The Italian's Unexpected Heir

“But you said you wouldn’t sleep tonight.”

That was true. He hadn’t meant to tell her but it was too late to walk it back now. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ve made you something to help you sleep.” When he still didn’t move—still didn’t trust his judgment in this exhausted state—she said, “Come.”

There was a firmness to her voice—the same sort of tone his mother would use when she meant business. It was amazing the things his mother could get people to do without raising her voice. Sylvie had that same poise and command. Someday she’d make a good mother. Of that he was certain.

And so he took a seat next to her, leaving a respectable distance between them. He couldn’t help but feel this was a mistake, but he remained seated.

Sylvie held out a red mug. “Here. Drink this.”

When he reached for it, their fingers brushed. A rush of anticipation electrified his body and it had absolutely nothing to do with the drink. His gaze met hers. He felt himself once more slipping under her spell. Enzo glanced away before it was too late. He stared down at the white frothy drink, knowing that any chance he’d had at getting some sleep was now officially gone.

He swallowed hard. “What is it?”

“It’s some warmed milk that my mother would make for me whenever I was worked up from a nightmare or the night before a big test.” She took a sip from her own cup.

He lifted the mug. The first thing that struck him was its soft fragrance. He wasn’t sure about drinking it. He eyed up Sylvie as she took another healthy sip. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, because he was quite certain at this late hour she really didn’t feel like going to all this bother, he took a small sip.

He swallowed. “This isn’t warmed milk. Well, it’s not just milk.”

She smiled and nodded. “It has some honey, vanilla and a touch of lavender. Plus a few other things. Do you like it?”

“I...ah...” His lips pursed together as he considered the answer. He didn’t hate it, but he didn’t love it, either. “It’s so unique. I don’t think I’ve ever had anything like it before.”

“Just keep sipping it. Trust me, it’ll help relax you.” She frowned at him. “You can’t relax when you’re perched on the edge of the couch as though you’re ready to spring out the door at any moment. Sit back and relax.”

This most definitely wasn’t a good idea, but he was already sitting in her living room at this late hour; why not just lean back? It wasn’t like she was going to throw herself into his arms. Was she? The thought definitely appealed to him.

Every muscle in his body was tense as he slid back over the cushion. And even when he was fully on the couch, he couldn’t lean back. He sat fully upright, staying on guard, not letting down his defenses because he knew how easy it was to forget about circumstances when Sylvie was in his vicinity.

“Do you think there’s anything that will change your mind about selling the place?”

It was the first time she’d come straight out and asked him the question. The answer that rushed to the back of his throat was one she didn’t want to hear. He shifted his gaze to the contents of the mug. It might not be his favorite drink but it was better than having to speak and see the disappointment in Sylvie’s eyes.

He held the mug to his lips and drank; all the while he could feel Sylvie’s gaze upon him. Why couldn’t she just give this up? But he knew she was waiting for an answer. The woman definitely had a lot of tenacity.

He lowered the mug. “No. I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Is there anything I can say or do—?”

“No, Sylvie. This is what has to be done.” The debate of keeping the estate or letting go of the ghosts of the past churned within him. “You just don’t understand.”

“I would, if you told me.” Her voice was soft but not forceful.

The secret he’d been holding in all these years came rushing forward, teetering on the edge of his tongue. He hadn’t told anyone because he was ashamed. But maybe if he wanted to let go of the ghosts, he needed to be up-front with her. If he could trust anyone, it was Sylvie.

Not giving himself time to back out of this confession, he turned to her. In her eyes he saw caring and sympathy. He wasn’t worthy of either. That undid his final bit of hesitation.

“Sylvie, I know this place means a lot to you, but to me, it is filled with ghosts of the past. Lies and secrets that I just can’t live with anymore. I need to move on—to start over.”

“But wasn’t all of that dealt with when Bianca found your mother’s journal?”

“No.” That single-syllable word hung in the nighttime air with all its possible implications.

He raked his fingers through his hair. Why did she keep pushing? She wasn’t going to like what she uncovered. He wasn’t the upstanding guy that she thought he was.