Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
"I think you should."
"Why?"
"Because—" I don't know how to finish that sentence.
"Because you think your worth is measured by what you have?" He leans forward slightly. "Thea. I spent twenty-eight years being measured by how fast I was. By how many races I won. By what I could do. And it was—" He stops. "It was empty. All of it. The trophies. The money. The people who wanted to be near me because of what I was, not who I was."
He reaches across the table. Slowly. Deliberately. Rests his hand palm-up on the table between us.
An invitation.
"You see me," he says quietly. "Not what I have done. Not what I can do. Just—me. And I would like—" He stops. Starts again. "I would very much like to keep having breakfast in this café. With you bringing my coffee and forgetting the specials and counting ceiling tiles when you think I am not watching."
"You noticed that?"
"I notice everything about you."
My hand is shaking as I reach across the table. My fingers brush his palm—tentative, uncertain—and then his hand closes around mine.
Warm.
Sure.
Like he's been waiting for this.
His thumb brushes across my knuckles. Once. Twice. Such a small gesture, but it feels enormous. Like something is shifting between us, something that's been building for thirty-six days plus four.
"I do not know what comes next," he says, and his voice has gone softer. Rougher. "I do not know where this goes. But I know that I would like to find out. If you—" He pauses. "If you want that too."
"I want that too," I whisper.
His hand tightens on mine. Just slightly. Just enough that I can feel the pressure, the intent behind it.
We sit like that. Hands linked across the table. The café empty and quiet around us. Snow falling heavier outside the window now, blanketing the street in white.
And I'm not counting.
Not measuring distances.
Not trying to figure out the inches between us or the steps to the door or the tiles on the ceiling.
I'm just—here.
With him.
His thumb is still moving across my knuckles. Slow. Deliberate. Like he's memorizing the shape of my hand, the way my fingers fit against his.
"Your hands are cold," he says quietly.
"It's February."
"That is not an excuse."
"It's a reason."
His mouth does that almost-smile thing. "You argue with everything."
"Only when you're wrong."
"I am never wrong."
"That's very confident."
"That is very Italian."
I laugh. Actually laugh. And his smile widens slightly, like he's proud of making that happen.
"There," he says. "That is better."
"What is?"
"You. Not being invisible." His hand tightens on mine again. "I have missed seeing you. The real you. Not the waitress who smiles with her mouth and not her eyes."
"I had to—" I stop. "After what Kimberly said, I needed—"
"I know." His voice is gentle. "But I am telling you now. She was wrong. And I would like—if you will let me—I would like to prove to you that she was wrong."
"How?"
"By being here. Every morning. Seven-twenty-three. Same booth. For as long as you will let me." He pauses. "And by—"
His phone rings, and I watch his entire demeanor change in real-time. The warmth—that mocking, gentle warmth that was just starting to make me believe again—just vanishes. His expression goes neutral. Professional. Something cold slides into place behind his eyes.
His hand tightens on mine for a second. Then he lets go.
"I need to take this," he says, and his voice has gone formal. Distant. Like the man sitting across from me thirty seconds ago just disappeared.
"Okay."
He stands. "I will be—" He gestures at the door. "Just outside."
I nod because I don't trust my voice.
He pulls his phone out. Answers as he's walking to the door. "Sì." His voice is clipped. All business.
Then he's outside, and I'm alone in the café with my hand still warm from his touch and the cold rushing back in to fill all the spaces where he was.
I watch him through the window.
He's pacing. Five steps one way, five steps back. His free hand is gesturing sharply—cutting through the air in that way people do when they're frustrated or making a point. He's speaking Italian now. Fast. Too fast for me to catch any words even if I understood the language.
But his body language I can read.
Tense. Controlled. Like he's keeping something locked down tight with effort.
This is not the man who just told me about go-karts and factory jobs.
This is someone else entirely.
Someone professional. Someone cold. Someone who exists in that other world—the one with trophies and sponsors and lives that don't include coffee-stained waitresses.
He stops pacing. Runs his hand through his hair. Says something sharp—I can see his jaw tighten from here—and then he's quiet, listening to whoever's on the other end.
I should look away. Give him privacy. But I can't stop watching because this is a version of him I've never seen before. This is Santino Aleotti the driver. The professional. The person who makes decisions about racing and sponsorships and whatever else exists in that life.