And there’s one thing that I need to do before I can make that happen.
I press the phone to my ear, waiting nervously for it to connect. I don’t get nervous – not me. This isn’t my thing. But somehow, I feel butterflies in my stomach as the line rings, and they only spring more into life when it connects.
“Hello? Marco?”
“Ciao, Simon,” I say, greeting Hannah’s father by name. “How are you?”
“I’m great. I wasn’t expecting your call.”
I half-smile to myself. No matter what I may feel about Hannah now, there is a lot of history between the two of us, as well.
“Can’t a man call his old friend out of the blue?” I ask.
“Less of the old,” Simon jokes. “Although, you’re probably right. So, what’s going on with you?”
“Well, actually, I did have a reason to call you,” I say, sensing even myself that I’m stalling for time without getting to the point. “I was just – what do you Americans call it? – yanking your chain.”
Simon laughs. “Go on, then. What is it?”
“Well,” I say, hesitating one final time as I glance up towards the bedroom window, where I know Hannah is dressing even now. “I actually ran into Hannah.”
“You did?” Simon laughs. “Did she contact you?”
“Not at all.” I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “Actually, it was kind of wild. I was walking down the street and we just saw each other.”
“Wow!” Simon laughs again. “That’s great. How’s she doing? I was worried about her, taking this vacation on her own for the first time.”
“Oh, she’s doing great,” I say. “I made sure to look out for her.” Gearing myself up to tell him just exactly how much I did that when he interrupts me again.
“She hasn’t been running around with any boys, has she?” Simon asks. “I don’t want her to get distracted. Or taken advantage of, either. I know what those Italian boys can be like. You were one yourself, once, I’m sure.”
“No,” I say, slowly, realizing I can’t follow that up with an admission of the truth. “No, there haven’t been any boys.”
I think I’m still staying honest. I’m not a boy. It doesn’t exactly feel right, but what am I supposed to say to that?
“Oh, that’s great. You will just make sure she comes home to us as innocent as when she left, won’t you?” Simon says. “I mean, as much as you can. It’s a father’s greatest worry, believe me. You’re lucky you dodged that one. I mean, not that I would change fatherhood for the world – but you do worry.”
“Right, I’m sure,” I say. I feel my resolve dying. How can I tell him that I’ve taken his daughter’s innocence and that she is the one with whom I hope to have my own children with after hearing him say something like that?
“Well, thanks for letting me know, Marco. And keeping an eye on her. I owe you one, buddy.”
“Any time,” I say automatically. “Well, I’d better go. Work, and all that.”
“Oh, right! Must be early there,” Simon laughs. “Alright, Marco. Talk soon.”
I hang up, feeling desperate and hopeless. Not having Simon’s approval won’t stop me from staking my claim on Hannah. I have to have her. She’s mine, and I’m not going back from that.
But I know it’s going to be hard to make her happy if her Dad won’t talk to either of us for the rest of his life.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hannah
I feel like a million bucks dressed up in the clothes that Marco bought me, although there is something slightly wrong with the picture, the fact that all of my makeup, my hair products, and even my clean underwear is still in my hotel room. It’s a good thing these clothes look better without underwear on, but I still feel a little strange to be all dressed up and then plain on top.
When Marco comes back in, he sizes me up and shakes his head.
“I know,” I tell him, making a face. “I left all my makeup behind.”
“I was just thinking how good you look,” Marco says, drawing me close to him. “If you want, I can ask my assistant to pick up your makeup.”
“And my underwear, too,” I say, quickly.
Marco’s hands roam over my back, no doubt searching for a bra strap. When he finds none, he tilts his head down at me. “Huh. No underwear?”
“None at all,” I say. “Maybe your assistant should gather everything for me.” I don’t exactly want to be reminded about his assistant, who must be young and pretty, but then again I’m the one standing in front of him right now – not anyone else.
“I will get her to do that,” Marco says, his fingers inching up the hem of my dress. “Now, let’s get back to this underwear situation.”
By the time lunch rolls around, I finally settle for putting on one of Marco’s bathrobes to walk around in, because anything else inevitably ends up on the floor – and at least the bathrobe is easier to put back on. I’ve almost forgotten about my things until there’s a knock at the door, and I watch from the sofa as Marco opens it and ushers in an elderly woman.
I sit up straight. Who is this? His mother? I wasn’t expecting this!
“Thank you for bringing those,” Marco says, and when I get over my shock enough to actually take in the picture before me, I realize that something is off. Marco’s mother is carrying my suitcase – and my jacket, the one I left hanging in my hotel room.
The woman rattles something off in Italian as she puts my things down, and even pulls out a planner from her pocket and starts pointing at things, the light glinting off her sharp half-moon glasses. It slowly begins to dawn on me that this is not Marco’s mother at all, it must be his assistant!
And
