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“I know.” She lifted her shoulders. “But you’re not going to hurt me. And I’m not going to hurt you. That’s all that matters.”
He breathed out quietly. “I like spending time with you.”
Portia’s heart sailed into the heavens. “I feel the same.”
“You will not date Luca?”
She laughed, shook her head, but something more serious occurred to her. “We never talked about that,” she said with a soft vulnerability in her voice. “I know what your…life is like. Are you…have you been…”
He waited for her to continue but Portia couldn’t. She didn’t want the answer.
“It doesn’t matter,” she responded crisply.
“No, Portia,” he said gently, lifting her chin with his thumb. “I have not seen anyone else since this began. And I don’t intend to.”
Her relief was unparalleled. And another warning sign, but she’d stopped paying attention to those.
* * *
It wasn’t as thoughshe’d made a definite decision, but her attempt to draw lines around what they were doing and keep Marco in a firm box in her mind seemed so futile now. It was as though something had shifted between them, something honest and vulnerable and real so that even when they both knew that this had to be kept light and temporary, it was somehow still important and would change them both. Or at least, it would change Portia.
And so when a couple of nights after that weekend, he messaged asking if she was free to go to the opera, she jumped at the chance with both hands. Life was too short for regrets. And it was a perfect evening, shared with someone who clearly loved this form of art, and explained the lyrics to her quietly in the breaks, and held her hand the whole time so she felt valued and important, even when he was approached by beautiful women who’d clearly been made to feel this way by him at one point or another.
Jealousy would have been easy for Portia to feel, because of Jack. But she didn’t, because this was Marco: he was different. He wasn’t like Jack.
Shedidtrust Marco, even when she’d sworn she wouldn’t trust anyone again.
She just knew he wouldn’t lie to her, and wouldn’t hurt her. If he wanted to move on and see someone else, he’d break it off.
It was that simple.
The next night, he came to Portia’s flat and they ate in: food delivered from one of London’s most exclusive restaurants, personally brought over by the maître-de.
“You know most people don’t live like this?” She asked, devouring one of the succulent chicken pieces.
“Does it bother you?”
“No. I know how much your family does through its foundation.”
He nodded once. “My grandmother again. That was her brainchild. My grandfather wouldn’t let her near the business. He was old-fashioned, but she was bright and incredibly canny—his mistake. She took her impressive skills and poured them into the charity. She raised a small fortune through her networking abilities and business nous, investing wisely in real estate, creating homeless shelters all over Europe.”
“She sounds like a wonderful woman.”
“Yes, she was.”
“When did you lose her?” Portia asked with sympathy.
“A few years ago,” he said. “It’s why I started spending more time in London.”
He looked surprised by having made the admission.
Portia leaned forward. “Why?”
“I guess it was weird being there without them. At first I came just for a few months. Dante was in the midst of a huge deal at the time, and he’d only recently buried Bianca and Livvie.” His voice softened. “He wasn’t coping. Not that he’d ever admit as much. You know what he’s like.”
She nodded gently.
“I thought I’d stay a few months, help out where I could. But the more time that passed, the harder I found the idea of going home. Without nonna, it just wasn’t right.”
