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  She lowered her eyes to my chest.

  “Isn’t there an old Sarah McLachlan song about this? Fearing love?”

  Her eyes widened and she bit her lip. Nodded.

  “I get it. You’re terrified the past will repeat itself. That you’ll give your heart to me body and soul, like Caro to Ethan, and then watch it be crushed.”

  Two huge tears spilled down her cheeks. That was all the answer I needed.

  I bent lower. Whispered in her ear.

  “I. Am. Not. Those. Boys.”

  She hiccupped. A gulping stuttery sound.

  “I am not cut out of that same mold,” I continued. “If nothing else, do you honestly think Judith and Nonna would have raised a jerk? Look at how I act toward the women in my life. Respect. Love.”

  “B-but—”

  “No. Throw out everything you’ve heard about me. I know I’ve done that with you.”

  “Trust you to bring up my psycho reputation.” She gasped, pushing half-heartedly against my chest. I held her firm.

  “I don’t care what others say about you. I observe what you are. What being around you tells me about Claire.”

  “Dante . . .”

  I pulled her closer, keeping my head close to hers.

  “Take me as I am, Claire. As you know me. Have I lied to you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Have I been anything other than up front and honest?”

  Again, a head shake.

  “Have I belittled you or made you feel stupid and small?”

  Another shake.

  “I have never, in my life, met anyone like you, Claire. I am desperate to give us a chance.”

  I could feel her pulse, the tense hammering of her heart. But I kept going.

  With this woman, I would never give up.

  “I hunger to know everything about you: favorite food, music, vacation, bad holiday memory. I want to make you laugh so hard you snort. I want to hold you when you cry over a sappy movie. I want to buy you ugly Christmas sweaters and kiss you every New Year’s Eve. I want to experience every milestone life has to offer from this point onward with you at my side.”

  I hugged her tighter and tighter as I whispered until she was cuddled firmly against my chest again. Her arms trapped between our bodies.

  “So h-help me, if you say that f-four-letter L-word . . .” she stuttered.

  I laughed. Soft and low.

  “Don’t worry. This isn’t a marriage proposal, cara mia. Consider it more like fair-warning. A statement of intent.”

  She sniffled. And then the seemingly impossible happened.

  She snuggled closer.

  It wasn’t much of a motion, really. Just a small tucking in of her elbows. A pressing of her face into my shoulder.

  But that tiny capitulation . . .

  Her loneliness engulfed me. She had such a generous heart. So much to give. I knew it. Had known it.

  And life had kicked her down, over and over. Beating every last ounce of trust in basic human goodness out of her.

  “I want to thrash every idiot who has convinced you to stop reaching for happiness. Made you doubt the beauty and joy life holds for you, Claire.”

  Her shoulders shook. I could feel her tears through my shirt.

  I gathered her closer, threading a hand into her hair.

  “Trust me,” I pleaded. “At some point, you’re going to have to get back into the game. You and me, babe. We would be amazing together. But, before that can happen, you need to let me in. Just make a little Dante-sized hole in the walls around your heart. You’re welcome to seal it right back up once I’m inside. But, please, let it happen.”

  I held her, letting her cry her fill on my chest.

  Cathartic. Cleansing.

  After a while, she pulled back, rubbing a hand over the large wet spot on my shirt. “Sorry—”

  “Never apologize for that, Claire.” I cupped her cheek. “I will always be there for you.”

  She bit her trembling lip. I was pretty sure I would have given about anything to kiss her right then. But this conversation wasn’t about me. And I refused to do anything that might damage the fragile trust we had established.

  “I probably look terrible,” she sniffled.

  I cocked my head, studying her. “Somewhat. You get all splotchy when you cry—”

  She pushed against my chest, a soft smile making an appearance. “Not winning brownie points here. You’re supposed to make me feel better about myself—”

  “Yes. But I promised you honesty too.”

  A pause.

  “Thank you,” she said, wiping underneath her eyes.

  “You’re welcome. You going to try to trust me now?”

  She shrugged. “It’s a lot to absorb. Trust is really . . . uhm, hard. I want to trust you. And, you’re right, on a certain level, I intuitively do. But getting my heart and my head on the same page is difficult. Let me think about it. I’m a work in progress.”

  “Aren’t we all, cara mia?”

  I waited. Expecting her to correct me with a firm, ‘It’s Claire.’

  She shrugged instead.

  “C’mon, Romeo.” She snagged my hand. “Let’s go see what Nonna cooked up for lunch. It smells divine.”

  Twenty-Three

  Claire

  My cell phone rang just as I closed my laptop for the day.

  After lunch with Dante and his family, I had returned to my hotel. With the mass spectrometry results officially in, I had even more work to do. If the Colonel’s sketch was the original modello for Michelangelo’s Battle of Cascina like we suspected, I needed to build an airtight case.

  The sun sank over the Arno, spilling red-gold light through my room.

  I glanced at the caller ID.

  Sigh.

  “Hey, Mom.” I managed to keep my voice upbeat.

  “They were madly in love, you know.” My mom’s voice blasted into my ear. She must be holding it against her shoulder while she painted. Typical.

  “Lucy and Desi?”

  “No.”

  “Brangelina?”

  “No, no—”

  “I give up.”

  “—Adelaide and the Colonel.”

  Oh! Right.

  Mom probably needed to up her ADD meds.

  “Completely in love, though Adelaide never talked about it. Your father—”

  “Tom?”

  “Yeah, Tom. He found some love letters Adelaide had stashed in a shoe box. All from the Colonel, going on and on about Grammy being—what did he call her?—his divine goddess.”

  I sat down on my bed, staring sightlessly at the window in front of me, the last gasp of sunset raking my face.

  Grammy had never mentioned an old flame to me. She always told stories of my grandpa, who had been her childhood sweetheart. But never anyone else.

  I was having a hard time wrapping my head around there being anyone else in Grammy’s life.

  “Did Grammy ever say what happened to them?”

  “Mmmm . . . no. Like I said, she never talked about it.” Mom’s voice pulled away a bit. Muffled. Reaching for a different brush. “Though there was this one time . . .”

  Her words wandered away.

  “Mom?”

  “ . . . so I was pretty sure Adelaide dumped him—”

  “Mom!”

  “What?”

  “You’re drifting. Stay with me.”

  A pause. The sound of something being put down.

  Wow. She never did that.

  “I’m sorry, dear.” Mom’s voice was much clearer. “I was just saying that Adelaide loved your grandpa to pieces. Tom always talked about how in-love his parents were. Before they married, Adelaide and your grandpa dated some, but then he left for a job in Pittsburgh, and she stayed in Boston doing something secretarial, I think—”

  “Grammy did pride herself on her stenography.”

  “Very true. So she could have dated the Colonel then. But even if she did, it didn�
�t last. She married your grandpa as soon as he returned to Boston. I remember asking Adelaide about your grandpa and all she would say was, ‘When something is right, it’s right. You just have to trust.’”

  That sounded like Grammy.

  “Though could you imagine our lives if she had stayed with the Colonel?” Mom continued. “Things would have been a lot easier after Tom’s death, that’s for sure. The Colonel would have stepped in to help us out.”

  Of course. My mom would focus on the Colonel’s wealth.

  Had Grammy broken the Colonel’s heart? Dumped him for my grandpa?

  “Anyway, you had asked about the Colonel and Adelaide. I just wanted to tell you what I know.”

  “Thanks, Mom. How are the flamingos going?”

  “Fabulous! Micky is a genius with cloth . . .”

  Mom drifted in and out for the next ten minutes, babbling about flamingo placement and budget problems and the ephemeral nature of performance art.

  I paid attention, making appropriate responses when needed.

  Seriously? I can’t believe she said that.

  Of course, I can wait longer for the money.

  Yes, Warhol completely destroyed the concept of art . . .

  Basically, the usual conversation with my mother.

  I hung up with Mom after promising to call in a couple of days.

  But my mind was on that phrase from Grammy.

  When something is right, it’s right. You just have to trust.

  Didn’t that pretty much sum up where I was with Dante?

  Lunch earlier had been . . . amazing.

  Weird, I know, to describe a casual luncheon with a guy and his family like that, but amazing was the only word that came to mind.

  Judith laughing with her children, despite Tennyson’s return to Volterra. Branwell and Chiara teasing Dante about his closet-love of modern poetry, which he shamelessly defended. Dante, in turn, ribbing Branwell about his non-existent love-life. Nonna chiding everyone in Italian and piling more pasta in my bowl. Boney the Rat scampering down the table, stealing bits from my plate.

  Everyone easily accepting my presence. Love wrapping through and around them like gauzy tendrils. Every part of me longed to just let go, to be swept away in the lovely emotion of belonging.

  Panic skittered along my nerves when I thought about it.

  How could I want something so badly and, yet, be so terrified of it at the same time?

  That damn Fear again.

  My head was messed.

  I plugged my headphones into my phone and swiped to my music. Dug up that old Sarah McLachlan song.

  Fear. Appropriately titled, I supposed.

  I kinda love/hated that Dante knew it too. Curse him and his wall-busting . . . awesomeness.

  The words hummed through me . . .

  But I fear, I have nothing to give, I have so much to lose here in this empty place . . .

  Truth.

  My heart pounded as the song ended.

  The next track on the album came on.

  Sarah’s answer to Fear . . .

  All the fear has left me now, I’m not frightened anymore . . . I won’t fear love . . . I won’t fear love . . .

  I sat back against the bed pillows, twirling my phone in my hand. Brushing tears away.

  The sun had firmly set by then. Lights twinkled across the Arno, the soaring steeple of Santo Spirito gleaming above the rest.

  When something is right, it’s right. You just have to trust.

  Had Grammy done that? Walked away from the Colonel and regretted it because she hadn’t trusted? Or was my grandfather the true love of her life?

  Why the Colonel’s interest in me? Was it interest? Or just normal human politeness to the granddaughter of an old flame?

  And why did I always have to second guess people’s actions?!

  Anger washed me. Suddenly, I hated all this . . . fear.

  How dare they!

  How dare those awful men in my past destroy my sense of trust! Defraud me of a future with a guy like Dante D’Angelo.

  My eyes stung. Blink, blink, blink.

  I deserved better than this emotional . . . half-life. I deserved to live.

  And just like that—

  I was done.

  Something snapped.

  If I was ever going to get over my fears, I needed to let go. I intellectually had known that.

  But in that moment, I viscerally felt it.

  I had to trust Dante.

  Yes, the panic was still there, hovering at the edges, waiting to pounce.

  But my desire to move beyond the trauma of my past was greater. I swallowed back the anxiety.

  I won’t fear love . . .

  I would hate myself forever if I walked away from Dante right now. Big scary L-word or not . . .

  Clenching my jaw, I swiped to the camera on my phone. Framed my face. Took a selfie.

  I looked at the picture.

  My head nestled into the pillows on my bed, staring determinedly at the camera.

  And there he was too.

  Dante as Ethan, tucked up against me. His cheek pressed into mine, nose slightly turned toward my face . . . a smile on his lips. As if he were about to kiss me.

  It was a photo of such intimacy, such adoration . . .

  I could practically feel Caro hovering in the background of my mind, whispering, begging me to trust this man as she did.

  My past-life self—my soul—had loved this man. Perhaps even spent life after life with him.

  How could I not at least give Dante a chance?

  Longing flooded. I wanted to know him. Understand him. To sink down, down, down into . . . us.

  I comprehended, as I never had before—

  Trust is a decision. A commitment. An act of faith.

  Sometimes you just have to step off the cliff, fight the panic and believe that you will land okay.

  I won’t fear love . . .

  I opened my text messages. Attached the photo I had just taken.

  I trust you. I really do.

  His reply came almost instantly.

  Thanks, Claire. I won’t let you down, babe. ;)

  Choosing to ignore the word ‘babe.’ How’s about you invite me to lunch tomorrow and we hit the city afterwards?

  Selfie rampage?

  Yep. Start practicing your frat-girl, pouty-lip face.

  Twenty-Four

  Dante

  There he is.”

  I leaned over Claire’s shoulder as she pointed to the background of the selfie she had just taken.

  Sure enough. Ethan stood at the base of the David in front of the Palazzo Vecchio, shoulder casually leaning into the enormous pedestal, head turned to his right.

  “That’s the same place he was in the old photo with me and Grammy,” Claire continued.

  “He doesn’t seem to be looking at you this time,” I said.

  “Yeah. So probably no regression there.”

  I pressed my chest into her back, ostensibly to get a closer look at the photo, ignoring the tourists swirling around us in the enormous Piazza della Signoria.

  Breathing in the scent of her . . . lavender and herbs. Claire fit against me like a glove. Like my entire body had been made just to hold her.

  She didn’t make a comment about her space bubble or pull away. That was the most significant part. She didn’t relax into me either, but I was no longer a pariah.

  “Now what?” Claire turned her head toward me, her nose practically touching my bent cheek. I felt her exhale . . . a puff of air blowing across my face.

  Madonna mia.

  You know how it goes. When you like someone . . . really, really like someone . . . the slightest touch burns. Every point of contact—no matter how small—sizzles with heat and electricity.

  Claire was a live wire.

  I took a step back before I did something to break her fragile trust.

  Her text the night before had floored me. Honestly, I thought it would tak
e a lot longer for her to reach this point. I had been prepared to wait her out, for as long as it took.

  So even though every last part of me wanted to gather her in my arms and bury my face in her hair and let us be . . . us, I held myself firmly back.

  “What about this?” Claire turned away from me and aimed another selfie at the Loggia dei Lanzi to the right of the Palazzo Vecchio. Snapped a photo.

  I maneuvered to her side as she swiped to the image, pressing into her upper arm before I thought the better of it. I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I was stupid-crazy for her.

  We both studied the image. The extravagant loggia, tourists sitting on the steps up to it. The tops of ancient sculptures underneath it.

  “No Ethan.” She lifted her head. “Where should we go next?”

  Claire scanned the piazza, which meant I saw the incoming text message before she did.

  I see you. I hate that big, dark-haired idiot standing so close. Like he wants to eat you up. When will you stop being such a slut?

  I hissed. Claire looked back to her phone, saw the text and froze. I felt, more than heard, her swallow. She shot me a glance and then turned, stuffing her phone in her jeans pocket.

  Or, at least, tried to. Her hand was trembling too badly to get the phone to fit.

  “Hey, hey—”

  I took her phone from her, shoving it into my own pocket. Grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. She was white as marble, the fear in her eyes shouting at me.

  “It-it’s nothing. Just nothing.” Shaking her head, over and over.

  “It’s not nothing. Who is it? Who’s texting you crap like that?”

  She was frozen, nostrils flaring wide.

  “Talk to me. Who is it? Pierce?”

  She finally stirred.

  “No, no,” she said. “I doubt Pierce could be this focused. It’s just some cyber stalker.” She did her signature lip-bite thing, blue eyes staring at my shirt. Chest heaving. “So many came out of the woodwork after that video. I’ve changed my phone number. I block every text . . . nothing seems to deter them. It’s really no big deal.”

  Was she freaking kidding me? She was seconds from a full-blown panic attack.

  “Forgive me, but this is a big deal. I don’t like the thought of anyone harassing you—”