They finished dinner talking about lighter things—favorite movies, worst travel experiences, the most ridiculous thing each of them had ever done. By the time dessert arrived, Elena's cheeks hurt from smiling.
This was what dating should feel like. Easy. Natural. Like coming home.
"What are you thinking?" Dante asked.
"That I haven't felt this normal in five years." Elena took a bite of tiramisu. "With Marcus, every dinner was a performance. I had to sit right, eat right, say the right things. But with you—I can just be myself."
"That's all I want. For you to be yourself." Dante paused. "Speaking of which—I have something to ask you."
"Okay?"
"Alessandro mentioned you used to paint. That you gave it up when you married Marcus." Dante pulled out his phone and showed her a photograph.
