Page 17 of A Beginner's Guide to Forever
“Let’s see ...” I tap my chin thoughtfully. “My hobbies are hot yoga and reading. Interests ... providing access to clean drinking water and education for women in developing countries ...”
He smiles. “How very noble of you.”
“And as for secret fantasies ...” I lift one eyebrow suggestively.
His dimpled smile makes my stomach tighten.
Why am I encouraging him? This flirtation is nonsense and obviously headed nowhere, but the idea that I could pique the interest of a much younger man was just too appealing. Apparently, I have an ego.
I think about a summer I spent in Argentina flirting with an older boy. I felt so out of my depth then, at just fifteen, unsure how I’d even attracted the attention of the good-looking nineteen-year-old with his own motorcycle. But having his attention, trying to make him smile, hoping I would have something interesting enough to say that might make him stick around and forget about going off to join those his own age. It was electric. Addicting. I have the same feeling with Hart.
Our server reappears to deliver two glasses of wine.
“Tell me something about you that no one else knows,” I say, lifting my wineglass to my lips.
Hart thinks about it for a moment. “For the first three years of my life, I was raised mostly by my Mexican nanny, Esperanza, and I spoke mostly Spanish. My mother was on the board of the Winthrop Foundation and was very busy at that time, and my parents had read somewhere that exposing a child to a second language from birth was excellent for brain development.”
He lifts his own wineglass and takes a sip. “Anyway, on my fourth birthday I had an interview for some prestigious preschool, and they told my parents they were concerned about my progress with the English language and hired me a tutor. It was then that I learned I wasn’t Mexican, and I was devastated.”
“You’re kidding,” I say, smiling.
He chuckles. “I’m not. My parents still tease me about it. Apparently, I’d cried and flung myself into Esperanza’s arms, refusing to believe it.”
I smile, imagining this play out. “Can you still speak Spanish?”
“Sí.”
“Spanish. Italian ... any other languages you speak?”
“A bit of French and Latin.”
“Latin? Isn’t that a dead language?”
“It is, but English, and many other languages, have Latin roots, so it was taught in my high school as a way to boost standardized test scores and increase the ability to learn other languages.”
My handbag is on my lap, and I can feel my phone buzzing. I consider ignoring it but decide to take a quick glance just in case it’s something important.
Joslyn:The Winthrops are funding the project! 1M!!!
A tidal wave of emotion surges through me, and for a second, I worry I might do something embarrassing, like cry. This is the largest single donation we’ve ever received. It’s overwhelming. Swallowing down the reaction, I turn the phone toward Hart and show him the text.
His grin is immediate. “Good. I’m glad they told you. We decided right after the meeting with you, but our team needed a few days to pull the details together.”
I place the phone inside my handbag with shaking fingers. “Thank you. You have no idea what this will mean for the girls of Kibera.” My voice is tight, and I have to blink away happy tears.
He eyes me through his lashes and lifts his glass. “Cheers, Alessia.”
“Cheers.” I clink the side of my wineglass to his.
We haven’t spoken about that night in Florence, and I’m not sure why, but the sudden urge to bring it up is too hard to ignore.
“The hotel in Florence ... why were you really there?” I ask.
He gives me a coy, almost shy look. “My family owns the hotel. I was there to check in on things.”
It makes sense now why he didn’t feel bad about destroying a potted plant. It was his plant.
We enjoy a phenomenal salad of braised gem lettuce and pancetta. I opt for the crab cake, and Hart orders the pistachio-crusted salmon on the advice of our server. Everything is delicious.
