Page 70 of The One
“Via dei Condotti,” he replies easily, his focus steady on the road. “I need to find something more casual for dinner.”
“Via dei Condotti,” I repeat, unable to hide my thrill or my grin. He’s taking us to Rome’s high-end fashion street, the place my fashion designer heart has always dreamed of.
As we turn onto my dream street, I catch my breath. High-end stores line both sides of the street, and it’s like I’ve stepped into the pages of a fashion magazine.
My heart drums faster. I’m about to go inside one of these iconic stores. I’m nearly beside myself.
Mateo stops the car outside Ermenegildo Zegna, a store that caters specifically to men. Before I can process it, a sharply dressed valet is at my door, holding it open with a polite nod. I step out and glance at Mateo, who’s greeting the valet by name and handing him the keys with his usual effortless confidence.
Wow, he must be a regular here. I watch as the black Ferrari disappears down the street as Mateo steps up beside me and places his hand lightly on my back to steer me toward the store’s entrance.
Even though the touch is innocent, I’m hyperaware of it.
We walk in, and the first thing that hits me is the understated elegance. The lighting is soft, highlighting the racks of finely tailored garments without being overwhelming. The rich scent of leather and the warmth of high-quality fabrics fill the air. My eyes dart around, drinking in the sleek displays of soft wool coats, perfectly pressed trousers, supple leather jackets.
“Signor De Marco,” a well-dressed attendant greets Mateo with a respectful nod, then turns to offer me a friendly smile. “How can I be of service today?”
Mateo explains what he’s looking for, and the attendant leads us to the men’s casual section. Even though it’s all men’s fashion, a rush of giddiness bubbles up inside me. This isn’t just any clothing, it’s from one of Italy’s finest designers.
Mateo’s hand brushes a pair of cargo pants, and he picks them up for closer inspection. They’re perfect, sleek, slim-fit, but still relaxed. The soft wool blend makes them feel luxurious even though they’re casual. He holds them up for me to see, one brow raised in silent question.
Surprised he’s seeking my opinion, I suppress a grin.
“Those are great,” I nod. “But don’t pair them with that.” I point to a shirt he’s looking at.
I’ve already seen a long-sleeve shirt in a deep charcoal gray that matches the texture and feel of the cargo pants, and I point it out.
“That one. The color complements the pants better. Trust me, the contrast will look amazing.”
Mateo turns, eyes me with a curious smile, and then picks up the shirt.
“You’ve got a good eye,” he remarks, impressed. “You should be in fashion.”
Warmth rises to my cheeks. “I want to study fashion design, actually,” I admit, heart pounding. “I designed the dress I’m wearing.” Glancing down, I feel both proud and a bit shy under his gaze. “But my father isn’t exactly supportive of the idea. ‘No child of mine is making clothes’.” I mimic his words, drawing quotation marks in the air with my fingers.
His eyes soften as he looks at me. “Yeah, that sounds like something Antonio would say. I’m sorry. I wish our world was different for you, for women in general. You clearly have talent. I’d love to see some of your designs. This dress looks stunning on you.”
Cue my blush.
Avoiding an awkward moment, Mateo grabs a sleek leather jacket off the nearby rack, the dark brown perfectly complementing the outfit.
“What do you think?” he asks, holding it up for me to assess.
My grin is wide. “Perfect.”
He chuckles and drapes the jacket over his arm. I watch as he heads to the dressing room, and the moment he disappears behind the door, I finally exhale.
This whole experience is like a dream.
A few minutes later, Mateo steps out, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
The cargo pants fit him like a glove, and the shirt adds a casual elegance that suits him perfectly. The leather jacket? It’s the finishing touch.
He looks mouthwatering, but when does he not? He’s effortlessly chic, like he stepped off a runway.
He spreads his arms, palms up, as if inviting my verdict. His eyes sparkle when they meet mine.
“So, is it good?”
