“First one no. I was expelled. The second one yes. It’s a good school. I made good friends there. You met them.”
“Oh, yes.” Alessia blushes as she remembers the two men in their underwear.
They settle into an easier conversation, and by the time they arrive home, she’s more cheerful.
* * *
We carry the bags into the house, and while Alessia unpacks the groceries, I take her clothes upstairs. I put them in the spare bedroom, then change my mind and place the bags in the walk-in wardrobe in my room. I want her in here with me.
It’s presumptuous.
Fuck.
I’m tangling myself in knots. I don’t know how to behave with her.
Sitting down on the bed, I put my head in my hands. Did I have a game plan before we got here?
No.
I was thinking with my dick. And now…well, I hope I’m thinking with my head and following my heart. During the drive home, I contemplated what to do. Should I tell her that I love her? Should I not? She’s given me no indication of how she feels about me, but then she’s reticent about most things.
She’s here with me.
That means something, surely?
She could have stayed with her friend, but that would have meant those gangsters returning and finding her. My blood turns to ice. I shudder to think what they would do to her if they did. No. I was her only option. She has nothing. How could she go on the run?
Yet she arrived in the UK with nothing, and she survived. She’s resourceful, but at what cost to herself? The thought weighs heavily on me. What did she do during the time between her arrival and finding Magda?
The anguish in her eyes in the restaurant. It was…affecting.
I’m tired of being afraid.
I wonder how long she’s felt this way. Since she got here? I don’t even know how long she’s been in the UK. There’s so much I don’t know about her.
But I want her to be happy.
Think. What to do?
First. We have to make her legal here. And I have no idea how to do that. My solicitors should know the answer. I can only imagine Rajah’s face when I tell him I’m harboring an illegal immigrant.
Her grandmother was English. Maybe that will help.
Fuck. I don’t know.
What else could I do?
I could marry her.
What?
Marriage?
I laugh out loud, because the idea is so absurd.
Why not?
It would freak my mother out. For that reason alone, it’s worth popping the question. Tom’s words from our night at the pub come back to me: You know, now that you’re the earl, you’ll need to provide an heir and a spare.
I could make Alessia my countess.
My heart starts hammering. That would be a bold move.
And maybe a little sudden.
I don’t even know if she has feelings for me.
I could ask her.
I roll my eyes. I am going round and round in circles. The truth is, I need to find out more about her. How could I ask her to be my wife? I know where Albania is on the map, but that’s about it. Well, I can put that right, now.
I drag my phone out of my pocket and open Google.
* * *
It’s dark when my phone starts to complain about its remaining battery life. I’m sprawled across the bed, reading everything I can about Albania. It’s a fascinating place, part modern, part ancient, with a turbulent history. I’ve found Alessia’s hometown. It’s in the northeast, nestled among mountain ranges and a few hours’ drive from the capital. From all I’ve read, it does appear that life is more traditional in that region.
This explains a great deal.
Alessia is cooking downstairs. Whatever she’s making, its savory aroma is enticing. I get up and stretch and head downstairs to see her.
She’s still dressed in her white top and jeans, and she has her back to me at the stove, mixing something in a pan. My mouth waters; it smells delicious.
“Hi,” I greet her, and sit down on one of the barstools at the counter.
“Hi.” She gives me a quick smile, and I notice she’s plaited her hair. I plug my phone into one of the charging sockets beneath the counter and fire up the Sonos.
“Is there any music you’d like to hear?” I ask.
“You choose.”
I select a mellow playlist and hit PLAY. RY X blasts out of the speakers overhead, making us both jump. I turn it down. “Sorry about that. What are you cooking?”
“A surprise,” she says with a coquettish glance over her shoulder.
“I love surprises. It smells good. Can I do anything to help?”
“No. This is my thank-you. Would you like to drink?”
I laugh. “Yes. I would like a drink. Do you mind that I’m correcting your English?”
“No. I want to learn.”
“ ‘Would you like a drink?’ is what we say.”
“Okay.” She flashes me another smile.
“And yes, I would. Thank you.”
She sets the pan aside and from the counter takes an open bottle of red wine and pours me a glass.
“I’ve been reading about Albania.”
She whips her eyes to mine, her face lighting up like the early dawn. “Home,” she whispers.
“Tell me more about life in Kukës.”
Maybe it’s because she’s distracted while cooking supper, but she finally opens up and starts to describe the house she lived in with her father and mother. It’s beside a vast lake, surrounded by fir trees….And while she’s telling me, I watch and marvel at how she moves about behind the counter with such ease and grace, as if she’s been cooking in this kitchen for years. Whether it’s grating nutmeg or adjusting the timing on the oven. She’s like a professional. And as she cooks, she tops up my wine, washes dishes, and gives me insights into her claustrophobic life in Kukës.
“So you don’t drive?”
“No,” she answers as she lays the table for us.
“Does your mother drive?”
“Yes. But not often.” She smiles when she sees my consternation. “You know that most Albanians did not drive until the mid-1990s. Before the fall of the Communists. We had no cars.”
“Wow. I had no idea.”
“I would like to learn.”
“To drive? I’ll teach you.”
She’s taken aback. “In your fast car? I do not think so!” She laughs as if I’ve suggested flying to the moon for lunch.
“I could teach you.” We have enough land here, we don’t need to be on the public highway. We’ll be safe. A vision of her driving one of Kit’s cars, maybe his Morgan, comes to mind. Yes. That would be suitable for a countess.
Countess?
“This will take another fifteen minutes or so to cook,” she says, and she taps her lips with her finger. There’s something on her mind.
“What would you like to do?”
Alessia chews her bottom lip.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I’d like to talk to Magda.”
Of course she wants to talk to her. Magda’s probably her only bloody friend. Why didn’t I think of that?
“Sure. Here.” I unplug my phone and find Magda’s contact details. When the call connects, I hand the phone to Alessia, who gives me a grateful smile.
“Magda…Yes, it’s me.” Alessia moves to sit down on the sofa while I try and fail not to eavesdrop. I imagine that Magda is relieved to hear that Alessia is still in one piece. “No. Fine.” Alessia glances up at me, her eyes shining. “Very fine,” she says with a wide grin, and I find myself reciprocating.
I’ll take “very fine” any day.
She laughs at something Magda says, and my heart swel
ls. It’s so good to hear her laugh; she doesn’t do it often enough.
As she talks, I try not to watch her, but I can’t resist. Unconsciously she winds a lock of hair that’s escaped from her plait around her fingers as she tells Magda about the sea and her impromptu dip in it yesterday.
“No. It’s beautiful here. It reminds me of home.” She looks up at me again, and I’m caught in her all-consuming gaze.
Home.
I could make this her home….