Blossom in Winter (Blossom in Winter #1)(52)

“At nine p.m.?” he snarls, glancing at his watch. “Your interns are having dinner in the Borromeo ballroom with the rest of the attendees. Maybe you should check on how they are doing,” he commands heavily, his glare censuring Andrew.

Andrew swallows hard. “Certainly.” He obeys and promptly walks away.

I can’t believe it. Andrew doesn’t even protest at his command? What a coward!

When I’m about to tell Alex a thing or two about his attitude toward Andrew, he grabs my hand and whisks me out of the hotel.

“Where are we going?” I babble as I run down the stairs, following his lead.

He seizes the first taxi waiting outside, opening the rear door. I go first, then he enters and closes the door behind him.

“Buonasera. Per il ristorante Mirabelle, Via di Porta Pinciana, per favore,” he instructs to the taxi driver.

“Buonasera, signore. Molto bene.”

“You’re literally kidnapping me,” I giggle as the taxi starts moving. I find myself nestled against him, his arm around me, our legs touching, nearly sharing the same seat. Oh, I love it! He smells so good.

“I know.” He throws me a smile that makes my heart go wild. “I feel terrible for kidnapping Andrew’s date.”

I can’t help but blush, feeling his eyes all over my dress, but he doesn’t say a word about it.

“Is this because I told you I find him cute? That’s why you came here, right?” I ask, amused.

“I don’t pay him to date interns,” he snaps back.

“I see… So you are jealous?”

He doesn’t protest; instead, he gives me a slow kiss on my forehead. “I won’t tolerate anyone hurting you. I had to make sure you were alright,” he murmurs.

“Bella signora,” exclaims the driver, looking through the rearview mirror. “Sua moglie?”

Alex chuckles at the question. “Grazie. Purtroppo no,” he replies, staring joyfully at me.

“What is he saying?” I ask.

“I can’t believe Ms. Van Gatt doesn’t speak Italian.”

“Ms. Van Gatt picked French instead of Italian in school.”

“He said you’re a very beautiful woman.” He pauses. “And he asked if you were my wife.”

My cheeks flush at his words, and I have to look down for a bit. “And what did you reply?”

“I said thanks and no, you’re not.”

“You are lying…” I reply, my tone cheeky.

“What do you mean?”

“You said, ‘Purtroppo no,’ which means ‘unfortunately no’.” The corners of his mouth lift. “I might not speak fluent Italian, but I studied the basics before coming here.”

He titters in amusement. “Indeed. It would’ve been rude to just say no.”

“Of course, very rude.”





If just four months ago someone would have told me I’d be having a romantic dinner in Rome with Alexander Van Dieren at a fine-dining rooftop restaurant with the most beautiful views of the old city, I would’ve never ever believed it. And yet, here I am sitting beside him.

I look intently at my menu (the English version), while Mr. Van Dieren is scanning his Italian one.

“Buonasera, signora e signore,” elegantly greets the waiter. “Preferite che parli in inglese o italiano?”

“Buonasera, inglese, per favore,” replies Alex.

“Very well. Welcome to the Mirabelle restaurant. My name is Roberto, and I’ll be your waiter for this evening. Would you like to start with a flute of champagne? Or do you have a preference for wine? Or a cocktail maybe?”

Alex stares back at me, thinking what to order, but I reply first. “A glass of champagne is perfect. Thank you.”

“Molto bene. And here is our wine list for dinner.”

“Thank you,” I add before our waiter leaves. I feel Alex is about to unleash some sort of comment about my choice. “Before you even start, it’s totally legal to drink alcohol in Italy if you’re sixteen or older.”

“I know that.” He gives me that charming smile. “I simply wanted to ask why you didn’t let me pick the champagne. You know, not all champagnes are the same. I just hope he will bring a good one.”

“Oh…” I bite my lip and promptly change the subject. “Have you been here before?”

“Not to this one, but Andrew had a table reserved here.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, he called the concierge, who told me.”

“Unbelievable. So the concierge was paid to report to you everything our group does?”

“Of course not. I paid the concierge only to report about you and Andrew.”

“That sounds creepy….” But I like it nevertheless.

“Your dad explicitly asked me to watch out for you on this trip.”

“It was none of your business if he wanted to have dinner with me. But anyway, I guess he would bow to anything you say to fall into your good graces and land a promotion.”

“Probably,” he admits. “I told you he wasn’t a good fit.”

“So who is a good fit? Tell me,” I decide to ask.

Nothing comes out of his mouth.