Page 72 of The One
“It’s stunning,” I whisper.
“Then try it on,” he encourages, already raising a hand to signal a sales assistant.
I quickly grab his arm. “No, please don’t. I have no occasion to wear this. It would just end up hanging in my closet, and that would be a travesty.”
Besides, the thought of slipping into that dress terrifies me. It’s far too expensive to just try on for fun, and I’d be worried about tearing it, or worse, falling in love with it and never wanting to take it off.
It’s far too stunning, too perfect for me.
Even if I had married Renaldo and attended events at his side, this dress would always have been too much.
But if I were Mateo’s? His woman would wear something like this.
But I’m not, I remind myself, turning to walk away.
“Let’s keep exploring,” I say, doing my best to ignore the swarm of butterflies that thought just unleashed.
With the windows down, we drive through the busier parts of town. The streets are alive with noise, cars honking, people laughing. It’s the hum of Rome in the evening.
I’m still buzzing from the thrill of hopping from one store to the next on Via dei Condotti. For over an hour, Mateo indulged my curiosity, offering to buy me something in every store. I refused, not wanting to feel even more indebted to him than I already do.
But in the last store, he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I picked out a beautiful scarf for my collection. Its magenta color complements my dress perfectly and is now wrapped around my shoulders, shielding me from the evening chill.
It’s truly been a dream come true, and I can’t wait to tell Isa all about it later tonight.
Mateo parks his Ferrari in a smaller, quieter street, not far from a busy square. I follow him as we walk past restaurants filled with tourists and locals alike, the smell of fresh dough and melted cheese filling the air. He leads me into a tiny, packed pizzeria, the kind that looks modest but has that unmistakable warmth of a place loyal customers come back to over and over again.
The walls are lined with framed photos, faded newspaper clippings, and shelves of wine bottles. The tables are small, crowded with families, couples, friends. Everyone is talking, laughing, and sharing pizzas straight from the oven. There’s something so authentic about this place that makes my heart swell. It’s nothing like the luxurious stores we just left, but it feels real. Alive.
Mateo turns to me with a grin. “This is the place I was talking about. Best pizza in Rome.”
I nod, barely able to contain the smile spreading across my face.
“It’s perfect.”
Everything about today has been perfect. Well, almost everything. I could have done without my father cornering me.
“Mateo,” a beautiful woman in her forties calls out as she serves a tray of pizzas to some patrons. She hurries over and kisses him enthusiastically on both cheeks.
“Ciao, Beatrice,” he responds, returning the gesture.
I watch, wide-eyed. I’ve never seen Mateo so friendly before. But unlike with the blonde from the airport, there isn’t even a hint of jealousy.
It’s obvious Mateo is a regular here, given the warm reception. Hmm, this place must really be something special.
He leans in to chat with Beatrice, but I can’t make out a word over the noise inside.
Moments later, the three of us squeeze through the packed pizzeria and head up a narrow staircase to the rooftop. Laughter fills the air, but it’s noticeably quieter here. Fewer tables, all occupied, are scattered about, and as I look around, a server brings over a small round table and sets it up in a cozy corner.
“Grazie, Beatrice. You’re the best,” Mateo says, smiling.
“Anything for you,” she replies. “Do you want your usual?”
He shakes his head. “No, not tonight. This young lady here has yet to experience the joys of a good pizza. Can you make us a selection of mini ones so she can discover her favorite?”
“Dios mío, you’ve never had a pizza?” she exclaims, her expression one of shock, which makes me laugh.
“I know, right? It’s unbelievable.”
