Page 31 of The Fixer

Leo stops in front of an honest-to-God palazzo, and I stop and stare at my new home. The location is fantastic—the large, squat building in Santa Croce is steps from the Grand Canal. But it’s seen better days. The exterior is covered in peeling white paint, and the shutters that were once forest green are now worn and faded. Empty flower boxes hang from the windows, and more than one glass pane is broken.

“I don’t know what to say.”

He laughs. “You’re very tactful. It’s a disaster.”

This is Venice. This crumbling palazzo is likely worth millions. “You own this?”

“It was my father’s,” he replies. “I inherited italong with everything else. I’m going to warn you—the inside isn’t much better.” He unlocks the front door. “After you.”

Bracing for cobwebs and mice, I step inside, but the interior is in better shape than I expected from the outside. The walls are freshly painted, and the floors are scrubbed clean. Marta’s best is pretty damn good. I walk from one empty room to another, Leo following behind. “Your father lived here? It’s so big.”

“A mansion for two people,” he says, his voice bitter. “And now it’s ours.”

I give him a sidelong look. “It’s yours, not ours.”

“Whatever you say, principessa,” he responds agreeably. “Speaking of which, Daniel has some marriage-related paperwork for you.”

“Daniel Rossi? The lawyer?” The paperwork had better be a prenup. I need Leo’s help to save my family, but I’m not comfortable with spending his money. At all.

He nods. “Can you meet him Friday afternoon?”

“Depends on the time. My parents get in on Friday, and I have to help them unpack.”

He gives me an exasperated look. “The movers will unpack for them.”

“Try telling my mother that.”

“I will if you’ll let me,” he retorts. “You cut a promising internship in Paris short because your mother had a heart attack. You took a nine-hour train ride to Lecce so you could be there for her birthday. Yet they don’t see any of your accomplishments. They make fun of you about the stupid lobster, and they denigrate your choice of career. Yours is the most lop-sided relationship I’ve seen, and that includes my own father, who, in case you don’t remember, didn’t even bother to acknowledge that I exist.”

I stop and stare at him. Leo’s angry on my behalf. He’s ready to fight my battles. He doesn’t have to give a damn—this isn’t a real marriage—but he does. And if I open my mouth to thank him for caring, I think I’m going to burst into tears.

“I’ll share my calendar with you,” I say instead, averting my face so he can’t see my expression. “My schedule is on it.” I link my arm with his. “Now, give me the tour.”

It’s not much of a tour. There are a lot of empty rooms, and the palazzo obviously needs renovation. The kitchen—the less said about it, the better. Clearly Leo’s dad and his wife never cooked because it looks like it hasn’t been renovated in over a hundred years. The living room has a newly boughtset of couches and a big-screen TV. “I did some shopping,” Leo explains. “But just enough to make the place habitable. There didn’t seem much point buying a lot of furniture only to have it ruined during a renovation.”

Leo hustles me past the second level and onto the third. There, I count four bedrooms. Leo’s stuff is in a bedroom at the eastern end of the house, and my bed has been set up in the room the furthest away from his. There’s a message here, and I would do well to remember it. Leo might be physically attracted to me, and I might hope he cares about me, but he’s always been clear that he doesn’t want a relationship.

I shouldn’t let hope replace reality. That way lies only madness.

“Why did you hurry me past the second floor?” I give him a teasing look. “If you have a mad wife, you know it’s the attic you’re supposed to lock her in.”

The smile wipes off his face. “Go see,” he says stiffly.

What did I say? I descend the stairs, puzzling over Leo’s reaction. It can’t be my teasing. On the plane, I asked him if he murdered his tailor, and he’d laughed at me. So why the surly response to my Jane Eyre joke?

Then I push open the door to the right of the stairwell and stop dead in the doorway.

This is a sewing room. Tall windows on three sides promise an abundance of light during the day. Glass-fronted cabinets line the fourth. My framed Vogue pattern envelopes hang from the walls. A giant square cutting table dominates the center of the room, and my sewing machine is set up on the far side, as is my serger, ironing table, and dress form. In a corner, a comfortable stuffed chair beckons, flooded by the warm glow of lamplight. Next to it is a desk for my laptop and a small coffee station.

Everything’s here. Everything’s been set upperfectly.

I cross the floor and open the cabinets. They hold my fabric, the yardage neatly sorted the way I prefer, by fabric type and then color. Leo watches me carefully. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to set up this space yourself, but you said you were busy this week, so I thought I’d take the chance. Valentina said you sew when you’re stressed, and there’s going to be plenty of that in the future.” He hesitates at my continuing silence. “Everything can be undone. And if you don’t like the furniture?—”

“I love it.”You said you were busy this week. Valentina said you sew when you’re stressed.He mightnot want to get involved with me, but in all my life, nobody’s seen me the way Leo does. Nobody has paid attention to my wants and needs the way he has. I blink away tears before they can spill down my cheeks. “I love everything.”

Then I notice the large gift-wrapped box on the cutting table.

“What is this?”

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