Chapter 2 - A Beautiful Disaster in First Class #2
"Well," she says, extending her hand. "It was nice meeting you, Matteo De Luca."
I take her hand but don't shake it. Instead, I hold it a moment longer than necessary. "The pleasure was mine, Sasha..."
"Moretti," she fills in, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "Sasha Moretti."
"Moretti," I repeat, committing it to memory. "Buona fortuna with your Roman adventure."
She smiles. "Grazie mille."
I watch as she maneuvers into the aisle, her wedding dress causing other passengers to do double-takes. She doesn't seem to notice or care, holding her head high as she makes her way toward the exit.
I hang back, pretending to gather my things while keeping her in my sightline.
The truth is, I don't want to lose her in the crowd.
At baggage claim, I spot her again, standing beside the baggage carousel, looking comically out of place in her bridal attire.
She's scanning the arriving luggage, occasionally checking her phone.
I approach casually, as if just happening to collect my own luggage nearby.
"Still here?" she asks with a knowing smirk.
"Coincidence," I reply, unable to keep the smile from my face. "We did arrive on the same flight, after all."
She rolls her eyes but doesn't seem bothered by my reappearance. "Right. Pure coincidence."
"Which bag is yours?" I ask, scanning the carousel.
"Large cream suitcase with a red ribbon tied to the handle," she says, standing on tiptoes to see better. "If it ever shows up."
I spot it before she does—a large hard-shell suitcase rounding the bend. Without asking, I step forward and lift it off the carousel with ease.
"This one?"
She nods, reaching for it, but I hold firm.
"Allow me," I insist. "Consider it my welcome gift to Rome."
She hesitates at first then after a beat, she concedes. "Fine. But just to the taxi stand."
I nod. "Of course."
We navigate through the terminal, her rolling carry-on in her hand, my briefcase slung over my shoulder, and her enormous suitcase gripped in my other hand.
The crowds’ part for us—or rather, for her—as if we're some bizarre wedding procession gone astray.
Sasha either doesn't notice or has developed remarkable indifference to stares in the past twenty-four hours. She walks with purpose, consulting the airport signs in Italian with furrowed concentration.
"Your pronunciation isn't bad," I comment after hearing her quietly sound out "Uscita" to herself.
“I’ve been practicing,” she explains. "My Nonna said my American accent was an insult to her ancestors."
"Smart woman, your Nonna."
"She was," Sasha says. "Stubborn as hell, too.
"I see the family resemblance," I joke.
She shoots me a look, but there's no real annoyance behind it. "I prefer 'determined.'"
"Is that what you call refusing help from a native who happens to have a private car and driver waiting outside?"
She stops abruptly, causing a businessman to swerve around us with a muttered curse. "You have a car waiting?"
"With a driver who knows every shortcut to Trastevere," I add. "No meter running, no tourist upcharge, no getting lost in those charming but confusing cobblestone streets you mentioned."
"And why would you offer this to a complete stranger?" She narrows her eyes, suspicion finally catching up to her trusting nature.
I shrug with practiced nonchalance. "Italian hospitality? Professional courtesy from someone in the hotel business? Or maybe I just can't bear the thought of this dress getting crushed in the back of a taxi."
Her eyes remain narrowed, but I see the calculations happening behind them. It's been a long flight. She's in a wedding dress. It's her first time in Rome in years. The practical choice is obvious.
"No strings attached," I add, raising my free hand in a pledge. "I'll drop you at your door and disappear like a proper gentleman."
Sasha's eyes flicker with indecision, and for a moment, I think she'll accept my offer. Then something shifts in her expression.
"That's very generous," she says with a firm voice, "but I think I'll manage on my own."
"You're turning down door-to-door service in a luxury car?" I can't hide my surprise. Women rarely refuse anything I offer.
"I am." She takes the handle of her suitcase from my grasp, her fingers brushing mine in the process. "Thank you for the help though.
I’m disappointed, but strangely impressed by her independence. Most women I encounter are all too eager to accept my offers, my wealth, my connections. But Sasha Moretti—still wearing her wedding dress and nursing a broken heart—has just politely declined.
"Enjoy Rome, Sasha Moretti."
She wheels her suitcase away, the white dress flowing behind her. I remain rooted to the spot, watching as she navigates through the crowd.
I should turn away. I have meetings scheduled, calls to return, a hotel renovation to oversee. The car is waiting, my driver probably checking his watch. Yet I find myself following her progress through the terminal.
There's something captivating about her—beyond the obvious beauty, beyond the dramatic circumstances of our meeting.
She disappears through the sliding doors to the taxi stand, and still I linger, half expecting her to return, to change her mind. She doesn't, of course. The doors slide open and closed for other travelers, but Sasha Moretti is gone.