Chapter Nine
Roman
3 Months Later
“ I ’ll email you everything I have from the booking,” Olivia gushes, keyboard clacking in the background as though she’s compiling a file right now. “Can you imagine how poetic it would be to get married at the same place you met? Oh my god, it’s so romantic. I?—”
“Olivia!” I cut her off, wishing I’d pretended to be in a meeting when I saw her name pop up on my work phone. I should have known what the call was really about. “We aren’t getting married, that’s…we’re dating.”
“You’ll have to get married to get him a green card,” she points out. I close my eyes and brush my hand down my face.
“That’s illegal, Liv.”
“Not if you’re in love, idiot.”
Snorting, I refresh the airline page and watch the progress of Niilo’s flight. Still on time, just the same as it was thirty seconds ago when I checked. The same way it has been every time I’ve checked since the plane took off. It’s possible I’m a little bit excited for this visit.
“Did you get the house ready?” Olivia asks, bringing my attention back to the conversation. I glance around from my perch at the dining room table.
My house isn’t anything exciting on the inside—exposed beams and tall ceilings; the bare minimum of furniture that I’ve gathered over the years, none of which matches. The real treasure is the location. Surrounded on all sides by towering spruce and maple trees—a sea of green. You can walk out on my deck, which wraps fully around the house, and breathe nothing but fresh air; hear nothing but birdsong and the rustle of leaves as animals scurry through the woods. A different kind of haven than the one we had in Italy, but hopefully just as appealing to Niilo.
I glance out the double patio doors, watching the rain patter against the decking. It’s been coming steadily down for the last hour, but it’s soft enough that I hope it won’t interfere with any flights.
“Yeah, the house is ready. Not much I had to do,” I admit. It’s not as though I’m a slob. Getting the house ready was as simple as changing the sheets, filling the refrigerator and pantry, and giving the space the same sort of clean I give it every week.
“Gosh, this is so romantic,” Olivia repeats. “I bet you’re so excited. Are you going to hyphenate your name, do you think? Or will you take his? I bet?—”
“All right, Liv. Thanks for chatting,” I cut her off. “I’d better go so I leave enough time to account for traffic.”
“Yes! Go!” she agrees. “Text me.”
After providing a verbal pinky swear that I’ll send her regular updates, I log off of work and head into the bathroom for a final appearance check. I’d spent extra time this morning, trimming and oiling my beard. I’d also attempted to style my hair, but abandoned that pretty quickly when I remembered I had no idea what I was doing. Jeans and a plain T-shirt, topped with a dark flannel, soft with age, finish up the look. Olivia had stressed about the importance of “the look”—reminding me that Niilo and I haven’t seen one another in months, so I need to look good.
Staring at myself in the mirror, I’m unsure whether I pulled off that assignment, but have run out of time to stress about it. It’s time to go get him.
I had grand plans to meet my traveler in baggage claim—greet him with the kind of aplomb usually reserved for loved ones returning from war. Unfortunately, traffic and the weather have other plans for me, and when I pull up to passenger pickup, Niilo is already waiting outside, still under the awning and safe from the rain.
His blond hair is pulled back in a high bun, fallen pieces tickling the back of his neck and tucked behind his ears. He’s wearing the sort of thing one would wear if they were about to spend hours seated on an airplane—a baggy, cozy-looking hoodie and a pair of sweatpants. I barely pay attention to the car in front of me as I pull to a stop at the curb, throat tight and heart pounding. He’s right there, looking just as soft and warm and lovely as I’ve spent every day remembering him to be.
Putting the SUV in park, I hop out and leave the driver’s door hanging open as I round the hood. He meets me there, blue eyes bright in the gray, misty light of the day, hands already reaching for me. Arms wrapped around his waist, and his own around my neck, we fit back together perfectly.
“Hi,” he mumbles into my neck.
“Hi,” I reply, slipping a hand beneath that bulky hoodie to find the warmth underneath.
When we pull away, Niilo drops back down onto his heels and gazes up at me, face tipped upward into the rain. Drops already cling to the delicate lashes, dotting his cheeks and dampening his hair. Cars honk as everyone begins to lose patience with my parked vehicle, and I can see a traffic guard approaching in my periphery. Niilo smiles at me, the same mischievous tilt and shine to his eyes that I remember so well. I exhale in relief.
It wasn’t Italy, after all. Wasn’t the smell of lemons, or the bite of espresso; wasn’t the history or the art or the cobbled streets; soft mornings followed by busy days and sleepless nights.
No, the magic wasn’t in the location at all. It was us.