Page 92 of The Proposal

“Dance with me,” I say as I bury my face in the crook of her neck and begin to sway our bodies.

She spins in my arms. “You want to dance … with me?”

“Yes,Bellezza… with you.”

I keep one arm around her waist as I reach for her right hand with the other, pulling her into a slow dance. My body instinctively takes the lead, guiding her with confidence. Her warmth, the rhythm of the song, and the memories it stirs up make everything feel right in this moment.

Locking eyes with her, I begin to sing along, “Volare, oh, oh.E cantare, oh, oh, oh, oh. No wonder my happy heart sings. Your love has given me wings.”

“You can sing?” she asks, completely ignoring the words I just sang to her.

“Everyone can sing, Arabella.”

“Not in key. Dante, your voice is beautiful.”

“I know,” I reply, smirking.

“Your dancing is incredible, too. Very smooth.”

I lift one shoulder nonchalantly. “There isn’t much I’m not good at.”

Her eyes narrow slightly with a hint of scepticism, but I just widen my smile in return.

It may sound like I’m full of myself, but it’s the truth. When you spend your life yearning for the kind of recognition my brother received so effortlessly from our father, you learn to push yourself harder in everything you do, whether you want to or not.

“Call me an overachiever,” I say, with a bit of dry humour creeping into my voice, “but it’s the truth. I excelled at everything growing up. Sports, school, music, art … even social situations. I excelled in all areas of life. The girls loved me, and all the boys wanted to be me.”

“Hmm,” she hums. “You’re very modest too, Mr Mancini.”

I lean in and brush my lips against hers. “And you aredavvero bellissima(Really beautiful), Mrs Mancini,” I say, swinging her around and waltzing her across the room.

“That was a little swoony,” she says, swaying a bit on her feet.

“Swoony?”

“I read it in the book Lucia left behind.”

I bark out a laugh, shaking my head. “Did you finish it?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“How was it?” I ask.

“It was good, you know, for a fictional story, but I like my reality better. I’d much rather have my real-life sexy times with my husband than read about it between the pages.”

I arch an eyebrow as something in my chest takes flight. “Sexy times?”

“That’s what the heroine in the story called it.”

I spin her again, and when she squeals and lets out a giggle, I dip her backwards, kissing those luscious lips of hers.

The next verse is in Italian, and I know the words to most of my father’s records because I had to listen to them often enough over the years.

“E volavo, volavo felice piu in alto del sole ed ancora piu su. Metre il mondo pian piano spariva lontano laggiu(And I flew, I flew happily higher than the sun and higher still. While the world slowly disappeared far away down there).”

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