Page 60 of If My Wishes Came True
“Great choice,” Charlie says as I hand him the wine bottle. “You’ll feel like you’re in a vineyard in Tuscany.” He winks at me and I have to lean against the kitchen island for support.
“Speaking of Tuscany…have you given any more thought to that photography gig in Italy this summer?”
Charlie heaves a sigh as he pours a glass for me. “Well, I’ve certainly given it more thought while my dad’s been on vacation the past week. It’s a lot easier to consider the offer when he’s not texting me fifty times a day,” he goes on with a wry laugh. “He won’t handle the news well, though. So if I’m going to tell him that I want to quit the family business to be a travel photographer, I have to mean it. And I have to be prepared for it to blow up my life—maybe more than just a little.”
I frown, my heart aching for the tough decision he has to make. “Your dad’ll be that upset, huh?”
Charlie tilts his head. “Let’s just say, my father’s not known for his easy disposition.”
He shrugs the statement off with a grin that feels practiced, and I wonder if I’m as good at seeing through Charlie as he is at seeing through me. But I don’t press the issue. I know firsthand how hard it is to be torn between the life you want and the career you think you should have. And I don’t have the added complication of being heir to a grocery empire.
“Well, you can pretend for now,” I say, clinking my wine glass to his. “This would be more effective if I knew how to say ‘cheers’ in Italian,” I go on with a laugh.
Charlie smiles. “Salute. Or you can also say,cin cin. It’s lessformal.”
“Well then,cin cin,” I repeat after him. “Wait a minute…do you speak Italian?”
He nods. “It’s a beautiful language. I studied it in college.”
I bring my palm to my forehead.
“What?” he asks with a chuckle.
“Charlie,” I say with a stone-cold serious look on my face. “You’re killing me, here.”
“Is that right?” he quips back with a playful grin.
“I saw your abs at the beach this morning,” I say with my hands on my hips. “You have, like, an eight-pack. But you love dessert.”
He laughs, the pink in his cheeks deepening. “I told you, I run.”
I shake my head. “Lots of people run. But they don’t also get to eat brownies and still look like an underwear model.”
“Okay, I might have a freakishly fast metabolism,” he admits with a sheepish shrug. “Runs on the Sutton side of the family. I know it’s unfair, so I don’t like to brag about it.”
“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll give you the fast metabolism. But you’re also devastatingly handsome, you went to an Ivy League school, you cook gourmet Moroccan meals?—”
“You have to at least taste it before you call it gourmet,” he jokes.
“You’re a talented photographer,” I continue with a laugh, “andyou speak the sexiest language on the planet?”
He’s cracking up, and it’s adorable.
“You literally couldn’t be more perfect,” I tell him.
“Well,” he says, before kissing the top of my head, “now you know how I feel about you. You’re smart, and funny, andcreative?—”
I love that he listed “smart” first.
“Not to mention…” He pauses for a beat and his cheeks get rosier still. “Sei più bella di tutte le stelle del cielo.”
“Hmm…I picked up the word pretty, but that’s about it.”
“You’re prettier than all the stars in the sky,” he tells me.
My heart swells to about ten times its size, and I have to fight the urge to cry. “That’s really sweet,” I rasp before I plant a kiss on him. “Now, let’s eat, before I swoon.”
Dinner is incredible, and easily earns the right to be called “gourmet.” We sit next to each other at his kitchen island, our knees brushing as we talk, and laugh, and flirt, and kiss between bites of perfectly spiced chicken with sweet apricots. The meal’s so delicious, I forget to leave room for dessert, so we save the brownies for later.
