A Moment on the Lips(56)

‘New flavours of ice cream, hmm?’

‘This one’s meant to be hot.’ She brought out the first tub from the freezer.

‘Hot ice cream?’ He gave her a half-smile, and took a spoonful.

‘What do you think?’

‘Honest opinion?’ At her nod, he grimaced. ‘Either you overdid the chilli, or it works much better in chocolate bars than it does in ice cream.’

She tried a spoonful. ‘Much as I hate to admit it, you’re right.’

The blackberry sorbet was much better, and this time she actually got a compliment from him. Then he smiled at her. ‘I was going to buy you flowers to say thank you for spoiling me in Paris.’

‘You really don’t have to.’ And clearly he hadn’t, because that box wasn’t the right size to contain flowers.

‘But I thought you might like this a bit more.’ He handed her the parcel. ‘It’s an unbirthday present. Just to tell you that I …’ He stopped.

Her heart skipped a beat. And another. Was he going to say it? The words she was so sure she’d heard that night in Paris?

‘ … I appreciate you,’ he finished, looking wary.

Was that Dante-speak for I love you?

Or was she hoping for way too much?

She undid the wrappings. It felt like a frame of some kind. And it had been very well wrapped. Wrappings she recognised as the kind she’d used at Amy’s gallery.

And then she unwrapped the final bit and saw what he’d bought her.

The painting she’d fallen in love with in Paris.

‘Oh, my God. Dante. It’s …’ Her eyes filled with tears.

‘That was the one you liked?’ he asked, sounding suddenly unsure.

‘Yes, but it was hideously expensive.’

He shrugged. ‘Money’s not important.’

‘It’s beautiful. And you hate it. Yet you bought it for me.’

‘Because it made your face light up,’ he said simply.

She felt her bottom lip wobble. ‘I think I’m going to cry.’

‘No, you’re not.’

He looked panicky; obviously he found tears unsettling, and yet he’d let her cry all over him in the past. Especially that time when her English grandparents had sent her the film from her childhood. ‘These are happy tears,’ she said softly. ‘I can’t believe you bought this for me and got it sent from Paris.’

‘That was the phone call you nearly caught me making,’ he said.

She bit her lip. ‘And I nagged you because I thought you were working. I’m sorry.’

He shrugged. ‘No problem. Now you know what I was doing.’

‘It’s beautiful.’ She looked at it again, then laid it carefully on the table and walked round to his chair so she could kiss him. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘Prego.’

And now she’d made him uncomfortable again, making a fuss. She’d noticed that in his family’s home, too—if his mother or his sister made a fuss of him, he wriggled away. But Fiorella … he was putty in his tiny niece’s hands. And she’d just bet that he would read stories to Fiorella, sing songs to her, and sit on the floor and play as many games with the little girl as she wanted.

Which gave her hope that maybe she, too, could reach him. There was definitely a chink in his armour; she just had to find the right way to reach it. ‘Dante. Stay tonight,’ she said softly.

He shook his head. ‘I can’t.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Both.’

‘Why?’

He stroked her face. ‘It’s not you: it’s me.’

She went cold. Suddenly, everything had changed. Was the painting his idea of a Dear Jane letter, rather than his way of saying ‘I love you’? And she’d heard that phrase before, from several Mr Wrongs. It’s not you: it’s me. Just before they’d dumped her.

And when Dante distanced himself slightly over the next few days, missing two mentor sessions because he was up to his eyes in work—that was when she knew he was planning to end it between them.

The week got worse, because then her period started: she felt the familiar dragging sensation, low in her belly, and knew exactly what it meant. She should’ve been relieved that she’d been right and that night of sleepy, unprotected sex in Paris hadn’t left her pregnant.