Harri-son Ry-an, I repeated the name in my head, trying to work it out before I said it aloud. I’d have to work on it a little longer. I wanted it to roll off my tongue with ease.
“Ah,” I said. “A friend?”
He nodded. “Since we were kids.”
I nodded but wanted to change the subject. “No nickname for you?”
“Harry Boy,” he said. “My boss gave it to me. It stuck.”
“HarryRagazzo,” I repeated. “I like it.” Though I’d already decided to call himHarri-son. It seemed more refined for someone like him.
“Ragazzo?”
He should have taken a few moments to work out the sound of it, but he’d blurted it out. I tried not to grin.
“Boy,” I translated.
He nodded. “So, about what you said—”
“My proposition.”
His eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t aware that’s what it was.”
Fireworks started to explode over our heads, a variety of pretty colors brightening the night sky and his eyes.
“It was,” I said. “Use me to make her jealous—if you can.” I nodded to the area where Mariposa sat with my cousin. She was watching us, but I could tell by the way she kept looking back and forth that it had to do more with Amadeo than Harrison. He had no clue, though, and I was going to use it to my advantage. “It is a good plan. No one will intentionally get hurt—we are only doing this to find out the truth.”
“What do you get out of this deal?” His voice was a bit suspicious.
I shrugged and said, “Some fun,” even though what I wanted to say was, “More of you.”
“Some fun,” he repeated.
“Some fun,” I said. “We have a deal?”
He squeezed my hand. “We do, Georgina—Gigi—Dolce.”
“Eccellente,” I said, then pulled him back on the dance floor.