Page 91 of A Winter Wedding Adventure
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‘Matty! Carissimo!’
Alessandra threw her arms around him as though they hadn’t seen each other in years. He pressed a kiss to her cheek.
‘I’m happy to see you too. How’s married life? How was the honeymoon?’
Her smile was soft and wistful and made Mattia reflect on the line she’d crossed without him.
‘I can’t quite believe it’s all over,’ she said with a frown. ‘I spent months planning everything and I need a new project.’ She tucked her arm through his and he was afraid for a moment that he would be her new project. But he’d learned to be firm about that. He was his own project now – which was why he was here.
‘But it’s wonderful to have you in London with me!’
‘I’m only staying a couple of weeks. If things don’t work out?—’
‘They will,’ she said with a firm nod. ‘You have to believe they will.’
He gave her a smile. ‘You’re right. I have to believe it. Thanks for offering me your guest room.’
‘It’s yours for as long as you need it and you can get to know Joe properly.’
Arriving at Alessandra’s lovely row house in Chiswick, the hum of the boiler and the huge ticking clock in the hall made his eye twitch, but he just took a deep breath and asked her to take the batteries out of the clock before he got too worked up. The sound of the boiler faded as he followed her upstairs to his room, so he would cope. He could chop wood and help out in a snow emergency and hold a strong woman while she cried. He would manage his sound sensitivities.
Especially now he’d made the decision to move away from Naples.
Alessandra had cooked for an army – all her nonna’s recipes – so after he’d stuffed himself, he commented, ‘You know, that dinner is the best advertisement for London I can think of.’
Joe gave her a quick kiss. ‘She certainly brightens up London for me,’ he said before disappearing to stack the dishwasher, with only a faint grumble about the kitchen resembling a bomb site.
Allowing Alessandra to settle him on the couch, he waited for her pep talk: the auditions would be fine. He had to get at least one of the jobs because she wanted her friend to live nearby. He’d get used to the strange rules and dreary weather and maybe one day, he’d even like battered fish.
But she only regarded him curiously, for long enough to make him uneasy. ‘I doubt my cooking is the best thing about the prospect of moving to London.’
A leap of stubborn excitement rose inside him, but he quashed it quickly. Yes, he was in England, only three hours away from this town called Weymouth that he’d never heard of until he’d looked up Great Heart Adventures, but as often as he imagined travelling down there, catching a glimpse of her, it didn’t change the fact that she had left without a word.
There was only one interpretation for her actions that made sense: she’d felt something, but not enough to change her mind about relationships. He needed to accept that.
He had auditions – that was all. His manager had persuaded him that London presented many opportunities and was a good base for extra freelance work if necessary. There was more money in opera in London. That’s why he was there – for the horror of auditions.
‘Don’t hint, Alessandra,’ he muttered. ‘You’re the only friend I have in this country and we both know it.’
After another pause where he could almost hear her protesting, she thankfully let the subject drop.
‘And now, I have to show you…’ she began dramatically, reaching for a thick, bound tome on the coffee table. ‘The photos!’
‘I was there,’ he said indulgently.
‘Just look at them!’ She dumped the album on his lap a little too heavily.
The photos were printed onto high-quality paper, with subtle, fine design that made Mattia think of the team from I Do Destinations – and the one member who’d never fit in.
The photos from the ice cave gave him goosebumps, remembering the texture of the frozen walls and all of the emotions of that day. Kira had probably already heard about Christian by then, although she’d refused to talk about it. It was a miracle she’d opened up to Mattia at all, although doctoring a minor head wound had definitely brought them closer.
He brushed his fingertip over the scar on his forehead, which only reminded him of the puckered skin on her cheekbone. If he’d bled like a soft drink can and only ended up with this faint line, he hated to think how bad her injury had been to leave a patch of discoloured and misshapen skin, years later.
‘It’s a bit strange there are no photos from the chalet,’ he commented.
‘It’s probably for the best, given the hot water wasn’t working and thermal underwear isn’t a good look – even underneath other clothes.’
