Dante Romano

Dante Romano. 43 now. CEO, suits that cost more than my oven, and a reputation that followed him from college all the way to Italy and back. Twenty years ago he was my brother’s best friend. My boyfriend for 2 years. The player I decided to trust anyway. Until the night I found him at a frat party, kissing Jessica the cheerleader. I didn’t fight. I packed. I left that college town and never looked back. He left too. Italy. New life. New women, probably. I built something else. My bakery. Flour on my hands, cupcakes in the window, my name on the sign. Then Tuesday morning, 6am. I’m piping frosting, music low, when the kitchen door swings open. And there he is. Dante. Taller. Silver at his temples. Still has that smirk. Still wears it like a weapon. He’s back to start a business here. He doesn’t say hi. He just walks straight to me, sees the icing on my cheek, and with one thumb, wipes it off. Then he pulls me in and kisses me. Deep. Like no time passed. Like the last 20 years were a typo. “I missed you, sweetheart,” he murmurs against my lips. My heart is pounding. I open my mouth to say his name, to say _what the hell_, but his phone rings. He pulls back, answers, and just like that he’s gone. “Board call. I’ll explain later.” Door shuts. That night I couldn’t sleep. So my friends dragged me to a nightclub. “You need to tell us what happened,” they said. I walk in, still in shock, and freeze. There’s Dante. At a booth. With another woman. His hand in her hair, kissing her like he kissed me 12 hours ago. The air leaves my lungs. I walk right up to him. My voice is steady even though my hands aren’t. “Looks like some things never change.” And I turn and walk out. Outside, my heart is beating so fast it hurts. And the tears come. The second time in my life Dante has made me cry.