Chapter 3

The next morning, I woke before my alarm.

For a split second, I couldn't remember why.

Then it all came back.

Florence.

Architecture.

The project.

Matteo...

And the strange sense of calm that settled over me whenever I thought of Rafael.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling.

It was only six o'clock.

A normal person would have gone back to sleep.

Not me.

Whenever I was nervous, or excited, sleep became impossible.

After ten minutes of tossing and turning, I gave up.

An hour later, I was sitting in the Boboli Gardens.

They were almost empty.

That was exactly why I was beginning to love this place.

The city was only just waking up.

The morning air was cool against my skin, and the sun hadn't yet warmed the stone paths. A peaceful silence lingered over the gardens—the kind of silence I rarely managed to find back home.

I settled onto a bench, pulled out my sketchbook, and opened the page with our hotel design.

Something still wasn't right.

I knew it.

I just couldn't figure out what.

I drew one line.

Then another.

Then erased them both.

"Third version already?"

The sound of a familiar voice startled me so much that I nearly dropped my pencil.

I looked up.

Rafael was standing beside the bench.

He looked as though he'd been awake for hours already. His dark hair was still slightly tousled, as if he'd run a hand through it on his way there instead of bothering to tame it. A loose strand had fallen across his forehead, stubbornly refusing to stay in place. Somehow, it suited him.

His sketchbook rested beneath one arm.

In the other hand, he carried two takeaway cups.

"Were you looking for me?" I blurted out.

He crossed the last few steps and sat down beside me.

Close enough that our shoulders were only inches apart.

Much closer than I'd expected.

When he turned toward me, a faint trace of fresh coffee drifted between us.

For a second, I forgot what I'd been about to say.

"I wasn't," he replied calmly.

I realized I hadn't moved at all.

Neither had he.

He simply held one of the cups out to me.

"I didn't know you'd be here."

I accepted it, still trying to understand.

"Then why did you buy two coffees?"

For the first time, I caught the faintest hint of a smile.

"Because I was hoping."

For a moment, I simply looked at him.

Then I glanced down at the cup.

Latte.

Exactly what I'd ordered yesterday.

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

"That's... a little unsettling."

"Why?"

"You remembered what I drink."

"I remember a lot of things," he said quietly.

There was nothing boastful in his voice.

It was simply a fact.

For some reason, that made it even harder to answer.

I took a sip.

The coffee was perfect.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

We sat in silence.

Oddly enough, it wasn't uncomfortable.

With Matteo, silence never lasted very long.

He always had something to say.

A new idea.

A new plan.

A joke waiting to be shared.

Rafael treated silence differently.

As if he understood that sometimes words only got in the way.

After a few minutes, he leaned slightly closer to my sketchbook.

"This is what's bothering you?"

He pointed to one section of the design.

I nodded.

"I can't figure out why it doesn't work."

He studied the drawing for a long moment.

Then he reached for my pencil.

"May I?"

I handed it to him without thinking.

His fingers brushed mine for the briefest second.

Warm.

Steady.

Almost absentminded.

Yet somehow my heart skipped anyway.

Rafael looked back at the page.

He drew a single line.

Just one.

Suddenly...

Everything made sense.

I stared at the sketch.

Then at him.

"How did you see that?"

He shrugged.

"I don't know."

His gaze drifted toward the trees, where the first rays of sunlight filtered through the branches.

"Maybe..."

He paused.

"...because you're looking at the building."

His eyes lingered on the landscape surrounding us.

"And I'm looking at everything around it."

I didn't know why, but that sentence settled somewhere deep inside me.

It felt far more important than it should have.

Neither of us knew then that this single difference would one day shape the course of both our lives.

We stayed in the gardens much longer than I'd planned.

Not that I minded.

The truth was...

I'd completely lost track of time.

The sun had climbed higher into the sky, and the garden paths were slowly filling with people.

Tourists unfolded maps they barely understood. Joggers wove between them with effortless determination. Students wandered through the gardens, looking for the same thing we were—a quiet place where the world couldn't reach them for a little while.

Meanwhile, Rafael sketched.

And sketched.

And kept sketching.

I'd never seen anyone work with such complete focus.

He didn't need music.

He didn't need his phone.

He didn't even need conversation.

Just paper.

A pencil.

And whatever was happening inside his mind.

"You really can stay quiet for an incredibly long time," I said eventually.

He didn't even look up.

"Thank you."

I laughed.

"That wasn't a compliment."

"In that case," he replied without missing a beat, "I'll keep it anyway."

For the first time that morning, he looked at me.

There was a quiet spark of amusement in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

"Matteo wouldn't survive five minutes without talking."

"Five minutes?"

This time, Rafael laughed too.

It was soft.

Warm.

It suited him.

"You're right," he admitted, setting his pencil down.

"Two."

"That sounds much more accurate."

Silence settled between us again.

Comfortable.

Unforced.

After a moment, Rafael spoke.

"He likes people."

I nodded.

"I noticed that on the first day."

"And you don't?" I asked.

He was quiet for a moment before answering.

His gaze drifted across the gardens before settling back on me.

"I like specific people."

The words lingered in the air between us.

Something about the way he said them. Calmly, almost absentmindedly… made them feel more personal than they probably were.

For one reckless second, I wondered if he meant me.

My pulse stumbled.

It was ridiculous.

We'd only known each other for a couple of days.

He couldn't possibly...

Could he?

Heat crept into my cheeks before I could stop it.

Don't be ridiculous, Violet.

He hadn't said my name.

He hadn't looked at me any differently.

He hadn't given me a single reason to believe he meant me.

And yet...

I couldn't stop wondering.

The question settled somewhere beneath my ribs, refusing to leave.

If he wasn't talking about me...

Why did I suddenly wish he had been?

And why did that thought make my heart beat just a little faster?