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“We barely know each other. She was wise to refuse me.”
“I want to meet her.”
“You will.”
“No, Dante. I want to meet her, now. I want you to bring her to Italy.”
“She is not a puppy. I cannot simply bring her with me. Believe it or not, she has some free will, and she might choose not to get sucked into a big Santoro dinner straight away.”
“Bring her here,” his mother didn’t back down, so for a moment, Dante had an insight into where his own stubborn streak came from, and was also reminded of Georgia’s. Then again, she’d relented. She’d moved in, and without complaint too. She’d respected his boundaries, keeping out of his way, so he’d only glimpsed her occasionally in the house, though on those occasions, wearing casual t-shirts and shorts, he’d felt the stirrings of feelings he didn’t want or need.
“Guys, are we all missing the part where we congratulate Dante?” Salvatore asked, standing up and walking towards his older brother, hand out-stretched. Dante took it, though he hated the congratulations. This wasn’t like with Bianca and Livvie. This wasn’t unmitigated joy. There was so much bound up in this turn of events, but he couldn’t explain that now.
“Thanks.” He stood, face expressionless. “I just thought you should know. Good night.”
He left the table without a backwards glance.
Pregnancy cravings had taken an interesting turn for Portia. In the first trimester, she’d been largely unaffected, but now, she felt as though she couldn’t get enough—and the more loaded with carbs, the better. So she found herself, on a sunlit afternoon in the middle of the week, waiting impatiently for her delivery from an Italian restaurant to arrive. She would have walked, but she’d also been hit by tiredness and the thought of doing the five kilometre round trip made her weary.
When the doorbell rang, she air-punched with excitement, already tasting the satisfying mushroom and tarragon sauce. She wrenched the door inwards, smile on her face that went from welcoming to curious when she was met with the sight of a woman with auburn hair and sea green eyes, and no brown paper bag of food.
“Hello?” Georgia said, tilting her head a little.
“Georgia?”
She hesitated, wondering if she should be anxious in some way. But she wasn’t. There was something incredibly reassuring about this woman. “Yeah. What can I do for you?”
The woman’s eyes dropped to Georgia’s stomach for a moment, then lifted to her face, and she smiled—it was a smile that transformed her into a creature of great beauty. “I’m Portia Santoro,” she held out a hand. “Dante’s assistant.”
“Dante’s…” Georgia frowned, trying to connect the dots between the shared surname and role in Dante’s life.
“I’m also married to his brother, Marco. Mind if come in?”
“Of course not!” Georgia stepped inwards to make room. “It’s not exactly my place to stop people in Dante’s life from coming into his home,” she pointed out.
“Dante’s not here.”
“I know.”
“I left him staring at some plans at work. I wanted to meet you.”
“Why?”
Portia clicked the door shut behind her, then removed her shoes and handbag and placed them neatly on a table by the door, before turning back to Georgia and smiling once more, putting a hand out to guide Georgia not into the living room but rather the kitchen.
“Cup of tea? Coffee?” Portia offered, as Georgia took a seat at the kitchen counter. Portia seemed completely at home here. Unlike Georgia, who felt as though she couldn’t touch anything lest she disturb it or break it.
“Tea would be great, thanks.”
Portia set to work boiling the kettle, putting bags in cups, then turned back to Georgia. “Congratulations, by the way.”
Georgia pulled a face. “You know.”
“Well, you are showing,” Portia pointed out.
Georgia flushed.
“But yes, I know. Dante told the family on the weekend. Did he not mention it?”
