Chapter 10:Mark
3794 Words
To say I was frustrated with what Valentina had done would have been an understatement.
I was beyond frustrated.
I was irritated.
Confused.
Embarrassed.
And somehow, against all logic, relieved.
She had disappeared for two weeks without saying a word.
Then she returned from the airport, walked directly into my restaurant, saw a woman hugging me, pulled the woman away, stood between us, and announced to an entire room full of customers that I was her man.
I was not her man.
I had explained that.
Several times.
Then she had called me hers anyway.
Then she had attempted to chase me.
Then she had slipped.
And now—
Now I was sitting beside her at the table near the window, holding an ice pack against her ankle while she complained.
“Ow.”
I looked at her.
“You said that five seconds ago.”
“It still hurts.”
“The ice is supposed to help.”
“It’s cold.”
“It’s ice.”
“I know that.”
“Then why are you surprised?”
“I’m not surprised. I’m uncomfortable.”
“You’re always uncomfortable.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I am not.”
“You wear shoes that look like they were designed to punish people.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“They’re dangerous.”
“They’re designer.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is an answer.”
“No, it isn’t.”
She crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair.
The movement made her ankle shift.
“Ow.”
I sighed.
“Stop moving.”
“You’re being rude.”
“You started a scene in my restaurant.”
“She was touching you.”
“She hugged me.”
“She was too close.”
“She is my friend.”
“She was still too close.”
I stared at her.
She stared back.
Neither of us spoke.
Then Valentina slowly looked away.
I returned my attention to her ankle.
The ice pack was wrapped in a clean kitchen towel. I held it carefully against the swollen area.
She made another small sound.
“Mm.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“It’s cold.”
“It’s supposed to be cold.”
“You don’t have to press it so hard.”
“I’m barely touching you.”
“You’re pressing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Valentina.”
“Mark.”
“Stop complaining.”
“I’m injured.”
“You twisted your ankle.”
“That is an injury.”
“You slipped because you were chasing me.”
“I was not chasing you.”
“You were walking after me.”
“Quickly.”
“You were chasing me.”
“I was following you.”
“You almost fell on your face.”
“But I didn’t.”
“Because I caught you.”
She became quiet.
I looked at her.
She was staring at me.
“What?”
“You caught me.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t let me fall.”
“No.”
“You carried me inside.”
“Yes.”
“You were worried.”
“I was making sure you didn’t break your ankle.”
She smiled.
“That means you care.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It means I have basic human decency.”
“Still care.”
I shook my head.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you missed me.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“You missed me.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You looked happy when you saw me.”
“I looked surprised.”
“You were happy.”
“I was not.”
“You carried me.”
“You couldn’t walk.”
“You brought me to my table.”
“It was the closest chair.”
“You remembered it was my table.”
“Everyone knows it’s your table.”
“You missed me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Valentina.”
“Mark.”
“Stop.”
She smiled.
I looked away.
The problem was that she looked happy.
Not the confident, powerful smile she usually wore.
This smile was smaller.
Almost soft.
And I hated that I noticed.
I hated that after two weeks of not seeing her, a part of me had been relieved when she walked through the restaurant doors.
I had spent fourteen days looking toward her empty chair.
Fourteen days wondering why she had disappeared.
Fourteen days pretending I didn’t care.
Then she returned and immediately caused chaos.
That should have annoyed me.
It did annoy me.
But I was also—
No.
I wasn’t going to think about it.
I placed the ice pack down.
“Why are you even here?”
She blinked.
“What?”
“Why are you here?”
“I came to see you.”
“No. I mean why did you come straight to the restaurant?”
“Because I missed you.”
I stared at her.
She said it so easily.
No hesitation.
No embarrassment.
No attempt to hide it.
“I know you didn’t miss me,” she continued, “but I missed you.”
I looked down at the ice pack.
She had missed me.
I didn’t know what to say.
So I said the first thing that came to mind.
“Okay.”
Valentina frowned.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all?”
“What else am I supposed to say?”
“You could say you missed me too.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“You looked at my chair.”
My eyes moved to her.
“How do you know that?”
She smiled.
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“You weren’t here.”
“People talk.”
I frowned.
“Who told you?”
“No one.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I know you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I know you make pasta when people forget to eat.”
“That’s because I’m a chef.”
“I know you care about your employees.”
“Everyone should.”
“I know you pretend not to like me.”
“I don’t pretend.”
“And I know you missed me.”
“I didn’t.”
She smiled.
I looked away.
That smile was becoming a problem.
She rested her head against the back of the chair.
“I went on a business trip.”
“I noticed.”
“You noticed?”
“You disappeared.”
“I had an emergency.”
“What kind?”
“A company needed me.”
“You left without telling anyone?”
“It happened suddenly.”
“You could have told me.”
The words came out before I could stop them.
Valentina’s eyes widened.
I immediately regretted it.
“I mean—you could have told the restaurant.”
“The restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So we knew you weren’t coming.”
She smiled.
“You wanted to know.”
“No.”
“You wanted to know where I was.”
“I was curious.”
“You missed me.”
“I didn’t.”
“You just said I could have told you.”
“I said you could have told the restaurant.”
“But you asked.”
I stared at her.
She smiled wider.
I hated this conversation.
I hated that she always found a way to make me say things I didn’t intend to say.
“You’re exhausting,” I muttered.
She nodded.
“I know.”
Then she looked down at her handbag.
She reached inside.
I watched as she searched through several things.
A wallet.
A small notebook.
A lipstick.
Another phone.
Why did she have two phones?
Then she looked at me.
“Can I get your number?”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Your phone number.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have it.”
“I know.”
“I should have asked before.”
“Yes.”
“But I didn’t.”
“No.”
“And then I traveled.”
“You already said that.”
“And there was an emergency.”
“You were dealing with a business problem.”
“It was an emergency.”
“You didn’t need to call me.”
“I might have.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I could have needed you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It makes sense to me.”
I looked at her.
She was holding her phone with both hands.
Her expression was serious.
But there was something else.
She looked—
Nervous.
Valentina De Luca.
The woman who could walk into a restaurant and announce that she wanted me.
The woman who could pull another woman away from me without hesitation.
The woman who ran an entire company.
And somehow, asking for my phone number made her look nervous.
It was—
Cute.
No.
Not cute.
She was sitting in an expensive dress.
Her hair was perfectly styled.
She had a designer handbag beside her.
She had just caused a public argument.
There was nothing cute about her.
Except—
The way she was holding her phone.
And the way she kept looking at me.
And the way she waited for an answer.
It was a little cute.
Just a little.
I sighed.
“Give me your phone.”
Her eyes widened.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“You’re giving me your number?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You asked.”
“But you always ignore me.”
“I’m not ignoring you.”
“You ignored me for a month.”
“I was working.”
“You didn’t want to talk to me.”
“I was busy.”
“You told everyone to ignore me.”
“I didn’t tell everyone to ignore you.”
“You told the waitress.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I was frustrated.”
“You’re frustrated now.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you giving me your number?”
I held out my hand.
“Valentina.”
She smiled and placed her phone in my hand.
I entered my number.
Then I called my phone.
Her phone began ringing.
She gasped.
“You called yourself.”
“So you have my number.”
She looked at the screen.
Then smiled.
“Mark.”
“Yes.”
“Your name is Mark.”
“I’m aware.”
“You didn’t save your last name.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“What is your last name?”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“So I can save it.”
“Just save Mark.”
“But there might be another Mark.”
“You know one other Mark?”
“No.”
“Then save it.”
She typed something.
Then showed me the screen.
Mark ❤️
I frowned.
“What is that?”
“My contact name for you.”
“Remove the heart.”
“No.”
“Valentina.”
“You gave me your number.”
“I didn’t give you permission to add a heart.”
“You don’t control my phone.”
“Remove it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I want it.”
“Of course you do.”
She smiled and placed her phone beside her.
I returned the ice pack to her ankle.
“Hold this.”
She took it.
Then she yawned.
I looked at her.
“Why are you yawning?”
“I’m tired.”
“You just woke up?”
“No.”
“Then why are you tired?”
“I just came back from a two-week business trip.”
“I know.”
“It was long.”
“I know.”
“I had meetings every day.”
“I know.”
“I barely slept.”
“Then why are you here?”
She looked at me.
“Because I wanted to see you before going home.”
I paused.
She said it quietly.
Like it was obvious.
Like she had traveled for two weeks, landed at the airport, and came directly to my restaurant because seeing me mattered more than resting.
“You should go home,” I said.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I don’t have a driver.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“I drove here.”
“You drove here from the airport?”
“Yes.”
“With an injured ankle?”
“It happened after I arrived.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I can still drive.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You can barely walk.”
“I can use the other foot.”
“That is not how driving works.”
“It works enough.”
“Valentina.”
“What?”
“You’re not driving.”
She pouted.
Actually pouted.
Her lower lip moved forward slightly.
Then she made a small sound.
“Mm.”
I stared at her.
“What was that?”
“What?”
“That sound.”
“I didn’t make a sound.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“You did.”
She looked away.
I shook my head.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m tired.”
“Then go home.”
“I can’t drive.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“Who is taking me home?”
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Mark.”
“I’m not your driver.”
“I know.”
“Then call someone.”
“I don’t want someone.”
“You have an assistant.”
“She’s busy.”
“You have employees.”
“They’re working.”
“You have money.”
“I know.”
“Then hire a driver.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Why?”
She smiled.
“Because you can take me.”
“No.”
“You have a car.”
“Yes.”
“You know where I live.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I’ll tell you.”
“No.”
“You’re already going home.”
“Yes.”
“My house is on the way.”
“You don’t know where I live.”
“It’s on the way from wherever you live.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It will make sense when we get there.”
“No.”
She yawned again.
Then rested her head against the chair.
“Please.”
I stared at her.
She looked exhausted.
Really exhausted.
Her eyes were beginning to close.
She was still holding the ice pack against her ankle.
Her expensive dress was slightly wrinkled.
Her hair was no longer perfectly arranged.
And somehow—
She looked cute.
Again.
Why did she keep looking cute?
She was loud.
Chaotic.
Dramatic.
She had entered my restaurant and claimed me in front of everyone.
She had caused an argument.
She had injured herself.
She had argued with me about ice.
Then she had put a heart beside my name.
She was a problem.
A very expensive problem.
And now she was sitting there, tired and pouting, asking me to take her home.
I sighed.
“Fine.”
Her eyes opened.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll take me home?”
“Yes.”
“You’re so kind.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m doing this because you can’t drive.”
“Still kind.”
“Don’t start.”
She smiled.
Then she tried to stand.
“Wait.”
She placed one foot on the floor.
“Ow.”
I closed my eyes.
“Sit down.”
“I can walk.”
“No, you can’t.”
“I can.”
“You said ow before you stood.”
“It was a small ow.”
“There are different sizes of ow?”
“Yes.”
“What was that one?”
“A medium ow.”
I stared at her.
“You are impossible.”
“And you missed me.”
“No.”
She smiled.
I bent down.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Taking you home.”
“I can walk.”
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
“Valentina.”
“What?”
“Stop arguing.”
Then I lifted her into my arms.
She gasped.
“Mark.”
“Don’t move.”
“I’m heavy.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You didn’t even struggle.”
“You’re not heavy.”
She smiled.
“Are you saying I’m light?”
“I’m saying you’re not heavy.”
“Do you think I’m beautiful?”
“No.”
“Do you think I’m cute?”
I stopped.
“No.”
“You paused.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“Stop talking.”
“You think I’m cute.”
“No.”
“You do.”
“Valentina.”
“Yes?”
“Be quiet.”
She smiled and rested her head against my shoulder.
For a few seconds, she said nothing.
Then—
“Mark?”
“What?”
“Thank you.”
I didn’t answer.
Because the way she said it was different.
Soft.
Tired.
Real.
So I carried her outside.
⸻
The drive to her house was quiet.
Mostly.
Valentina spent the first ten minutes explaining how she would have handled the restaurant if she owned it.
“You need a larger entrance.”
“No.”
“You need better lighting.”
“No.”
“You should open another location.”
“No.”
“You need a private dining room.”
“No.”
“You say no to everything.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I like my restaurant.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“So are you.”
“I’m determined.”
“You’re stubborn.”
She smiled.
Then she became quiet.
Five minutes later, I looked toward her.
She was asleep.
Her head rested against the window.
Her phone was still in her hand.
I looked back at the road.
She looked peaceful.
That was strange.
Valentina was never peaceful.
She was always talking.
Always moving.
Always planning.
Always wanting something.
But now she was asleep.
Quiet.
I almost preferred this version.
Almost.
Then her phone slipped from her hand.
I caught it before it fell.
The screen lit up.
My contact was open.
Mark ❤️
I sighed.
“Unbelievable.”
⸻
When we arrived at her house, she woke up.
“We’re here?”
“Yes.”
“You brought me home.”
“You asked.”
“You’re very kind.”
“No.”
“You care.”
“No.”
“You missed me.”
“No.”
She smiled.
Then she opened the car door.
I helped her out.
She leaned against me while walking toward the entrance.
The house was large.
Much larger than I expected.
Of course it was.
Valentina De Luca probably owned half the city.
She opened the door.
Then looked at me.
“Do you want to come inside?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“It’s late.”
“You can sleep here.”
“No.”
“I have many rooms.”
“I’m going home.”
“You can have breakfast.”
“No.”
“I have a private chef.”
“I am a chef.”
“You can meet him.”
“No.”
She frowned.
“You don’t like my house?”
“I haven’t been inside.”
“You should come inside.”
“No.”
“Just for five minutes.”
“No.”
“Three minutes.”
“No.”
“One minute.”
“Valentina.”
“What?”
“Go inside.”
She sighed.
Then smiled.
“Good night, Mark.”
“Good night.”
“I missed you.”
I looked away.
“Go inside.”
She laughed.
Then she walked toward the door.
Slowly.
Carefully.
And before she entered, she turned back.
“Text me.”
“I have your number now.”
“You should use it.”
“Go inside.”
She smiled.
Then disappeared into the house.
⸻
I didn’t return to the restaurant.
I went straight home.
I was tired.
The entire day had been exhausting.
Valentina had stressed me in ways I didn’t know were possible.
She was loud.
Chaotic.
Dramatic.
She had walked into my restaurant and created an entire scene.
She had claimed me.
She had injured herself.
She had argued with me.
She had forced me to give her my number.
She had placed a heart beside my name.
Then she had made me drive her home.
And somehow—
I was thinking about the way she pouted.
The small noises she made whenever the ice touched her ankle.
The way she held her phone while asking for my number.
The way she looked exhausted.
The way she said she came directly from the airport because she wanted to see me.
And the way she looked when she fell asleep in my car.
Cute.
She looked cute.
Just cute.
Nothing else.
I lay down on my bed.
My phone vibrated.
A message.
Valentina ❤️:
Thank you for taking me home.
I stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
Valentina ❤️:
I missed you.
I didn’t answer.
Three seconds passed.
Another message.
Valentina ❤️:
Did you miss me?
I placed my phone beside me.
I was not answering.
Then it vibrated again.
Valentina ❤️:
Mark?
I closed my eyes.
Another vibration.
Valentina ❤️:
You’re ignoring me.
I picked up the phone.
Then typed:
Mark:
Go to sleep.
Her reply came immediately.
Valentina ❤️:
You care.
I stared at the message.
Then I turned off my phone.
Because Valentina De Luca was a problem.
A loud, chaotic, dramatic problem.
And somehow—
I was beginning to think she was cute.
Which was an even bigger p
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