Page 61 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

“But—” the waiter started.

“I said take it away,” Dante barked. What the hell was his brother thinking? Of all the desserts he could have chosen for them, Luca knew better than to serve him that one.

“What’s wrong?” Zoe asked as the waiter scuttled off, plates still in hand and a confused, stunned expression on his face. “You scared the hell out of that poor waiter.”

She was right. He was shooting the messenger instead of directing his anger where it belonged. At his brother. He threw his napkin down, pushed his chair back from the table so violently his fortunately empty wineglass tipped over, and stood, ready to do battle. He had only gone a few steps when the door to the kitchen swung open and the object of his ire burst out and strode toward him.

“I told that stupid boy table four, not fourteen.” Luca’s face was as ashen as the restaurant’s white linen napkins. “I’m sorry, Dante. I’ll have him fired immediately. I would never—”

“I know,” Dante said, cutting him off. One look at Luca’s face made Dante’s anger fade as quickly as it flared up. He should have known it was a simple mix-up. Luca would never hurt him so deeply, not intentionally. But when it came to anything that touched his memories of Nicole, Dante’s feelings often trumped reason. And that applied in triplicate when those memories were of her death.

Dante shook his head. “Don’t fire him, not on my account. It was an honest mistake.”

“One that never should have happened.” Luca clenched his fist, looking like he wanted to slam the nearest wall. “Fuck. When I think of how it must have made you feel. Seeing that damn cake. Remembering how Nicole—”

“Is everything all right?”

Zoe’s voice, more hesitant and unsure than usual, mercifully stopped Luca from finishing his sentence.

Dante turned his head to see her standing next to him. He didn’t know how long she’d been there or what she heard, but he knew their meal was over. He didn’t have an appetite for dessert anymore, and he doubted she did, either. “We should be going. We don’t want to miss the start ofLa Bohème.”

Assuming she still wanted to go with him after the display he just put on.

“Are you going to explain what all that was about?” Her voice was harder now, the uncertainty replaced by anger. No, anger was the wrong word. It was more like sorrow. Or pain. “Who’s Nicole?”

…

Luca’s jaw dropped, and Zoe’s stomach plummeted right along with it. His obvious shock was all she needed to clue her in that whatever this was about, it wasn’t going to be good.

“She doesn’t know?” he asked.

Dante glared at his brother. “This isn’t the time. Or the place.”

“Then what is?” Luca put an arm around Dante’s shoulder and leaned in so he could lower his voice, but not enough that Zoe couldn’t make out what he was saying. “If she means anything to you, tell her. You owe it to her. And to yourself.”

He gave Zoe a nod that was half apology, half escape and headed in the direction of the kitchen, leaving her alone—well, alone in a restaurant full of people—with Dante.

Can you say awkward?

Dante cleared his throat and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “We should go,” he said again.

The hair on Zoe’s arms and the back of her neck prickled. “Is that all you have to say to me? You barked at that innocent waiter. Over a cake. Don’t I deserve some sort of an explanation?”

“You do, but not here.” He took her elbow, gently guiding her toward the door. “Let’s walk.”

On any other night, her heart would have done a hop, skip, and a jump at the suggestion. What was more romantic than an evening stroll through one of the most romantic cities on earth? Walking along the Via Sacra, watching the boats on the Tiber River. Getting lost in the maze of narrow cobblestone streets in Trastevere, with its colorful houses, centuries-old piazzas, and ancient statues lit by streetlamps.

Tonight, however, she was too keyed up to appreciate the atmosphere. Neither one of them spoke for a few blocks. The longer they walked, the more uncomfortable it became. A couple of times Zoe almost caved and opened her big mouth. But she bit her tongue, determined to give him the benefit of the doubt. This was clearly difficult for him. He’d talk when he was ready. What were a few more minutes in the grand scheme of things? She owed him at least that much.

Finally, just as they were approaching the Spanish Steps connecting Piazza di Spagna with Trinità die Monti, he broke the silence.

“Sit with me.” He motioned to the wide, irregular stone staircase that was a popular gathering place with both locals and tourists.

She nodded, and they found a spot partway up the steps off to one side, somewhat removed from the hustle and bustle of the street below, which was crowded with families enjoying after-dinner gelato, teenagers flirting and smoking cigarettes, and vendors trying to sell everything from flowers to selfie sticks.

“Nicole was my fiancée,” he said after a long moment. He didn’t look at Zoe as he spoke, staring out into the moonlit night almost as if he were in another time, another place, totally removed from her and everything else around them. “She died almost a year ago.”

“I’m so sorry, Dante.” Sorry. Such a small, insubstantial word for everything she wanted to express. She reached out to put a hand on his knee, hoping the physical connection would make up for the inadequacy of her words, but he brushed it away.