The little café Marco had picked was charming—terracotta walls, handwritten menus, waiters with thick accents and too much cologne. The kind of place that made you feel like the pasta had a family history.
Charlotte twirled a strand of linguine around her fork, half-listening to Marco's story about his grandmother's tomato sauce and half-trying not to glance at her phone.
"I have to admit," Marco said with a warm smile, "I'm glad you said yes. I've wanted to do this for a while now. You're... intriguing."
Charlotte smiled politely, the compliment sliding off her like olive oil. "Thank you. That's kind of you to say."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Not just kind. Honest. I know half the reason you're dating me is to piss off Alexander. But I don't care—the end result is what matters. You're here with me."
