Capítulo 2: Chapter 2 : An Interrupted Meet Cute

*Sophie’s POV*

"Let's go, Soph. We don't have a lot of time. We have to be the first ones through the doors, or we'll miss the best stuff," my friend Luca urged me to hurry so we could get to the local flea market right at seven o’clock.

"If you don't quit rushing me, I'm staying home," I threatened even though we both knew I was lying.

I glanced at the clock and realized we only had twenty minutes to get there before the doors opened, so I bent over, stepped into my shoes, and ran for the door.

"Hurry up, Luca! I don't want to be late," I jokingly yelled over my shoulder, much to Luca's annoyance.

We walked down the three flights of stairs and exited my apartment. The smells and activity of the streets of New York assaulted our senses, and I looked around at the chaos of the city. The sidewalks were full of locals and tourists hurrying to their destinations, and children ran toward their schools gleefully.

We wouldn't make it in time if we had to wait on public transit, so we began the walk toward the market. Aromatic fragrances wafted out of the restaurants we passed, and my stomach growled and cramped. I shouldn't have skipped breakfast.

"Have you given lunch with Mr. Rossi any more thought?" Luca asked, his eyes full of excitement.

I shook my head, "It's all I've thought about. I just don't know if the timing is right. He mentioned some art restoration as well as renovations to a villa. That's a long project, and I can't just leave for Italy. I have a life, you know."

Luca's bark of laughter was like a slap in the face, "What life? You're married to your work. This is a job, Sophie. IN ITALY. Offers like this only happen once in a blue moon, you'd be dumb not to hear him out. You know that pay is probably astronomical."

"It's not about the money, Luca," I sighed, "I didn't get into the art world for the money. You know that."

He groaned and covered his ears with his hands, "If you're about to go on a tirade about how much you love art, I'm going to vomit. I've heard it all, sister. You do know I love art, don’t you? You know damn well I didn't go to school for archeology with an art history minor for the money. I could've made more with a philosophy degree."

I couldn't help but laugh at his humor, but he was right. Archeology wasn't something easy to get into, but he had managed to make a name for himself nonetheless. The car to our left honked its horn as we stepped out in front of it, and I flipped them off. We had the right of way, so they could kiss my ass.

"I'll never get used to how rude some of these drivers are here in the city," I vented. "I swear, I never experienced that until I moved here. People in Britain have more couth."

Luca winked at me, and we reached the market just in time to get in line and wait three minutes for the door to be unlocked. This wasn't your run-of-the-mill flea market. It was an exclusive, hidden gem that required a special invitation housed in an ancient brick building that seemed to be from another era. The entrance was an old-fashioned wooden door with a tarnished bronze door knocker in the center. On one side of the door, two large windows had been painted black for privacy.

The market was by invitation for a reason, as everything that could be found inside was rare and expensive, and not always on the side of legality. It was only held once a month, and the vendors were always changing as they traveled to find their pieces.

"It's time," Luca said, his eyes lit up with anticipation.

The giant wooden door opened, and we were transported back in time. The market was filled with ancient artifacts, artwork from all over the world, jewelry, sculptures, and furniture that had been painstakingly crafted by hand or carved from wood. Every piece was unique and had a story to tell.

I followed behind Luca, and we both stopped to admire a jewelry stand that held a few pieces from the seventeenth century. There was a beautiful silver necklace with a small amethyst stone that caught my eye, and Luca seemed to be enamored by an antique pocket watch.

"Oh, look. They have a stand with Italian majolica," I pointed toward the booth where the bright yellow and blue tiles were lined up along a large wooden table. Even from a distance, I could tell they were authentic.

"Well, you better go check them out," Luca mumbled as he headed toward a wall where religious paintings were hung and displayed.

I walked over to the tiles and began to run my hands over the kiln-fired clay, marveling at the skill it takes to hand paint the vivid imagery seen. I became so caught up during my inspection that I didn't notice someone had walked up and stood behind me. I turned and my face hit the broad, hard chest of a man wearing a crisp white button-up.

His black hair was longer and curled up at the ends where it almost touched his neck. He had dark brown eyes and a sharp jawline covered in a five o'clock shadow. His tanned skin and tall stature made him look like he'd just stepped off the cover of a magazine. He stood there silently with an amused smirk on his face. I quickly turned away feeling embarrassed, but I could feel him still looking at me.

"Well," he finally said in an accent that melted my heart. "It looks like you have quite an eye for detail."

I blushed and giggled nervously before responding, "Thank you. It's nice to see someone appreciate these works of art as much as I do."

He had a deep voice that seemed to rumble from within him, "So you like majolica? Do you have an eye for it or are you just admiring?" he asked, his voice low and seductive.

I swallowed hard before replying, "Actually yes, I know quite a bit about it. It's one of my specialties."

He smiled knowingly before turning his attention to the tiles on display. His hands slowly trailed along the pieces as he admired them before he turned his attention back to me.

"What's your favorite style of majolica?" he asked.

"Istoriato and my favorite artist is Francesco Santo Avelli," I answered confidently.

I felt like he might be testing my knowledge, and I hated it when men did this.

"Ah, I'm more of a Manoro man myself," he replied, his dark eyes studying me intensely.

"Your accent is Italian, yes?" I asked, and he nodded.

His left hand slowly rose and captured my right, and he leaned down and softly placed his lips against my skin. Electricity shot up my arm and ran through my body. Goosebumps erupted, and I shivered. I didn't remember ever having such a visceral reaction to a man.

"Piacere di conoscerti," he fluently greeted me in Italian.

"It's nice to meet you, as well," I stated.

"Ah. You speak Italian, bella?" his eyes widened in surprise when I understood what he'd said.

My face blushed a deep red when I realized he'd called me beautiful, "I know enough to get by."

"Stunning and intelligent," he said as he stared at me, "Go to dinner with me tonight."

My eyes widened in surprise at his sudden invitation, and I watched in shock as he reached for his phone. He opened it to add a new contact, and just as he looked up at me expectantly, it rang. A look of disappointment and anger flashed on his handsome face, though he quickly shook it away.

"I'm sorry, I must take this. It looks like fate is intervening. Maybe we'll meet again, yes?" he muttered as he walked toward the exit and answered his phone. I could hear him begin arguing with someone in Italian as I stood there with my mouth agape.

Luca chose that moment to walk up behind me and ask, "Who the hell was that tall glass of water?"

I shrugged my shoulders, "I didn't get his name. That was the weirdest encounter I've ever had in my life. He asked me to dinner and acted like he wanted my phone number, but then someone called him and he rushed off. I wonder if he's married and that was his wife," I laughed, still uncertain from the quick change in his demeanor.

"That checks. Hot men are never faithful, love," Luca answered and pulled me away from the tiles toward the artwork in the back left corner of the market.

I couldn't help but feel disappointed that I hadn't caught the man's name. I doubted he was my soul mate, but I could feel his passion for art and Italy come through from the way he spoke about the majolica. It wasn't often I met someone who loved old artifacts as much as I did. Well, at least not someone who looked like that. I shivered again as I thought about his soft lips against the back of my hand, and I rubbed the spot with the pad of my thumb.

I turned my head when I heard, "Sophie, Luca! Over here!"

Two of our other friends, Kylie and Minerva, were further into the market. They co-owned an antique store and made time each month to come and find pieces to sell.

I waved and guided Luca toward the two women, and they smiled as we approached, "I wondered if you'd be here," Minerva said, "We have an in with one of the merchants, and she let us in early."

"Wow, that's lucky," I said. "Did you find anything?"

Kylie's eyes lit up and she replied, "I found three pieces that are to die for."

She motioned to the cart she was pulling behind her, and the four of us walked to the side to get out of the flow of traffic. Kylie bent over and grabbed a beautiful blue and white china plate from the 19th century. The plate was painted with a scene depicting two children playing with a hoop and stick.

"Oh, Kylie! I love it. That will sell for a pretty penny if you find the right collector," Luca gushed.

Her head bobbed up and down, then she side-eyed me and said, "Sophie, this next one is going to floor you. I know you love Italian porcelain."

She grabbed a box that was full of packing peanuts and carefully removed an ornate porcelain water jug from Venice, with bright colors and intricate gold leaf detailing on its handle. I gasped, "Wow, that's beautiful. Was there only one?"

"Yeah, sorry," Minerva laughed, "We tried to ask if they had others, but the other one was broken during shipping."

Finally, there was a Murano glass bowl with ruby red swirls, hand-crafted by artisans in Venice over 200 years ago. I stared at them in amazement - these were truly works of art - not just collectibles or antiques but valuable pieces of history that told stories about people's lives.

The craftsmanship of each item was breathtaking - from the smooth glaze on the plate to the delicate curves of the jug's handle to the vibrant colors in the glass bowl; each piece made me feel like I was stepping back through time and experiencing life as it must have been ages ago.

I could feel Luca standing behind me, taking in every detail as we examined each item carefully. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out to see a text from an unknown phone number. I clicked the message and slapped Luca on the shoulder as I read it.

It read: Hello, Sophia. This is Mr. Rossi. I'm texting you to see if you've given our lunch meeting any more thought. There's a lovely Italian bistro around the corner from your apartment. I can be there around eleven o'clock.

Luca gave me the weirdest grin and said, "You have to meet with him. Please."

I rolled my eyes and tried to hide my smile as I concluded that there was nothing I wanted to do more than hear the man out. For some reason, Italy was tempting me into its art-rich bosom, and who was I to argue with the universe?

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