The Italian

“Me, too.”

The line falls silent again, and I wonder if he’s smiling goofily down the line like I am.

“You looked lovely in that photo you posted this morning. I’ve stared at it all day.”

I bite my bottom lip. I posted a picture of me at my work desk this morning. Giorgio snapped it when I wasn’t looking. But, wait, what?

“How did you see it on my Facebook account? It’s private,” I ask.

“Do you know Beverly Whalen, Olivia?”

“She’s my mom’s friend.” I frown. “Isn’t she?”

“Maybe.” I can tell from the sound of his voice that he’s smiling.

I suddenly want to get off the phone to see who in the heck Beverly Whalen really is.

We fall silent again.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then?” he says.

“I’ve been banking my hours this week so I can leave at three.”

“Good girl. I’ll pick you up at three.”

“Okay.” I smile as butterflies dance in my stomach. I get to see him tomorrow.

“Goodbye.”

“Bye.” I hang on the line. After a few moments, he hangs up.

I instantly open Facebook and look up Beverly Whalen on my friend list. The profile pic is a woman. She is one of my mums’ work friends, I’m sure of it. Huh?

I click on her profile. No friends, no address, no details. This is weird. I look up the date we became friends.

I got a friend request from her four weeks after I returned to Australia from Italy. I didn’t even look into her profile because I knew the face on the photo. Holy shit.

Beverly Whalen is Rici Ferrara.

With a stupid, huge smile on my face, I go through all my images over the last two years. He’s liked every single one.

He’s been watching me from afar. I should be appalled, disgusted… outraged.

Instead, I’m utterly thrilled.

He cared. Even though he may be wrapped in a bastard suit, I know he isn’t a bastard. I think that, deep down, I’ve always known that, and maybe that’s why it was so hard to move on from him. I don’t know what happened back then with us, or why he handled things the way that he did, but I don’t think I care anymore. I’m going to try my hardest to take him at face value moving forward.

I stand with a renewed excitement.

I need to pack. I’ve got a dirty weekend with a sex god on the horizon.

I can hardly wait.

* * *

The clock strikes three and I have to stop myself from running from my office.

He’s here, just outside. After waiting all week to see him, it’s finally time.