Page 12 of The Road to You
LENA
Michele pulls up in front of my apartment the next morning, and my jaw nearly drops. A vintage Alfa Romeo, painted deep, glossy blue with chrome accents, stands near the curb like something straight out of an old Italian movie. It’s compact, elegant, and effortlessly cool, just like the man behind the wheel.
I step closer, running my eyes over the sleek lines of the car. “Are you sure you’ll even fit in that thing?” I ask, arching a skeptical brow as he climbs out. The door creaks slightly.
He smirks, rounding the car to take my bags. “Hey, don’t underestimate my Giulia. She’s taken me on more adventures than you can imagine.” His voice is laced with pride as he runs a hand lovingly over the hood, like he’s petting a beloved pet rather than a sixty-year-old vehicle.
I cross my arms, barely containing my grin. “You named your car?”
He opens the passenger door, motioning for me to get in. “Sort of. It’s anAlfa Romeo Giulia Super. The name was kind of a given.” He winks before shutting the door behind me, and I feelmy stomach flip. That damn wink will be the end of me, I already know it.
Inside, the tan seats are buttery soft, worn just enough to be inviting but still immaculate. The scent of aged vinyl mingles with the faintest trace of gasoline, and I run my fingers along the polished dashboard. This car hasn’t just survived time. It defied it.
Michele folds himself into the driver’s seat, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing. He dwarfs the space, his broad shoulders nearly brushing mine, his long legs maneuvering awkwardly to fit. Our elbows touch lightly, and I glance at him, with amusement bubbling up my throat.
“What?” He shoots me a curious look.
I shake my head, fighting back a chuckle. “Nothing. I’m just fascinated to see how you plan on driving across Italy without cramping up like a pretzel.”
He rolls his eyes, shifting the gearstick with practiced ease. “You Americans and your giant cars. Just wait. You’ll be grateful for my Giulia when we have to squeeze between parked cars and oncoming traffic in the old Roman streets.”
I huff a small laugh, conceding his point. The first time I visited Italy, I was baffled by the roads. They are narrow, winding, and seemingly designed for vehicles half the size of what I was used to. Compared to the vast highways back home, these streets feel like something out of an old movie, made for horse-drawn carriages rather than modern traffic.
“Fair point,” I admit, trailing my fingertips over the pristine dashboard. “This car is in incredible shape.”
Michele beams, his chest visibly puffing with pride. “It took me years to restore her. She’s arestomod.”
I glance at him, intrigued. “What does that mean?”
“It means she still looks like a classic beauty on the outside, but under the hood, she’s got modern upgrades: engine,suspension, brakes, and electronics. Makes her safer and more reliable.”
I nod, absorbing that. There’s something undeniably appealing about the combination. Vintage charm with a strong, capable heart beneath. And, if I’m being honest, the way he talks about it, with such effortless confidence, like he doesn’t need to prove anything, only makes him more attractive. What I noticed immediately about him is that he doesn’t need to show off to be seen. It’s a feat very few men I’ve met can pull off.
“We don’t have air conditioning, though,” he adds, glancing at me sideways. “So I’ll stick to side roads, avoid the highways. We can keep the windows down and let the breeze do the work. Sound good?”
I smile. “Fine by me. I’ve got all the time in the world.”
We settle into a comfortable silence as he weaves through Milan’s chaotic traffic. Horns blare, modern Vespas zip by narrowly avoiding us, and yet, Michele seems unbothered, driving the car with an ease that speaks of years spent navigating streets like these.
The moment we leave the city behind, the landscape shifts. The mountains in front of us replace towering buildings, and the road leads us through small towns. I lose count of how many towns we pass. In the U.S., I could drive for hours between cities without seeing a single house, just miles and miles of open land. Here, everything is connected. The small cities are stitched together like a tapestry. There’s no getting lost in Italy; there’s always something just around the corner.
“Where are we going?” I ask after a while, realizing I’d jumped into this car with zero clue about our destination. Probably not my smartest move, but somehow, I trust him. Hopefully, that trust won’t end with my body hidden in a vineyard somewhere.
Michele flicks his gaze toward me, grinning like he’s got a secret he can’t wait to reveal. “I figured Como might be a bit of a paparazzi trap, considering all the celebrities who vacation there. So, instead, I’m taking you to Varenna. It’s a small town on Lake Como. Less flashy but more charm.”
I blink, surprised by his thoughtfulness. “Aren’t there still a lot of tourists?”
“Oh, tons,” he admits with a chuckle. “But tourists aren’t paparazzi. No one’s sitting around with a zoom lens waiting for us to show up.”
He reaches into the back seat and pulls out something, dropping it onto my lap. Two navy-blue baseball caps, each embroidered with theAlfa Romeoemblem.
I pick one up, holding it between my fingers. “Do you own anything that isn’t car-related?”
His grin is unapologetic. “I love my sweet baby, okay?” He gives the dashboard an affectionate pat, and I can’t help but laugh.
Shaking my head, I slide the cap on and then lean toward him to check my reflection in the rearview mirror. He says nothing, but when our eyes meet, he winks. That. Damn. Wink.
Suddenly, I’m staring at him for far too long, taking in the dark hair peeking from beneath his cap, the way his scruff sharpens the angles of his jaw, the unbuttoned collar of his polo shirt teasing a glimpse of his chest dusted with dark hair. Usually, I go for clean-cut, polished men, the type who keep their beards perfectly trimmed and their suits pressed.
