FORTY-TWO
I stared at my phone, rereading Luca’s vague text about meeting for dinner. What does that even mean? No mention of his arrival time, no clarification about a hotel, or even a simple “Can you pick me up?”
My brain buzzed with questions, each one poking at my deeply rooted need to be organized. I wanted to nail down every detail, but I reminded myself I could only control me.
I sighed and glanced at the clock. “Embrace the Italian way of life,”
I muttered to myself, imagining Luca laughing at me for overthinking. He was probably juggling something—he always had a hundred things pulling at him. Still, a tiny part of me couldn’t help but wonder if he was having second thoughts about seeing me. Maybe being together “out in the wild” wasn’t the same as the magic we’d created on holiday.
Just as I was about to spiral, my phone buzzed again.
Luca: Meet you at the restaurant. Can’t wait to see you.
Relief flooded me, followed quickly by anticipation. I had just enough time to get ready. I picked out a simple but elegant black midi dress, paired with my favorite summer heels, and kept my makeup natural but polished. By the time I stepped into the elevator, my nerves had settled into a quiet hum of excitement.
As the elevator doors opened to the lobby, I looked up—and froze. There he was. Luca sat in the lounge area, a confident smirk playing on his lips, two drinks waiting on the small table in front of him.
My smile came so naturally, it actually hurt. “What are you doing here?”
I asked, crossing the room toward him.
He stood, extending one of the drinks to me. “Thought I’d surprise you. Besides, I couldn’t resist seeing you sooner.”
We sat together, and I took a sip of the drink—gin and tonic, one of my favorites. “Smooth,” I teased.
“You’re surprised?”
he asked with a raised brow.
“Yes,”
I admitted. “But it’s a good surprise.”
We only had a few minutes to enjoy the drinks before it was time to head to the restaurant. As I suggested skipping dinner altogether, a mischievous smile played on his lips. “Absolutely not,”
he said, shaking his head. “I’ve already had several texts from Lena forbidding a no-show for sex.”
I burst out laughing. “Sounds about right. She’s been talking about this dinner nonstop. She’s dying to show you off to the world while hanging out with me.”
“She’s weird,”
Luca said with a grin. “But it’s pretty cute.”
We arrived at the restaurant—Cookshop, nestled in Chelsea, not far from the High Line. The atmosphere was warm and inviting, with large windows letting in the golden glow of the city. Our reservation was at 7:30, and the host led us to a corner table where Lena was already pouring wine.
Except Lena wasn’t alone.
I blinked in surprise as I saw my mom and Amelia seated next to her, already laughing over something. My jaw dropped. “What are you up to?”
I demanded, looking from Lena to my mom.
Luca, however, didn’t miss a beat. He kissed my mom’s hand as if he’d been expecting this all along. “Signora Monroe, it’s an honor,”
he said smoothly.
“Oh, he’s a charmer,”
my mom said, clearly impressed.
Lena raised her glass. “You’re welcome.”
The evening unfolded with playful banter, starting with Lena loudly asking, “So, Luca, tell me: What’s it like dating my best friend?”
“We’re not dating,”
I interrupted quickly, feeling my cheeks flush.
Luca smirked, turning to Lena. “It’s fantastic, actually. She’s endlessly entertaining.”
“High-maintenance, you mean,”
Amelia quipped, earning a playful glare from me.
“Only in the best way,”
Luca said with a wink.
By the time dessert arrived—perfectly caramelized lemon tarts—I was in stitches from the back-and-forth ribbing between my mom and Lena about my “vacation romance.”
Luca handled it like a pro, charming each of them while slipping me subtle glances that made my heart race.
As we left the restaurant, my mom leaned in and whispered, “He’s a keeper, Charlie. Don’t mess this up.”
No pressure or anything.
Despite Lena’s effort, we did make it back to my hotel to enjoy a sex-induced night. It seemed like forever and no time had passed in the same moment.
The next morning, we woke up and headed out to enjoy touristy things. The city felt alive in a way it hadn’t in weeks, as if it knew I was about to share it with someone special. The sun filtered through the buildings, casting soft light on the streets as I walked with Luca. I wanted to show him the New York I loved—not the tourist traps, but the heart of the city, the places you don’t find in a guidebook.
We started the day with coffee at Café Grumpy in Chelsea. The smell of freshly brewed espresso hung in the air as we settled at a corner table with lattes and a shared almond croissant. “This is where I come when I need quiet,”
I told him, gesturing to the cozy space around us. “It’s not flashy, but it feels like home.”
Luca smiled, taking it all in. “It’s perfect,”
he said, and I believed him.
From there, we wandered down to Chelsea Market, weaving through the hustle and bustle. I pulled him toward the back, where fewer tourists ventured, and we stopped at a little taco stand. He raised an eyebrow as I handed him a taco. “You don’t like tacos, we can’t be friends,” I teased.
“They’re incredible,”
he admitted after a bite, the smoky salsa leaving a small smudge on his lip. I laughed, reaching up to wipe it away without thinking.
We spent the afternoon exploring some of my favorite spots: the hidden corners of the High Line, the cobblestone streets of the Meatpacking District, and a tucked-away bookstore in the West Village called Three Lives it was something deeper. I didn’t want a life without him, but I didn’t know how to bridge the gap between us.
For now, all I could do was trust in prochaine fois.