With Love From Florence

‘I don’t want to be married,’ she blurted out, causing a few heads to turn in their direction. Instantly, she understood what she’d done. People were casting their eyes down in sympathy, as if Logan had just proposed and it had gone horribly wrong.

She shook her head. ‘I’m happy with my work. I’m happy with my life.’

He put his hand behind her waist and pulled her towards him. His voice was quiet but there was an edge of frustration that only she could hear. Only she could understand.

‘Look at me, Lucia. Look at me and tell me that you’ve tried to have other relationships. Tell me that you’ve met some suitably nice, handsome men—just like I’ve met some beautiful and good women—but something just hasn’t been right. It hasn’t felt the way it used to feel—the way it should feel. You could never go on and take the next step because you knew, deep down, that you’d ultimately hurt this good and loving person. You’d never quite love them the way that they loved you.’

It was almost as if he’d stepped inside her brain and was reading her mind and all her past memories. All her hidden regrets. She could see them all reflected on his face. He knew this, because he’d been living this life too.

That kiss had catapulted him into another space. Given him a painful reminder of what he wanted to capture again. Just like it had her.

She put her hand up to her chest, which was hurting, tight.

She was still shaking her head, aware of the anxious glances around them. ‘I don’t know, Logan. I just don’t know.’ She looked up and met his gaze. He looked hurt. He looked confused and something twisted inside her. It had been a long time since she and Logan had been like this.

Last time around she’d felt numb. She’d been unable to cope with her own grief so she certainly hadn’t coped with his. But now he looked just as exposed as she felt.

His hair was mussed from where he’d run his fingers through it. The wind was rippling his shirt around his shoulders and chest. She almost hated the fact he could relate to how her life had turned out. To how every relationship she’d had since him had turned out.

But she hated even more that he’d mirrored her life with his own. She’d told herself that she’d always hoped Logan would move on, meet a girl, fall in love and have a family of his own.

Seeing him in Tuscany a few days ago and feeling that flicker of excitement when he’d told her he was unattached had revealed a side to her she didn’t like.

He was fixed on her with those green eyes. They were burning a hole into her. To the rest of the world they would be the picture-perfect couple with the backdrop of Venice behind them. No one else would know the way their insides had been ripped out and left for the vultures.

Her heart squeezed. She was bad. She was selfish. Part of her did wish Logan had a happy life but then again part of her always wanted him to belong to her. But at what price?

He hadn’t moved. One hand was still wrapped around her waist, pressing her body against his, the other interlocking their fingers. She could break free if she wanted to. But after all these years she just didn’t know how.

He blinked. ‘I won’t pressure you any more. I won’t bring it up again. Just promise me you’ll give it some thought. You can tell me before I return to Tuscany tomorrow.’

She gave the briefest nod and it coincided with a swell of relief from her chest as he stepped back, breaking their contact. In their exposed position on the observation deck a gust of wind swept between them. It startled her, sweeping away the feeling of warmth from Logan’s body next to hers.

The expression in Logan’s eyes changed. Gone was the tiny smudge of vulnerability that she’d seen before. It had been replaced by the determined, focused look she knew so well.

‘Are we done with photos?’ he asked, just a little brusquely.

She nodded as she pushed her phone back in her bag. He took her hand again, firmly this time, no gentle touch, as if he was determined not to let her escape. They walked back to the lift. ‘Tonight I’m going to pick the venue for dinner.’

It was clear there was no point arguing. She gave a brief nod as the doors slid closed in front of them.

The stiff atmosphere remained for the next thirty minutes. His hand grasped hers rigidly as they boarded the vaporetto and made the short journey back to Piazza San Marco.

It was even more crowded but Logan seemed to have got his bearings in the city and led her through some of the backstreets. Her phone rang just as they were about to cross one of Venice’s bridges.

She pulled it from her bag. ‘It’s work,’ she said. ‘I need to take it.’

‘No problem. I’ll have a look in some of the shops around here.’

As her boss spoke rapidly in her ear she lost sight of Logan’s broad shoulders in the crowds. It was twenty minutes before the conversation was over and Logan appeared at her side holding a large loop-handled bag with a designer logo on the side. He held it out towards her.

‘What is it?’

‘Yours. For tonight.’

She was more than a little surprised. She opened the bag and saw a flash of red but he shook his head.

‘Leave it. You can try it on when we get back to the apartment.’

In some ways she should feel flattered. Logan had always had exquisite taste. He’d bought her clothes in the past and she’d loved every single item. But they weren’t a couple any more—they weren’t lovers and she wasn’t sure this felt entirely appropriate.

‘Why on earth would you buy me something?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s a thank-you gift,’ he said casually. ‘A thank you for letting me stay at your apartment when I obviously should have planned better.’ He made it sound so matter-of-fact, so easy and rational. But the contents of the bag didn’t seem impartial.

Red was her favourite colour. And although she hadn’t had a chance to examine the dress she was sure it would fit perfectly and be a flattering style. It was all part of Logan’s gift.

‘What was your call?’ He wasn’t giving her time to think about this too much. Probably in case she started to object.

She gave a little smile. ‘The electronic comparison of brushstrokes indicates the fresco is indeed by Burano. The paint sampling won’t be completed until early next week.’

‘When?’

‘Probably Monday. Technology is a wonderful thing these days. They will be able to give me an exact match of the product and colours that Burano used in his fresco for the restoration work.’

They started to walk across the bridge now, stopping in the middle just as a gondola with some tourists on board passed underneath. ‘And how long do you think the restoration work will take?’

She put her elbows on the bridge next to him. The sun was beating down now, rising high in the sky above them. She gave a nervous laugh. ‘That’s the one thing that doesn’t happen quickly. Probably around a few months.’

‘And it will be definitely you who does the work?’

Was it possible he didn’t want her to be working next to him, no matter what he’d been saying? Maybe Logan was only looking for a quiet life. Maybe he was only trying to keep her onside to make sure his project didn’t miss his deadline?

But he didn’t look unhappy. He still had that determined gleam in his eye. He pointed to a baker’s shop on the other side of the bridge. ‘Why don’t we grab some food and head back to the apartment? It’s going to be too hot for sightseeing this afternoon and we both have work we can probably do before dinner tonight.’

She gave a nod of her head. It made sense—even if the thought of sharing her apartment space with Logan all afternoon made it feel as if the walls would close in around her.

‘Where are we going later?’ she asked, as they walked over the other side of the bridge.

He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Leave that to me.’

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