The Italian

Who the fuck was that?

16

Olivia

I stand on the spot for a moment as I watch the

car disappear with my man and a beautiful woman inside. I’m not sure if I’m in shock or disbelief. Probably both.

Don’t be stupid. It’s his sister or something. It has to be. Enrico’s not a sleazebag. I know he isn’t.

I struggle down the street with the heavy garment bag, my mind running wild. Maybe I should just call him and put my mind to rest. Yes, I’ll do that.

I take out my phone and have another thought. He doesn’t touch me in public.

Is there a reason?

A sick, suspicious feeling washes over me, and my heart begins to race.

Is he married? Of course, he isn’t married.

Fuck.

“Don’t be dramatic,” I whisper, spotting the dry cleaners up ahead. I drop the bag off and return to work by taxi, with every conspiracy theory running through my mind.

He took me away this weekend. I thought it was to be romantic. What if he was hiding me?

I’ve been so hypnotized by his company that I haven’t asked any questions.

Is he with somebody else? Is that why he didn’t call me in Australia and ask me to come here for him?

No. He’s not.

Ferraras marry for life.

I go over our weekend together. The laughing, the making love, and the closeness we shared.

Just get back to work and stop thinking the worst. There is a completely logical explanation.

We’ll see what happens tonight when I ask him.

* * *

It’s 8:00 p.m., and I’m waiting for Enrico to knock on my door.

He called me earlier and said he was working late.

Was he?

I played dumb. I want to see his face when I bring it up. I’m still convinced that this is all in my head, but my gut feeling is setting off alarm bells.

Something is going on. There are just too many holes in our time away from each other and what he’s told me about himself. I have questions that have had me pacing back and forth in my room for the last two hours.

Knock, knock.

This is it. I open the door in a rush.

Enrico’s sexy eyes hold mine. “Hello, bella.”