Chapter 6 - He told me he had wanted to study architecture before joining the family company.
I told him I had once considered becoming a teacher.
He admitted he hated sailing despite owning two boats.
I admitted I had lied on my résumé about being conversational in French.
“You told me you were proficient.”
“I can order pastries.”
“That is not proficiency.”
“It covers emergencies.”
“What if the emergency is not pastry-related?”
“Then we’re doomed.”
By dessert, we were laughing hard enough that the waiter brought complimentary limoncello.
Luca declined because he was driving.
I stared at him.
“You drove?”
“You said no driver.”
“I assumed we would take a taxi.”
“You also said like civilians.”
“You have a Ferrari downstairs.”
“It is technically transportation.”
“You are terrible at normal.”
“I warned you.”
He drove me home.
At the curb, he did not assume he was coming upstairs.
He simply kissed my cheek and said, “Friday?”
I smiled.
“Friday.”
One date became another.
Then another.
January passed quietly.
So did February.
At work, the transition helped.
I moved two floors down.
I reported to the COO.
Luca and I did not hide our relationship, but we didn’t make it an office spectacle either.
People adjusted faster than I expected.
Sienna, my former desk neighbor, looked at me one morning and said, “We all knew.”
“You did not.”
“We suspected.”
“Based on what?”
“He once moved a meeting because you had a dentist appointment.”
“That proves nothing.”
“He doesn’t move meetings for federal holidays.”
Fair point.
Julian became unbearable.
Valentina became a friend.
She launched her scholarship program in March and asked me to join the advisory committee.
Even Stefano changed.
Not dramatically.
People rarely do.
But he resigned from two family boards, began mentoring Julian instead of second-guessing him, and one afternoon sent me a box containing copies of every document related to my father’s old insurance investigation.
No dramatic apology.
Just a note.
Your father believed people should have the chance to do better.
I’m trying not to waste mine.
I kept it.
Rosa’s voting shares eventually transferred to Luca and Julian jointly.
When Luca asked if she trusted them, she said, “No. That’s why there are two of you.”
By spring, family dinners became less strange.
By summer, almost normal.
One Sunday in June, my mother joined us at Rosa’s house in Westchester.
I had worried about it for weeks.
Mom had spent years hearing me describe Luca as demanding, impossible, unreasonable, and occasionally inhuman.
She met him on the terrace.
“You’re taller than I expected,” she said.
Luca looked momentarily lost.
I nearly laughed.
He recovered.
“Mrs. Bennett.”
“Margaret.”
He held out his hand.
She hugged him.
Luca froze.
Mom looked at me over his shoulder.
I smiled sweetly.
Later, she cornered me in the kitchen.
“So.”
“So?”
“He loves you.”
I nearly dropped a serving spoon.
“You’ve known him three hours.”
“I raised you.”
“That doesn’t explain how you know him.”
“It explains how I know you.”
I looked toward the patio.
Luca was helping Julian assemble a grill.
More accurately, Luca was reading the instructions while Julian ignored them.
My mother nudged me.
“You look peaceful.”
That word stayed with me.
Not excited.
Not dazzled.
Not lucky.
Peaceful.
For the first time, I understood why that mattered more.
Christmas came again before I was ready.
One year after the fake girlfriend disaster, Luca stood outside my apartment holding no flowers.
“No flowers?”
“You said cut flowers are impractical.”
“I said that once.”
“You also said gifts should be useful.”
“That sounds like me.”
He handed me a small box.
Inside was a key.
I stared at it.
“No.”
His face changed.
“No?”
“You are not proposing with a key.”
“I’m not proposing.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a key to my apartment.”
“Oh.”
He looked wary.
“Is that also wrong?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Probably.”
“Emma.”
I laughed.
Then took another key from my purse.
His expression changed.
“Is that—”
“My apartment.”
He looked at the key.
Then at me.
“You were going to give me one tonight?”
“Yes.”
For once, Luca Moretti looked completely speechless.
I enjoyed every second.
“We’re apparently becoming emotionally efficient,” I said.
“This is different.”
“It is.”
He closed his hand around the key.
“Thank you.”
That night, we returned to the Moretti townhouse for Christmas.
The same garlands.
The same tree.
The same warm light spilling through the windows.
Julian opened the door.
He looked at our joined hands.
Then at me.
“You came back.”
“I lost the bet last year.”
“I won twelve hundred dollars.”
“You were betting on my relationship?”
“Family tradition.”
“Does Luca know?”
“No.”
“I’m standing here,” Luca said.
Julian stepped aside.
Rosa appeared from the parlor.
“Emma!”
She hugged me.
Then noticed the bracelet on my wrist.
Her mother’s bracelet.
The one I had initially refused.
Months later, I had accepted it.
Not because I was Luca’s girlfriend.
Because Rosa had told me something I would never forget.
Family heirlooms do not always belong to blood.
Sometimes they belong to stories.
Dinner was loud.
Warm.
Comfortably imperfect.
Valentina brought a man named Daniel, who worked in museum conservation and seemed entirely unimpressed by Moretti wealth.
Stefano burned the dinner rolls while trying to help.
Julian insisted they were “artisan.”
My mother came late carrying a pie.
Elena cried when everyone sat down, then denied crying.
After dessert, Luca found me alone beside the Christmas tree.
“One year,” he said.
“One year since you ordered your assistant to pretend to love you.”
“I did not order.”
“You said, ‘Come home with me tonight.’”
“It was phrased as a request.”
“You used your CEO voice.”
“I only have one voice.”
“That is deeply untrue.”
He smiled.
Around us, the house was alive with conversation.
Nothing had become perfect.
That was perhaps the best part.
Luca still worked too much.
I still became impatient when people avoided difficult conversations.
Julian still arrived late.
Rosa still interfered.
My mother still asked when we were getting married.
Stefano still needed reminders that advice was not instruction.
But people were trying.
Trying mattered.
Luca slipped his hand into mine.
“There is something I want to ask you.”
I looked at him suspiciously.
“If you pull out a ring—”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I sound cautious.”
He looked toward the dining room.
Then back at me.
“Next Christmas.”
“What about it?”
“Would you come again?”
I stared at him.
“That’s your question?”
“Yes.”
“You have a key to my apartment.”
“You have a key to mine.”
“Yes.”
“My grandmother calls you twice a week.”
“Sometimes three.”
“My mother has put you on a family group chat.”
“Against my will.”
“You’re attending Julian’s birthday in January.”
“He threatened me.”
“All true.”
I smiled.
“And you’re asking if I’ll come next Christmas?”
“I’m trying not to make decisions for you.”
Something inside me warmed.
There it was.
Growth.
Not a grand gesture.
Not a perfect transformation.
Just a man remembering to ask.
I leaned closer.
“Yes.”
His expression softened.
“Yes?”
“Yes, Luca. I’ll come next Christmas.”
“Good.”
“And probably the one after that.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
“Possibly several.”
“Emma.”
“But don’t get arrogant.”
“Impossible.”
I kissed him.
Behind us, Julian shouted, “I told you she’d come back!”
Someone cheered.
I pulled away.
“Your family is impossible.”
Luca glanced toward the room filled with people who had lied, forgiven, changed, interfered, apologized, and loved each other badly and beautifully for decades.
“Yes,” he said.
Then he looked at me.
“But they’re ours.”
Ours.
I had spent years thinking important choices announced themselves loudly.
A new job.
A promotion.
A confession.
A family secret.
But most of the choices that changed my life had been quieter.
Answering a late-night job application.
Taking a chance on an intimidating interview.
Agreeing to one ridiculous Christmas party.
Demanding the truth.
Accepting an apology without pretending the hurt had never happened.
Going on one date.
Then another.
Choosing to trust someone who was learning, imperfectly, how to be trusted.
And allowing myself to believe that love did not have to arrive as certainty.
Sometimes it arrived as a question.
Will you come next Christmas?
May you like
And happiness was simply being able to answer it freely.
Yes.
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