Page 92 of The Wrong Move

Fucking hell.I glare at Mom.

“We do. But as I told you, I’m not sure I’m going to accept it.”

“New business is always good,” Byron suggests. “You have to accept it, Gi.”

I twist in my seat to meet his gaze. “It’s a contract to remain in Italy for the next season. Maybe two,” I say, hearing the quiver in my voice.

“Season? Like spring and summer?”

“No. When Isabella talks seasons, she means years.”

Byron stares down at his pumpkin pie and twirls the spoon. “I see.” He looks at Mom, then at me. “If it’s what you need to do for your career, then you have to do it.”

“I told you he would understand,” Mom adds. “Byron, you would do the same if it was your career, right?”

I am so angry with Mom right now.

“Without a second thought,” he rasps out, his eyes boring into mine.

I scan his beautiful face, his blue eyes framed with long dark lashes. I see hurt there but also understanding. I take his hand and squeeze it. “We were chatting about my travel commitments before you arrived,” I say to him. “I need to return this weekend. The movie’s release has been moved forward. It’ll be for a couple of weeks.”

Byron stares at me, his expression unreadable. If I knew what he was thinking?—

“Do you remember us talking about the Italian movie and the film stars wearing Leto Designs? That now includes my latest prints. Isabella believes the film stars wearing designs before they are marketed to the public will be the best promotion for our new lines.”

He slowly nods as though absorbing what I’m telling him. “I agree. It’s a great marketing plan.”

Mom serves Byron another piece of pie. “We’re all proud of you, Giana.”

He glances at me and forces a smile before shoving a spoonful of pie in his mouth.

“Did you have turkey for dinner, Byron?” Mom asks. Why didn’t she ask these questions first and allow me to ease into the subject of Italy?

“Yes, ma’am, and a few sides. I declined dessert as I promised Gigi I would eat with your family.”

“And we appreciate you being here.” She places a spoonful of pie into her mouth. “Our day was good. The weather is still nice enough to sit outside. I’m not looking forward to winter.”

“You would hate Italian winters, then,” I say to Mom. “It’s colder than LA.”

“And hotter. Well, more humid in summer,” Byron adds.

I hold back a grin, remembering how hot my villa was, especially without power.

The night continues with more and more chitchat, and I regret telling Byron about Italy on a day that’s meant to be about gratitude. The mood in the room has dulled, and Mom’s small talk makes it worse.

At around eight thirty, Byron stands. “Thank you for a lovely evening. I’m sorry to leave, but I have an early training session tomorrow.”

I walk Byron to the front door. “Do you want me to come home with you?”

He takes both my hands in his and stares at our linked fingers. “I am happy for you, Giana.” He looks up, and our eyes lock. “I need an early night. Coach has been kicking my ass since I took off to Italy without permission.”What?“I can’t risk further distraction. Enjoy your trip, and we’ll catch up when you get back.”

We have more time together. I don’t leave until Saturday.

“What are you doing tomorrow after training?”

“BJ and I are teaching ball skills to kids in the schools program. Now that the season has started, we have even more external commitments as players.”

“Tomorrow night?”

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