The flea market was alive with the sounds of haggling and the faint honks
of cabs from the neighboring streets. The scent of churros swirled through
the air, and everywhere I looked, I saw an explosion of different colors,
textures, and fabrics.
I'd been visiting the same market every Saturday for years. It was a
treasure trove of inspiration and one-of-a-kind items I couldn't find in the
carefully curated luxury stores, and it never failed to pull me out of a
creative rut. It was also my favorite place to visit when I needed to clear my
head.
Today, however, it did neither of those things.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake the memory of Dante's
mouth on mine.
The firmness of his lips. The heat of his body. The subtle, expensive
scent of his cologne and the self-assured weight of his hands on my hips.
Days later, I could still feel the vividness of the moment as clearly as if
it'd just happened.
It was infuriating.
Almost as infuriating as how I'd opened up to him over breakfast, only
for him to revert to asshole status after a brief, shocking display of
humanity.
There'd been a moment when I'd liked Dante, though that might've
been my loneliness talking.
Contrary to what I'd told him at the photoshoot, there was something
unsettling about coming home every day to a silent, spotless house. Our
month apart had eased the sting of his words before he left for Europe, and I
hadn't realized how much Dante's presence electrified the space until he
was gone.
"We've been to this stall already," Isabella said.
"Hmm?" I toyed with the fringe on a purple patterned scarf.
"This stall. We've been here already," she repeated. "You bought the
pashmina?"
I blinked as the rest of the stall's contents came into sharp focus. She
was right. It was one of the first vendors we'd visited when we arrived.
"Sorry." I released the scarf with a sigh. "I'm a bit out of it today."
I'm too busy thinking about my jerk fiancé.
"Really? I couldn't tell." Isabella's teasing smile faded when I didn't
return it. "What's wrong? You normally blitz through this place like
hellhounds are chasing us."
Isabella loved thrifting and joined my Saturday excursions whenever
she could. I'd tried to convince Sloane to come once, but the chances of her
stepping foot in a flea market were slimmer than a Jimmy Choo stiletto
