A stranger beside me on a flight asked, “Could you pretend you fell asleep on my shoulder?” I almost said no. I had just left Chicago with my five-year-old daughter, two suitcases, and a marriage that had fallen apart three days earlier. But I agreed. Two hours later, I woke up still leaning against him—and discovered the quiet man beside me was one of the country’s best-known billionaires. Then my phone reconnected, and a message from my ex-husband appeared: I KNOW YOU TOOK FIONA TO NEW YORK.

We went to a diner.

Not a private club.

Not a restaurant with a month-long reservation list.

A diner near the lake where Fiona ordered chocolate chip pancakes at four in the afternoon.

Luca stole one of my fries.

I slapped his hand.

Fiona laughed so hard she nearly dropped her fork.

It was one of the best meals I had eaten in years.

By then, Luca and I had known each other for almost five months.

There had been no moment when he announced that he loved me and orchestral music appeared from nowhere.

It happened in smaller ways.

He learned that I hated coffee that tasted burned.

I learned he woke before five when he was worried.

He learned not to try to solve a problem unless I asked him to.

I learned that his public confidence disappeared whenever Fiona asked him to draw something because he was terrible at drawing.

He had money most people could hardly imagine.

Yet the things that made me trust him were almost embarrassingly ordinary.

He knocked before entering the guesthouse.

He returned things where he found them.

He never read over my shoulder.

When he disagreed with me, he said so without punishing me for disagreeing back.