Page 136 of Nine Months to Love

I reach for him. “Stefan.”

He pulls away and stands. Walks to the edge of the terrace and pauses there, looking out over the vista. His back is rigid, shoulders tight, radiating discomfort from every pore.

I give him a moment. Then I join him at the railing. “I’m not trying to upset you,” I say softly. “I just think?—”

“I know what you think. You think I should forgive her. Give her a chance, let her be part of our lives. Kumba-fucking-ya.”

“I think you should at least hear her side of the story. That’s all.”

“I don’t need to hear her side. I know what happened.”

“But what if you don’t? What if there are things you don’t know? Things that would change how you see it?”

He turns to me. His eyes are cold, distant, and above all, merciless. “Nothing will change how I see it.”

“Stefan—”

“Drop it, Olivia. Please. I won’t ask again.”

Thepleasegets me. I want so badly to push. Should I pull out the journal and make him read it? Should I stick his face in the pages like a misbehaving puppy until he sees, until hehasto see, that his father wasn’t the saint he remembers and his mother wasn’t the villain he’s convinced himself she was?

But looking at him now, at the pain etched into every line of his face, I can’t do it.

“Okay,” I say quietly. “We don’t have to talk about it now.”

“Thank you.”

We stand there in silence. The sun is setting behind the hills. It’s so beautiful that it doesn’t feel real. This whole trip has that too-good-to-be-true feeling. I keep pinching myself, waiting for the rude awakening that I know will eventually come. That’s my life, after all—no good things are allowed without a bad taste at the end.

Stefan’s phone vibrates. He pulls it out, glances at the screen, and silences it without reading the message.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Fine. Just Taras checking in.”

“Is there trouble back home?”

“Everything is fine. Nothing for you to worry about.”

I study his profile. There’s something in his expression. Something distracted. Like his mind is somewhere else entirely.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

“Important things.”

“What kind of important things?”

He smiles. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ll know soon enough.”

Before I can ask what that means, another knock sounds at the door.

“It’s Grand freaking Central in here tonight,” I grumble.

Stefan’s eyes twinkle. “That’ll be Mariolina.”

“What does she want?”

“I asked her to bring us some dessert.”