For fourteen months he had existed inside a phone: morning calls from Milan, late-night messages, photographs of rain on old streets, complaints about bad coffee at airports, questions about Linda, reminders that Grace needed to eat something besides vending-machine crackers during long shifts.
Now his hands were on the table.
His laugh occupied actual space.
When he reached for his glass, she noticed the small scar near his thumb that she had seen a hundred times on video.
“You’re real,” she murmured.
Matteo heard her.
“This concern is becoming insulting.”
She laughed.
Then his expression softened.
“Did someone tell you I wouldn’t come?”
Grace looked toward the window.
She had never told him the worst of Brittany’s comments.
She had mentioned difficult coworkers, nothing more.
Matteo waited.
He did not push.
That, more than anything, made Grace answer.
She told him about the break room.
She told him about Brittany saying no millionaire would cross an ocean for a cleaning lady.
She told him about the comments after Evan cheated.
She expected anger.
Matteo was angry, but not in the way she feared.
He did not promise to have Brittany fired.
He did not reach for his phone.
He did not announce that he would use his position to punish someone for insulting the woman he cared about.
Instead, he asked one question.
“What do you want to do about it?”
Grace stared at him.
Nobody had asked her that.
Linda wanted her protected.
Mr.
Harris wanted problems avoided.
Brittany wanted her ashamed.
Evan had wanted forgiveness without consequences.
Matteo wanted her decision.
“I don’t know.”
“Then you don’t have to decide tonight.”
The next morning, Grace woke at 5:15 as usual.
For several seconds she thought the previous evening had been a dream.
Then she saw the roses in a glass pitcher Linda had placed on the kitchen table because they did not own a vase large enough.
Linda shuffled into the kitchen in her robe.
“That Italian man bought enough flowers to start a funeral home.”
“Mama.”
“I’m just saying.”
She poured coffee.
“I like him.”
Grace blinked.
“You talked to him for seven minutes.”
“Long enough.
He brought tiramisu and called me ma’am.”
Grace shook her head, smiling.
Linda watched her carefully.
Then she said, “I haven’t heard you laugh like that in a long time.”
The words landed harder than Grace expected.
She looked at the roses.
For months she had thought healing would feel dramatic.
Like waking up one morning and discovering the pain was gone.
