, Cecilia.
She turns, lights the candles, and holds the plate out to me. She sings Happy Birthday in English. Then says, “Tanti auguri, Alexander.”[LXIII]
Closing my eyes, I wish only that the woman before me is happy, now and always. That life is kind to her. And that she never stops choosing me.
When I open them, she’s smiling.
I serve her the first slice, and she thanks me with a kiss.
Taking the first forkful, I taste the dense, sweet crumb. It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in months.
I lift her into my arms and she laughs, wrapping her legs around my waist. I carry her back to bed... to thank her properly. And I know that after today, October 23rd will never feel the same again.
It won’t just matter because it’s the day I was born... it will always be about the woman who went out of her way to celebrate it with me.
Cecily
After the cake and that lazy morning tangled with Alexander in bed, we came to his grandmother’s house for his birthday lunch. And here we are, well into the night.
Alexander wasn’t exaggerating when he warned me his family doesn’t understand the word enough.
It’s been hours of good food, wine, and laughter.
Stories I only half understand, but they always make me feel part of everything.
It’s like they’ve belonged in my life far longer than the short time I’ve known them.
We sang Happy Birthday to him an hour ago, this time with a cake so large it could’ve fed a small village. His grandmother, aunts, and cousins had made it together, and the moment he leaned forward to blow out the candles shaped like the number forty-two...
He reached for me and kissed me like he’d forgotten we weren’t alone. The room exploded in applause and playful whistles, and I laughed into his chest.
“Do you like it like this?” Cella asks in her sweet voice, her English nearly perfect as she kneels beside me on the couch. She holds up the braid she made from a strand of my hair like it’s a treasure.
I touch it gently and smile at her. “It’s beautiful. You did such a great job.”
She throws her arms around my neck and I hug her back.
Of all Alexander’s nieces, she and Bianca—Pietro and Angelo’s daughter—are the ones I’ve spent the most time with. And I know I’ll miss every single one of them when I leave tomorrow. Even the ones whose names I’m only just learning.
Without warning, I feel it…that pull in my chest that always warns me when he’s near.
I open my eyes and find Alexander standing by the fireplace, watching us with that smile that makes his eyes glow.
I smile back, but before he can come over, his uncle Carlo calls his name and steals his attention.
“I’m going to put a little flower at the end!” Cella announces, sliding off the couch and grabbing my hand to drag me with her. “Vieni, vieni!”
I follow her down the hallway toward the bedrooms.
As we pass her mother, Anna asks with a laugh, “What’s the hurry, bambina?”
Cella replies in rapid Italian. I don’t understand a word beyond my name. Anna falls into step beside us, laughing. “She’s obsessed with braiding hair,” she tells me. “Only I know how much I suffered before she learned to do it properly. She used to tie mine into perfect little knots.”
We share a knowing smile and keep following Cella.
When we step into her bedroom, decorated in shades of pink and green, Cella goes straight to a wooden box on her dresser, its surface carved with delicate details.
Curious, I study it closely. It’s the same wood and shape, almost identical to the one Alexander gave me.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Anna says, and I nod. “It’s a tradition in our family.”
That makes my eyes lift from the box to her face. “A tradition?” I repeat, my heart beating fast.
“Yes. No one knows exactly when it began, it was a very long time ago. Every man in the family used to make a box for each of his sons. The idea was that one day, he would pass it on to the woman he intended to marry. And on it, he would carve something meaningful... something that belonged to their story. Or something that simply reminded him of her.”
My pulse stumbles as Anna goes on, unaware.
“My grandfather changed the tradition when he decided to make boxes for his daughters too. He carved each one himself and told them to pass them on someday to their own daughters.” Her smile softens.
“Mine was my mother’s. And this year, it passed to Cella.
I’ve always told her how special it was, like a treasure from the princess stories she loves. ”
She finishes speaking and smooths her daughter’s hair affectionately. Cella is too busy carefully pinning a rhinestone flower into the end of my braid to notice anything else.
But I can barely breathe. My heart begins to race as memory pulls me backward to a different moment...
‘Actually, that box isn’t made anymore. That model was unique.’
I close my eyes, smiling as I try to remember every detail he carved on mine. Alexander...
When we return to the living room, I go straight to where he’s talking with his cousins and wrap my arms around him, holding on tight.
“Is everything alright?” he asks, searching my face.
“Never been better,” I whisper.
He smiles, kisses my forehead, then turns back to his conversation. The whole time, his arm stays around my waist, keeping me close.
We don’t stay much longer. Sam is asleep at the foot of Nonna’s bed when we leave, so Alexander lets him be.
The moment we step into the house, we take the stairs, kissing and touching each other all the way to the bathroom. Undressing becomes a wordless, intense act of worship. My blue dress pools on the floor, followed by his shirt. At no point do we look away; eyes locked as every barrier is discarded.
Inside the shower, the hot water cascades over us, creating a curtain of steam, but nothing compares to the heat radiating from him.
The soap makes our skin slick as we exchange slow caresses.
My hands roam the tense muscles of his back while he traces the line of my spine, kissing me with a hunger that feels impossible to sate.
I pull away reluctantly, water trailing down my face. My hand travels down his abdomen until I find him hard and throbbing. I wrap my fingers around him, squeezing gently and feeling the jump of his body against mine.