Skye’s heart throbbed at the simple gesture of intimacy.
Really, in the scheme of things it meant nothing, yet it made her soul soar. Happiness was right in front of her and his smile was telling her to grab it.
But his smile lied.
It always had done.
Maybe he couldn’t help it.
She wasn’t going to risk being hurt again just to find out.
‘Lunch sounds good,’ she said, as if pulling a rain cloud over the sunshine of their banter of only seconds ago. The words were cold and damp. Sensible.
Safe.
‘Which way?’ she asked, swapping her gelato to the other hand to prevent any further incursions. Any new suggestions of an intimacy that was fraudulent.
He looked at her for a moment, long and hard, then turned back to the path in front of them. ‘Not much further. This way.’
They walked in silence, but it was no longer comfortable. It was thick with the doubts and frustrations that were, undoubtedly, to become the hallmarks of their relationship.
After almost ten minutes, Matteo slowed. ‘Here.’
Skye paused, looking in the direction he’d cocked his head, and she expelled a breath of uncertainty. ‘Here?’
‘Something wrong with it?’
She took in the crisp white table cloths, the small vases with carnations in each one, the enormous chandeliers that looked to line the dining room, the pianist in the corner playing what she thought to be Bach.
‘It’s just a little more formal than I’d expected.’
‘I’m sure they will fix you a sandwich, if you would prefer.’
It was another breath from the past. The memory of how he’d teased her mercilessly about her love for cucumber sandwiches, something he found bland and so quintessentially British.
‘Fine,’ she said with a furrowed brow, moving ahead of him into the beautiful restaurant.
A man in a tuxedo greeted them, his brows thick and dark, his hair grey. After a short conversation with Matteo in fluent Italian, the waiter directed them into the restaurant. It was so much grander, and more beautiful, from inside.
From this vantage point, Skye could see that the tables were propped beneath windows that looked out over the Grand Canal, and the stately Rialto Bridge as it spanned one side to the other. There were window boxes at each window filled with pretty pink azaleas, and the floor was tiled with shimmering black and white marble. Several waiters and waitresses stood waiting to serve, all in elegant crisp white shirts and black tuxedo jackets, and, like a butler parody brought to life, one stood with a silver tray balanced on top of his white-gloved palm.
‘This way, madam,’ the waiter said, and Skye realised she’d been frozen in time.
What was wrong with her? It wasn’t as though she’d never been in such a beautiful restaurant. She’d grown up with the proverbial silver spoon. She’d had more birthdays in places like this than she could remember.
But being here with Matteo, the strains of world-class piano music reaching them, the flowers moving gently in the breeze, was all so...romantic.
The word whispered itself through her soul and she did her best to push it aside. She kept a neutral expression on her features as she strode through the restaurant, taking the seat opposite Matteo and wishing she’d worn something a little fancier than jeans and a grey T-shirt. At least her jewellery gave the ensemble an air of formality; the clunky gold and green necklace was one of a kind and ma
tched her manicure. A manicure she’d had done when she’d imagined that she’d be flying off to Australia single, pregnant and far away from Matteo and his manipulations. She eyed her nails with a small frown.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly, as she sat down. ‘I’ve been thinking the same thing.’
Her heartbeat accelerated wildly. ‘What’s that?’
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and lifted out a small box. She recognised it instantly. Her back was straight but her spine tingled with apprehension and misgivings.
He flicked it open and slid the box across to her, with considerably less fanfare than the last time he’d presented a ring box for her inspection.