Page 117 of My Italian Love Affair

I let out a slow breath as I take it all in. The window sills are lined with tiny potted plants, no doubt messily tended to by little hands, and even from the entrance I can hear the faint sound of laughter and shouts from inside.

It’s the kind of sound that’s both comforting and a little chaotic, like the place is constantly alive with energy.

Mark clears his throat from where he appears beside me, and my lips curve into a polite smile as I turn to face him.

For some bizarre reason, he has decided to dress as if we’re attending a shareholders’ meeting rather than visiting children.

A pristine navy-blue suit.Tailored, and not a wrinkle in sight. A crisp white dress shirt tucked in so tightly it could be vacuum-sealed to his body, a designer watch gleaming obnoxiously on his wrist along with an expensive-looking pair of sunglasses perched on his nose.

Oh, and his shoes are shiny, black, and polished to within an inch of their life.

He looks like he should be negotiating a multi-million-dollar deal, not walking into a place where at least one child will inevitably wipe their nose on him.

I stare at him for a long second, genuinely wondering if he’s lost his mind.

“Bit underdressed, aren’t you?” Mark comments, looking me up and down.

I glance down at myself. I’m wearing a pair of high-waisted, flared black trousers, a short-sleeved dark blouse and a pair of flat shoes. My hair is tied up into a ponytail, and I’ve opted for minimal makeup.

My entire look ispractical- something Mark clearly doesn’t understand.

“Yeah,” I say dryly. “I forgot this was a black-tie event.”

“Just saying,” he smirks. “You could’ve put in alittlemore effort.”

“I’m dressed for the occasion,” I tell him before motioning vaguely at his watch. “Meanwhile, that thing alone is probably worth more than this entire building.”

Mark checks his watch like he’s genuinely contemplating whether or not that’s true.

“I like to look presentable.”

“You like to lookrich,” I correct. “Which is… your choice. I just hope you’re prepared for one of these kids to throw up on you.”

He laughs like I’m joking.

I am absolutelynotjoking.

With a dismissive wave, he strides toward the entrance.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

I follow after him, shaking my head.

“Mark, we’re about to enter a building filled with tiny, chaotic human beings. This isn’tridiculous, it’sinevitable.”

He doesn’t respond, and I let out a sigh.

Fine. Let him learn the hard way.

If I’m lucky, I’ll get a front-row seat to some jam-covered toddler absolutelyruiningthat suit.

It’s the least he deserves for making me listen to him and his cronies whine on about women in journalism sleeping their way to the top.

We step inside, and the warmth of this place is immediate. The air smells like a mixture of crayons, baby wipes, and something sweet.

A little girl with curly pigtails runs past us, giggling as another child chases after her. The walls are covered in drawings, some more abstract than others, and at the end of the hall, I spot a bulletin board pinned with pictures of past events and visits.

We’ve literally just stepped through the door, and it’s already clear that the staff here do everything they can to make this place feel like home.

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