Page 40 of The Sicilian’s Deal For 'I Do'

‘What a fascinating thing to do.’ Mia shook her head. ‘I mean, of course I know pearls come from the sea, but I never really think of them being farmed, growing, being harvested.’

‘It’s an impressive process.’ He was quiet. She wondered if he was thinking what she was: that she’d have loved to see the pearl farm. With him.

‘You weren’t interested in moving into that line of work?’

‘No.’

‘Luca, why don’t you use their last name?’

‘I was a Cavallaro first. I lost my mother, there was no way I’d give away her name.’

Mia could understand that. ‘Did it bother your father?’

His smile was bitter. ‘Immensely. In fact, he would often introduce me as Luca Stone. I corrected him, every time.’

Mia could imagine the determined teenager he’d been. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, resting her head there, enjoying his nearness and warmth.

‘When did you last see your father?’

‘He flew to Rome for my twenty-first birthday.’

Mia shook her head sadly. ‘So long ago. Did something happen?’

Luca lifted a hand, cupping her cheek. ‘Why? Do you want to fix it, Mia?’

She frowned, hating how easily he understood her. ‘You asked me for help,’ she couldn’t help reminding him.

‘So I did.’

‘Was that not in the hope I could fix this?’

‘I’m a pragmatist. Some things are beyond fixing.’

‘But not beyond trying.’ She tilted her face into his hand, her heart swelling and squeezing. ‘You fixed me, Luca. You fixed what you did, with our wedding.’

His eyes swept shut a moment, as if her words were too hard to fathom.

‘You have a more forgiving temperament than I do, remember? You see the good in people, even through their faults.’ He pressed a hand to her chest. ‘You are a beautiful woman, with the kindest heart in the world.’

Mia swallowed past a lump in her throat, but she wouldn’t let the praise—no matter how ground-breaking—distract her from this conversation. ‘Tell me what he did, Luca. Tell me why you can’t forgive him.’

CHAPTER NINE

MIAHADALWAYSloved mornings. As corny as it sounded, there was something exciting about the breaking of a fresh day, filled with promise and newness, of memories not yet made. She’d been a firm subscriber to the belief that all things looked better with the dawn.

But this morning, when she woke, it was with a strange heaviness in her chest, a sense of dread that she couldn’t immediately comprehend.

And then she remembered. Her fantasy. Her secret game of make-believe, that this was all real. That waking up in Luca’s bed was normal. That he was really hers, not in this mad, passionate, temporary way, but in a forever and ever kind of way.

She stared across his room at the light breaking through in a fine beam and her stomach dropped to her toes.

It wasn’t real, and she needed to go.

But how could she leave him?

Memories of last night played through her mind. She shifted a little, rolling over so she could see him. His beautiful face, so fascinating and strong, so filled with detail and emotion, restful now, in contrast to how he’d been last night, when he’d told her, in short, unwilling snatches at first, and then longer, reflective monologues, about his life.

His whole life.

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