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“My what?” I gape. “Oh, no. Petra is my goddaughter. We are not together.”
“Ah, I see…” Pierre keeps studying my expression, seeming to think something through. “There is nothing worse than wanting what we can’t have.”
“Buonasera. Per il ristorante Mirabelle, Via di Porta Pinciana, per favore,”
“You’re disturbingly perfect, Petra.”
