Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Roman and I are not dating.
None of this is real.
“Look at you.” He flashes a brilliant smile as he drinks me in, and then he reaches for my hand as he helps me into the back seat. The scent of new-car leather and his expensive cologne fills my lungs as I settle in, and the instant he takes the spot next to me, my stomach does a mini somersault.
I hate how real this feels . . . because it only means that one of us is going to get hurt in the end—which was never the goal here.
“How was work?” he asks. “Theodora’s in Montauk for the weekend. I imagine the office was pretty calm today. When the cat’s away, the mice will play, or however the saying goes. I try to stay out of the office on Fridays myself. It’s my gift to my employees. I think it’s good for morale.”
It would’ve been nice for Margaux to share that little tidbit with me earlier about Theodora being gone . . .
“Fridays are usually pretty low key,” I say. Low key is a phrase Margaux uses far too often, as well as literally. They’re her favorites. She is literally always using the term low key. “I swear half the office was out anyway.”
I remember Margaux mentioning that when she came home earlier . . . she was upset about a couple of people not finishing some report, and her assistant went home sick, though she’s pretty sure she was just hungover. Margaux tends to complain about work more than most people, which has always been humorous to me because for someone who swears they love their job, she doesn’t always act like it.
“Antonio, we’re going to Fiorucci’s,” he says to the driver. I make a note of memorizing his chauffer’s name this time. So many people in this city have drivers and housekeepers and assistants and treat them like they’re nonplayer characters without names and feelings and entire lives outside of their jobs.
“Antonio, I’m . . . Margaux,” I say, catching myself almost slip. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced yet.”
Our gazes connect in the rearview mirror, and he nods. “Lovely to see you again, Margaux.”
The weight of Roman’s gaze falls over me, though he doesn’t say a word.
“How long have you been driving for Roman?” I ask Antonio as I lean forward to hear him better.
“Since he was barely old enough to tie his shoes.” Antonio chuckles.
Roman feigns annoyance as he fights a smile. I’m sure he’s relishing this on the inside.
“Started driving for his father about thirty years ago,” Antonio adds as we coast to a gentle stop at a red light. “After Mr. Bellisario passed, Roman asked if I’d drive for him. Was hoping to be retired by now, but I like what I do and who I do it for, and so here I am.”
“He’s not allowed to retire,” Roman says with a single lifted brow and a hint of amusement in his tone. “It’s in his contract.”
Antonio sniffs. “I’ll be here until the cows come home. Or until the girls are off to college. Whichever comes first.”
“We keep you busy, that’s for sure,” Roman says. “Work, school, day care, dance class, music lessons . . .”
“The thing about the Bellisarios, Margaux, is that they don’t know how to sit still,” Antonio interjects with a teasing tone. “It’s in their DNA or something. Always busy. Always doing something. If there’s a club or class, they’re in it.”
It’s still difficult for me to picture Roman as a doting, hands-on father, but I can imagine staying busy keeps him from lingering in his grief for too long.
Busyness is an escape for many.
And an addiction for some.
A few minutes later, Antonio drops us off by the curb outside of a vibrant new restaurant in the Meatpacking District—a place rumored to have a monthslong wait list, according to my sister. How he got us in at eight o’clock on a Friday night is beyond me, but I’m excited to try the place.
There’s a line outside stretching at least half a block, if not longer. Ornate brass letters against a chic black-and-white backdrop spell out Fiorucci’s. Elaborate white flora in tall black pots flanks the entrance, which is accented with a plush red rug. The air outside is warm and soft and scented like perfume and Italian spices.
By the time we’re settled in at our table for two a few minutes later, and our drinks have been ordered and delivered, a three-piece band in the corner begins to play old-world Italian music. The ambience is colorful, lively, charged with excitement.
Everyone seems happy to be here, and I get it. One step in here and you’re magically transported to a place where all your troubles are left at the door.
Maybe it’s the drinks.