Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 36268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
She knew him better than she knew herself.
Which is why she noticed the change that last month. The way his jaw stayed tense even during Mozart and how he’d started skipping his morning runs.
“Family troubles,” Mama said one evening, coming home from the main house with worry lines around her eyes. “Miguel’s been putting pressure on him about something.”
Sienah’s chest tightened. She’d seen what family pressure did in houses like this. Seen the way it crushed spirits and forced choices and broke things that couldn’t be fixed.
That night, she did something she’d never done before. She made him chamomile tea instead of his usual espresso nightcap. Added honey and a touch of vanilla the way her grandmother used to make it when worries kept sleep away.
She left it on his desk with a small note: “For better dreams.”
The next morning, the cup was empty and her note was gone. But there was a different note in its place, just two words in his sharp handwriting: “Thank you.”
She kept that note. Tucked it in her jewelry box next to her grandmother’s rosary and the movie ticket from the only film she’d ever seen in theaters. Pathetic? Probably. But those two words in his handwriting felt like a secret between them.
The next week, everything changed.
“Don’t forget what we’ve talked about,” she overheard Signor Miguel warn his son. “Choose one of those names on the list to be your bride...”
The laundry basket nearly slipped from Sienah’s numb fingers.
“Or you will not like the consequences.”
Sienah made it to the laundry room before the tears came.
Stupid, stupid Sienah!
Did you really not think this day would come?
He was like a prince in his homeland, just minus the royal blood. His marriage would naturally be arranged, and of course his bride...
Such a girl would likely be just as rich, just as well-connected.
She would be everything that Sienah was not and could never be.
Sienah folded his sheets through blurred vision, smoothing the Egyptian cotton with shaking hands. Someone else would be sleeping in these soon. Someone who belonged in his bed, in his life, in his world.
“Sienah?”
His voice made her jump. She spun around to find him in the doorway, still radiating tension from his father’s ultimatum.
“Signor.” She quickly wiped her eyes. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
His gaze sharpened. “Are you crying?”
“Is there something you need?” she asked, desperate to deflect.
He studied her for a long moment, and she had the strangest feeling he was memorizing her face. Then: “Dinner. Tomorrow night. Flavier’s. Eight o’clock.”
Her brain short-circuited. “I...what?”
“You can take the night off, can’t you?”
“Yes, but...” Nothing made sense. Why would he want to have dinner with her? Unless... “Do you need me to make a reservation? Pick up something for your date?”
His mouth curved in what might have been amusement. “No, Sienah. I’m asking you to dinner. With me.”
Chapter Three
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS, Sienah thought dazedly.
Twenty-four hours since Aivan Cannizzaro had found her crying over his laundry and asked her to dinner. Twenty-four hours of her mother alternating between suspicious silence and rapid-fire Sicilian prayers. Twenty-four hours of practicing how to say “Congratulations on your engagement” without bursting into tears.
Because what else could this be about?
Sienah stood outside Flavier’s, smoothing down the black dress she’d borrowed from her cousin. It was the nicest thing she owned that wasn’t a uniform, and she still felt like a sparrow trying to pass for a swan.
Through the window, she could see him already at a corner table. Dark suit. Perfect posture. Checking his watch with that little frown that meant someone was three minutes late.
Her. She was three minutes late because she’d spent two of them in the car, trying not to hyperventilate.
You can do this.
Just go in there, help him plan whatever wedding nonsense he needs.
Just get this over with, and don’t cry until you get home.
The maître d’ recognized her from all the times she’d picked up Mr. Cannizzaro’s takeout orders. But tonight, instead of directing her to the service entrance, he actually smiled.
“Miss Posada? Mr. Cannizzaro is expecting you.”
Expecting her. Like she was a real person. Like she was...
No, don’t even think it, she quickly reprimanded herself. This was business. Maybe he needed her to coordinate with the wedding planner. Maybe sample cakes since she knew his preferences. Maybe...
He stood when she approached.
Aivan Cannizzaro, who treated standing as an inefficient use of energy unless absolutely necessary, actually stood.
For her.
“Signo—” Her voice faltered when he came around to pull out her chair.
“Sienah.” His voice was different. Neither stiff nor curt like he usually sounded. But just different. “And I think we can dispense with the formalities after all these years, don’t you think?”
“I...” What did one call one’s employer when not employing? “Mr. Cannizzaro?”
His mouth curved slightly. “Aivan.”
Aivan?
Her brain...short-circuited.
It could not comprehend why her master’s son would want him to call him by his first name.