Page 166 of Modern Romance June 2025 5-8

Ivy laughed. ‘You’re such a snob.’

‘I am not!’ Antonio spun to face her, outrage in red slashes on his cheeks as he scanned the surrounding people to make sure they hadn’t heard. ‘I amnot,’ he insisted again in a whisper.

She laughed and hooked her free arm in his, the other holding her precious camera one-handed easily enough.

‘I know. It’s just too easy to tease you.’ She smiled as they wove between shards of sunlight, tourists and locals, and cloth-covered stalls containing everything from fresh vegetables, multi-packs of underwear, second-hand books and kitchen utensils. It wasfullof people, of life, of noise and scents, and if she hadn’t been with Antonio she’d have been utterly overwhelmed, but being here with him,leaningon him, letting him protect her…it was the perfect way to spend her second to last day.

Tomorrow they would face the last assessment with Ms Quell, who had finally returned to Italy, but she didn’t want to waste what precious little time she had left with Antonio dwelling on the misery that made her feel. She just wanted to enjoy every moment she could. And Antonio, it seemed, felt the same: determined to cling onto what they had with both hands, determined to try and satiate this need that had grown between them.

Since coming back from his mother’s party a week ago they had spent almost the entire time in bed, learning, discovering, teasing and indulging.

Hiding, a quiet part of herself whispered.

Was that so bad? Really? The day after tomorrow, she would be back home in her South West London flat, getting ready to go to work, probably wondering if it had all been a dream. At some point in the future, she imagined herself confiding to a disbelieving friend that she’d once been married to an Italian billionaire and spent a wild two weeks in Tuscany. It was a strange feeling. As if part of her were living this now and part was already in the future, desperately clinging to the memory of it, even as it happened.

A flash of colour caught her eye and she drew to a stop, raising the camera and peering through the viewfinder, her bad eye naturally closing and the world coming into stark, beautiful, near shocking focus and her pulse slowed in appreciation.

She snapped the scene multiple times, marvelling when she’d finished that Antonio had remained patiently by her side until she was ready to move on. She hadn’t even thought of it until she was done. She looked up at him, surprised, and he smiled down at her as if it had been the most natural thing in the world.

They walked from stall to stall, Ivy alternating between taking photographs and buying small things. A handful of fresh tomatoes that smelled like plums and basil, and some gorgeous bread. Antonio chose some cheese and dressed salads and salivated over artichokes and olives.

They stopped at a small artisan store run by a young woman selling handmade soaps, incense and essential oils, even little bottles of perfume. Antonio offered a few for her to try that made her nose scrunch. She wasn’t a fan of the sweeter, more flowery scents, but there was an earthier one that reminded her of summer. Of Italy. Ofhim. And when Antonio wasn’t looking, she bought a small sample of the perfume, knowing that when she was back in England it would remind her of this moment.

Ivy spent a while taking photographs of an older couple manning a lace stall, the story of their lives played out in wrinkles on their skin and sparkles in their eyes. Their love for each other was a privilege to see and she spent a long time gossiping with them in her half-forgotten Italian and listening to their stories of grandbabies and even great-grandbabies.

She thanked them and turned to find Antonio, who had procured a large wool blanket and an ice-cold bottle of wine.

‘Can I see?’ he asked, trying to peer at the screen on her camera.

She pulled it away from his prying gaze. ‘No,’ she said determinedly, but with good humour. The pictures were hers. Hers and perhaps the older couple’s. But no, they were very much hers.

‘Picnic?’ he asked, not offended in the least by her response.

She honestly couldn’t think of anything more perfect.

A short drive back towards his villa, Antonio found a spot near the woods that he’d once played in as a child, with Maria and Micha. He’d spent so long focused on the present, on building his own company, that only now did he realise just how much he’d avoided memories of his childhood. And while it was bittersweet, he went willingly to a spot that Ivy would love.

He parked up and they walked a short distance through the dappled light and fresh pine scents of the trees, until the dense foliage opened up into a glade. Ivy’s gasp of delight was enough to tell him that he’d been right to trust his instincts. Even at the very beginning when he’d first met her, he realised now. He’d never felt that about another person. Neverknownthem in the way he felt he knew Ivy. But he wanted more. More answers to the questions that sprang up from the bits and pieces he drew together to form the picture of Ivy he held deep within him.

He spread out the large blanket he’d happily paid a small fortune for—the market stall owner recognising a wealthy mark. Ivy sat, trying to unpack the things they’d bought for lunch and take in her surroundings at the same time.

He laughed and told her to go, shooing her away from the lunch preparations while she went to explore. Her camera was back out almost before the words had left his mouth.

When he was done, he stretched out, leaning back on his elbows and watching her walk in a slow circle around the glade. Lost completely to her pursuit, she moved more like she had done when he’d first met her. The sensual weave around the glade reminded him of when she had first caught his eye, slipping through the little tables and chairs of Affogato.

‘What is it about taking pictures you like so much?’ he asked, not needing to raise his voice much to reach her in the stillness of their surroundings.

There was a pause to her movements, her camera dropped a little as if she was considering how best to answer his question. She raised it to snap a few pictures of something he couldn’t see and turned to him, firing off one of him, catching him a little off-guard. He wondered what she’d captured in him. His curiosity about her? His desire? Each as unquenchable as the other.

She smiled, lowering her camera and making her way towards him, losing just a little of that ease she’d had only moments before.

She came to sit on the blanket and he handed her wine in the glass she’d teased him about buying from the market so that they could be civilised with their picnic. She raised a wry brow at the glass but took a sip, pleasure breaking out over her features as she tasted the cool white Orvieto.

He waited. He knew she’d answer when she was ready. There was, he had discovered, no use trying to rush her.

‘Photography was one of the lessons I took at the library following the accident,’ she said with a small smile, which grew wider as she spoke. ‘And it was amazing. I realised that the camera was the perfect solution for me. When I look through the viewfinder, my brain only has to deal with the information coming from that one eye—there’s no double vision as it struggles to process the two conflicting images. It’s wonderful. I’m not self-conscious—’

‘You’re self-conscious?’ he asked, not liking that she was. And he remembered all the things he’d made her do. Being the centre of what he’d thought was nothing more than a pampering session must have been hard, not to mention the dinner in the restaurant, and then meeting his family.

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