Chapter 3
I slept badly that night.
Not because of the dress rack still occupying half my living room.
Not because I had agreed to spend a week convincing Adrian Moretti’s entire family that we were falling in love.
I slept badly because somewhere in Adrian’s penthouse office there was apparently a red notebook containing my name and the word someday.
At six thirty the next morning, I gave up pretending I would fall back asleep.
I made coffee.
Then another.
By eight, I had convinced myself there were at least twelve reasonable explanations.
Perhaps Adrian kept notes on employees.
Perhaps “someday” referred to a promotion.
Perhaps he planned to fire me someday.
That possibility was strangely comforting.
At nine fifteen, my phone rang.
Adrian.
I let it ring twice before answering.
“Good morning.”
“You’re angry.”
“No.”
“You answered after two rings.”
“I normally answer after one.”
“Exactly.”
I closed my eyes.
“I hate that you know that.”
“Be downstairs in thirty minutes.”
“Where are we going?”
“My mother changed the schedule.”
“Of course she did.”
There was a pause.
“Emily.”
“Yes?”
“About yesterday—”
“We’ll talk later.”
Another pause.
“All right.”
He sounded almost disappointed.
Thirty minutes later, I climbed into the back of his car.
Adrian wore dark trousers and a charcoal sweater instead of his usual suit.
That alone made him look strangely approachable.
“What changed?”
“My mother wants everyone to spend the day in Brooklyn.”
“Why?”
“She decided she wants to visit places from when she and my father were young.”
“That actually sounds nice.”
“It will involve photographs.”
“Terrible.”
“And stories.”
“Unbearable.”
He looked at me.
I smiled despite myself.
By eleven, the Moretti family had taken over three tables in a small Italian restaurant near Carroll Gardens.
Lucia spent lunch telling stories about Adrian’s father, Matteo.
She spoke warmly but honestly.
Matteo had forgotten anniversaries, burned every piece of toast he ever attempted, and once spent two hours trying to assemble a crib backward because he refused to read instructions.
“He eventually admitted defeat?” I asked.
Lucia shook her head.
“No. I waited until he fell asleep and fixed it myself.”
Sofia laughed.
“That explains Adrian.”
Across the table, Adrian gave his sister a warning look.
“What does that explain?”
“You would rather rebuild an entire company than read the manual.”
“There is no manual for companies.”
“There is for espresso machines, yet somehow mine stopped working after you ‘improved’ it.”
Daniel covered a laugh with his napkin.
The conversation moved naturally.
For the first time, I stopped thinking about our arrangement.
I listened to Lucia describe meeting Matteo at a neighborhood festival when they were twenty-three.
I watched Adrian react to stories he had clearly heard a hundred times.
He pretended to be impatient.
But whenever his mother’s voice softened, his expression did too.
After lunch, we walked several blocks to a narrow brick building that had once belonged to Matteo’s uncle.
Lucia stood on the sidewalk looking up at the second-floor windows.
“We lived here for eleven months,” she told me. “Two rooms. One broken radiator. The kitchen was so small Matteo could open either the refrigerator or the oven, but never both.”
Adrian stood beside her.
“You’ve told us.”
“I am seventy. I have earned repetition.”
He kissed her temple.
“Yes, you have.”
Something caught painfully in my chest.
We continued toward the waterfront.
Sofia eventually fell into step beside me while Adrian walked ahead with Daniel.
“So,” she said casually, “how long have you loved my brother?”
I nearly tripped.
“I’m sorry?”
She smiled.
“I didn’t ask when you started dating.”
“That is an alarmingly different question.”
“I’m his sister. I specialize in alarming questions.”
I looked ahead.
Adrian had his hands in his pockets.
The wind moved through his dark hair.
“This is complicated.”
“Everything with Adrian is complicated.”
“You seem very convinced there’s something between us.”
Sofia glanced at me.
“There has been something between you for years.”
“We work together.”
“My brother once missed Christmas dinner because a shipment was delayed in Rotterdam. Last year, he left a board meeting because you called.”
My brow furrowed.
“I called because his mother’s birthday invitations had gone to the wrong printer.”
“Exactly.”
“That was work.”
“No. The printer was work. Leaving six executives because you sounded stressed was not.”
I said nothing.
Sofia nudged my shoulder gently.
“I’m not trying to interfere.”
“You are absolutely interfering.”
“A little.”
We both laughed.
Then she became more serious.
“He doesn’t talk about feelings. He turns them into tasks.”
That sentence stayed with me.
At three, Lucia announced she wanted coffee.
We found a small bakery on a quiet corner.
The moment we stepped inside, I stopped.
The display case.
The tile floor.
The old brass bell over the door.
It reminded me of my mother’s bakery.
Lucia noticed.
“You like it?”
“My mother has a bakery in Queens.”
“I know.”
Of course she did.
I looked at Adrian.
He suddenly became interested in the menu.
Lucia ordered coffee for everyone and insisted on pastries.
While the others found a table, I remained at the counter.
Adrian stood beside me.
“You’re still angry.”
“I’m trying not to be.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
He looked at the display.
“I should have told you about the building.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
The apology was simple.
No explanation.
No defense.
I appreciated that more than I wanted to.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
We stood quietly.
Then I asked, “What’s in the red notebook?”
His entire body went still.
Slowly, he turned toward me.
“My mother told you?”
“She told me to ask.”
“I’m going to change every lock in her house.”
“So it exists.”
“Yes.”
“And my name is in it.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You saw it?”
“Three months ago.”
He looked away.
“Adrian.”
“It’s private.”
“I understand.”
That answer seemed to surprise him.
I picked up the tray of coffees.
“I won’t ask again.”
I walked toward the table.
Behind me, he said, “Emily.”
I stopped.
He stood by the counter looking almost uncomfortable.
“I might show you.”
“When?”
“When I’m ready.”
Something about that answer felt far more intimate than simply opening a notebook.
“All right.”
The next two days passed in a strange rhythm.
Family breakfasts.
Museum visits.
A charity planning lunch.
A dinner where Lucia deliberately seated Adrian and me together.
With every hour, pretending became easier.
Too easy.
Adrian learned that when I was nervous, I twisted the ring on my right hand.
I learned that when he was worried, he checked his watch even when he knew perfectly well what time it was.
He began touching the small of my back when guiding me through crowded rooms.
I stopped noticing when our hands found each other.
Once, while his aunt Teresa told an endless story about a disastrous cruise, I caught Adrian looking at me.
Not glancing.
Looking.
When I raised my eyebrows, he turned away.
My heart did not.
By Wednesday evening, the danger of the arrangement had changed.
The danger was no longer that the family might discover we were pretending.
The danger was that I was starting to forget where the pretending ended.
Thursday brought the charity dinner.
The event was held in a glass-walled ballroom overlooking Central Park.
I wore the blue dress.
When Adrian arrived to pick me up, he stopped just inside my apartment.
For perhaps the first time in two years, Adrian Moretti had no immediate words.
“Well?” I asked.
He cleared his throat.
“You look beautiful.”
Something in the plainness of the compliment made me blush.
“Thank you.”
He held out a small box.
I stared at it.
“No.”
“It isn’t jewelry.”
“Your family has destroyed my ability to trust small boxes.”
“Open it.”
Inside was a simple silver hairpin shaped like two leaves.
I touched it carefully.
“My grandmother’s?”
“No.”
“Your mother’s?”
“No.”
“Then whose?”
“I bought it.”
“When?”
“Today.”
“Why?”
His expression softened.
“Because I thought you’d like it.”
I did.
That was the problem.
At the dinner, everything went smoothly until a gray-haired man approached our table during dessert.
“Adrian Moretti.”
Adrian stood.
“Richard.”
The man shook his hand.
Then his eyes moved to me.
“And this must be Emily.”
I smiled politely.
“Yes.”
“I’ve heard your name.”
A small warning seemed to pass through Adrian’s posture.
“Have you?”
Richard smiled.
“From Victor.”
My attention sharpened.
Adrian’s investigator.
“Interesting,” I said.
Richard appeared not to notice Adrian’s expression.
“Of course. The Queens commercial acquisition.”
Adrian became completely still.
My stomach tightened.
“What acquisition?” I asked.
Richard looked between us.
“Oh.”
That single word explained enough.
Adrian spoke quietly.
“Richard.”
But I was already looking at him.
“The bakery building?”
Richard seemed deeply uncomfortable.
“I may have misunderstood.”
“You didn’t.”
Adrian’s voice was controlled.
I stood.
“Excuse us.”
I walked toward the terrace.
Adrian followed.
Outside, the evening air was cool.
Music from the ballroom softened behind the glass doors.
May you like
“Tell me the truth,” I said.
“I already did.”
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