Page 41 of Friends Who Fake It

“I have no plans to leave London, Francesco,” she said, her voice wooden. “It’s my home.”

“And are you happy there?”

“Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“Or is it Tom that keeps you anchored to the UK? Because you talk about your friends without so much as mentioning the man you’re apparently in love with, and planning to spend the rest of your life with.”

Her lips parted on a rushed breath. Damn it. She’d forgotten all about Tom. Then again, she’d already told him that there was no future for them. Of course, he’d taken it well—just another sign that he hadn’t been anywhere nearly as invested as she was. That yet again she’d let herself hope and want for something she’d never get.

“Tom isn’t why I’m staying in London.”

“No? Because that would make sense, given how you feel about him.”

“How I feel about him is irrelevant.” She hesitated, though she couldn’t say why. “It’s over. Once and for all.”

Francesco turned his whole body to face Willow then, his eyes raking her face, not saying anything, though, so she felt a rush of impatience and pain, threading through her.

“You just had dinner with him,” Francesco finally said.

“Yes, and after dinner, we agreed that would be the last time.”

“Youagreed?” he repeated, incredulously.

“It wasn’t right, for either of us. I think it was just wishful thinking that had me clinging to the idea of him, for so long.”

“But you’re—he’s the entire reason we’re doing this. The reason you wanted to avoid being set up on dates by your stepmother.”

“I want to avoid being set up on dates by my stepmother for a thousand reasons,” she muttered.

“Right.” His brow furrowed. “Are you okay?”

“Surprisingly, yes. I think I was more invested in what he represented, than him.”

“What did he represent?”

But that was a secret she didn’t intend to share. Certainly not with Francesco, who already saw and understood too much.

“Something different,” she said, after a beat. “A break from people like my parents, my sisters.”

“People like me?”

“You’re different too,” she said, thoughtfully. “For one thing, you’re not British.”

“That’s true,” he agreed, and her heart lifted at the small smile playing about his lips.

“And you’re not superficial. Fancy. Part of some old lineage that has to be carried on.” She lifted one shoulder. “I mean, I know you’re incredibly wealthy, and your family is really powerful or whatever, but…you’re a normal person.”

He laughed. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”

“Probably a little bit of both,” she admitted. “I mean, I guess you’re not actually that normal. Lots of people would probably find you all kinds of intimidating.”

“But you’re not one of them.”

She glanced up at him, pulling her lower lip between her teeth, and shaking her head. Wondering why that was the case. She’d never felt intimidated by Francesco, or anyone in his family. If anything, she’d felt like they were somehow familiar to her, even from that first meeting.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said, shaking his head a little, his hands hooking to her hips.

“You’re not going to,” she promised. “Neither of us will.”

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