‘Were what?’ she asked, before she could stop herself. The words vibrated in the air between them.
‘A step out of time,’ he clarified. ‘The honeymoon is over, Flora. It’s time to focus on what matters.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘The baby.’
They’d spent three days together without rules, without lists. They’d explored one another without restraint. But now it seemed that it was time to learn new rules. New routines. As Raffaele’s wife. As Signora Flora Russo.
And she didn’t know how she felt about it. The list...
His restraint laced through his cleanly shaved jaw. He’d downloaded the list that he’d written in his head seven days ago and nothing had changed. Not for him. While for her...
He hadn’t learnt a thing. She was a bad teacher. She should have been able to share with him that she loved him. And he should have told her he loved her. Should have asked her to prepare this list with him—do ittogether. But he’d done it without her. Without any consideration of her feelings. The last three days hadn’t diminished their desire, but she hadn’t been able to show him that he could let it control him beyond that.
These things on this list were all about him getting control back.
Thatwasn’t love.
Flora swept her gaze over the man on the edge of the bed. So close and yet so far. He was a shadow of that vulnerable man in the storm—the fierce lover he’d been since...
Had their time together meant nothing?
Was he still searching for the control he hadn’t had trapped beneath that tree? Did he feel trapped with her? Was this list his escape? By leaving the boat and heading back to reality he could regain control without the chaotic input of emotion, of passion?
Flora would let him have it. The control. For now. Because she was too overwhelmed to do anything else or consider what this shift in mood meant. What his list meant for their future.
Flora did what she always did when she was doubting her feelings—her choices—and the chaotic emotions in her chest. She ignored them and followed the script.
‘Okay,’ she said, and laid the list on her lap. ‘Number one: pack!’
The following hours moved at breakneck speed. Flora showered, dried, and dressed in an ankle-length coral skirt and matching full-sleeve top, with the daintiest buttons down the front. Her newly gained wardrobe was packed and presented to her in new leather suitcases. Three of them and a laptop case. A new tan leather shoulder bag. Her new phone.
And now they were all settled into the helicopter.
To take her towards her new life.
But she’d kept the list in her pocket. Folded into a perfect square beside her thigh.
The thigh that was millimetres from Raffaele’s.
The thigh that did not move as they flew towards land.
Sicily.
They flew over peaked mountain hillsides full of olive groves and windswept trees. Above coastal towns, gleaming white, beside the sea. And as they moved deeper inland they were silent, both of them. Not speaking a word as reality got closer and closer.
The reality of marriage. Of suits and dresses. Of weddings and lists. Of a script penned by Raffaele for her, and for a baby that wasn’t here yet.
Buttheywere here.
He hadn’t reached for her hand. Even though today he wasn’t flying. He sat beside her, frozen as a statue. Untouchable.
The pilot’s voice infiltrated the cabin. There was the village of Scarlata.
She looked down with bated breath and saw a village sandwiched between soaring mountains. Red-roofed houses, shops, cafés with tables dotted outside and fairy lights on every door, every window. It was a hub of activity. Of beauty.
She broke the silence. ‘How long has it been since you’ve been back?’ she asked.
