“I used to come here as a kid. It’s one of the many properties my father owned.”

“Oh. When did he sell it?”

“He didn’t.”

“But you said ‘owned’?”

He leans back. Studies me for a long beat. “Did you not hear?”

“Hear…what?”

“My father died.”

“What? When?”

“A few months ago.”

“I…” Don’t know what to say. Because the day my dad died, I felt as though I would vanish any minute. I had been, first and foremost, his goblin princess. If he was no longer around to call me that, that meant that nothing could tether me to this world. I could see no path forward. The pain was staggering. Incomprehensible.

Conor’s father, though…

“Congratulations,” is all I can think of saying.

After a beat, Conor smiles, looking pleased and surprised. “Thank you, Trouble.”

“I would have sent you a celebratory edible arrangement. I’m not sure why Eli didn’t tell me.”

“Probably because it was widely covered by international media.” He sounds gently amused.

“Your dad was that big of an asshole, huh?”

“Regrettably.”

We regard each other. Between us, only a table corner and a whole lot of silence. “So,” I ask, tearing off a piece of bread. The crust is as thin and crispy as the inside is airy. “Who’s the new owner of—”

I stop when Lucrezia returns and deposits a glass in front of me. I thank her, then wait for her to leave again before asking in a low whisper, “Why did she bring me a slushy?”

Conor looks at me like I just produced a legally actionable claim. “Jesus Christ.”

“What?”

“Maya.”

“What did I do?”

“Took a dump on centuries of Sicilian culture?”

I blink. “Because I asked about the slushy?”

“It’s called a granita. Granita al caffè. With panna—the heavy cream on top.” He plucks a brioche bun from the basket on his left and puts it on my plate. It’s oddly shaped: a round, donut-like base, and a tinier ball on top of it.

“Am I supposed to drink after I eat the boob with a giant nipple that’s having a severe allergic reaction, or before?” I mostly ask because I love the way the corners of Conor’s eyes crinkle together when he’s annoyed at me. But the Arabica aroma wafts up, making me salivate, and Conor…he’s always been good at feeding me.

“Shut up and eat.”

It turns out to be crunchier than a slushy, made of little shards of ice infused with sweet espresso. It’s delicious, of course—creamy and refreshing and cloud-fluffy, and: “I’m moving here,” I tell him after two bites, scooping more granita onto my pastry.

He smiles, staring at me in that way that I sometimes wonder if I imagined—enchanted. Sweet, almost. Like I’m precious. Like he cares about me enough to not go ten months without contact.

“No, I’m serious. After I finish scarfing this down I’m gonna throw my passport into the ocean.”

“The jellyfish will rejoice, I’m certain.”

“So, what are the rules? Is granita just for breakfast? Can I have it multiple times a day, or is it like having cappuccino after eleven a.m.?”