have to be such an arse to him when he simply wanted to celebrate.
I find Santino’s building with ease. The enormous floor-to-ceiling windows make everyone inside look like they’re in a fishbowl. I stand at the entrance, searching for his buzzer, and then see P beside his name.
“Of course he’s in the penthouse,” I grumble and lift my finger to press it.
“A little help please,” a young female calls out as she attempts to push a buggy out the door.
“Oh, of course.” I rush over to hold the door open as she scoots her way out with a giggling baby cooing from within.
“Cheers for that. After lugging this thing down two levels, I’m spent.”
I laugh and watch her walk away, looking the picture of a flustered new mummy. Funnily enough, I could never see myself with kids. Or pregnant, for that matter. I just never inherited that maternal instinct so many women have. Being the cool aunt is a vibe I feel much more capable of handling. And very soon, Freya and Mac will be giving me that title.
I realise I’m still standing there with the door open, so I bypass the buzzer and make my way up the four levels to the top floor. I take the steps slowly, trying to mentally prepare myself to see Santino again.
The reason I was such a twat when he asked to celebrate was because all I wanted to do at that moment was kiss him right there in that boardroom. That would have been horribly awkward of me, not to mention highly unprofessional. But the way Santino was looking at me with pride and genuine happiness all over his face was overwhelming. That job offer—that moment in my career—felt like something I never thought possible. I was so struck with emotion that I got swept up in those feelings I have struggled to keep quiet. And those feelings were fixating on Santino’s brooding pout that I can faintly remember the taste of.
But…Santino and I are just friends. I know that. He knows that. Which is why this visit will be just two mates toasting with a couple of platonic fizzy drinks.
When I reach the top floor, I can hear classic Italian music coming out of the flat with a large P on the door. I hesitate and consider tucking tail and leaving because the thought of Santino entertaining a guest hurts me on some deep, dark stupid level that I have no right to be offended by. Moreover, even if he does have a guest over, that doesn’t mean I can’t stop by to say thank you. I just need to say what I came to say and let him get on with his day. No more running, Tilly.
With a deep breath, I knock on the door and prepare myself for some beautiful woman to answer in a slip of a dress and freshly fucked hair because that would be just my luck. However, when the door swings open, I’m shocked to find an old, white-haired woman standing on the other side. She’s wiping her hands off on a white apron splattered in red sauce, and she’s staring at me like I’m interrupting a very important meeting.
“Oh, I’m sorry…I must have the wrong flat,” I choke out, my voice drowned out over the loud instrumental melody. I feel a semblance of relief as I turn to leave, but before I do, my eyes catch sight of something behind her that causes me to nearly drop the glass bottles in my hands.
It’s Santino.
In a kitchen.
Cutting up tomatoes?
He’s wearing a pair of grey trousers and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up his arms. There’s a white apron tied around his waist, just like the woman currently glowering at me. When he casually glances over to see who’s standing in the doorway, his face is the picture of shocked.
“Tilly?” his lips say, but I can hardly hear him over the loud music pumping through the sound system.
The woman beside me begins shouting over the music to Santino, but I can’t understand her because she’s speaking Italian. Santino yells back in the same language and grabs a towel off the counter to wipe off his hands before he turns down the music. As he strides over, he and the woman speak quickly to each other for what feels like ages as I stand there like a fool holding a couple of non-alcoholic drinks in hand while trying not to drool over the fact