Page 24 of The Road to You
His jaw clenches, but he steps back, giving me space, except for his hands, which remain on my waist, grounding me. I swear I see a glimpse of guilt crossing his gaze before hiding it.
“I understand,” he says, his voice rough, but there is not a hint of doubt in that statement.
“It’s not that I don’t like you. God. I really like you.” He smiles at my confession. “But I feel like it isn’t fair for both of us if I don’t solve my mess before dragging you into this.”
He smiles and nods. “You don’t have to explain. I understand, and I apologize if I took this too far.”
I search his face for disappointment, for frustration. I find neither. Just patience and quiet understanding.
And that scares me more than anything. Because it makes me want him even more. I feel that pull at my chest tighten even more than before, and I’m scared that at some point it will snap, leaving me more broken than when I arrived in this country.
Shit.
10
LENA
One week.
Seven days of blissful peace in this house nestled in the rolling Tuscan hills. Days spent learning to cook under Michele’s patient guidance, sipping exquisite wine, and indulging in lazy afternoons basking under the sun or swaying in the hammock with a book in my hands.
We never talked about the kiss. But somehow, nothing really changed. It isn’t awkward between us. If anything, it feels natural. We still laugh and joke like we always did, even though the pull between us hasn’t gone anywhere. I know I’m still drawn to him, and I’m fairly certain he feels the same way. There are moments, too many of them, when I catch him looking at me, when my skin tingles under his gaze, and I wonder what would happen if I closed the space between us.
And yet, we don’t cross that line again. I often think about that kiss because, damn, it was a really spectacular one. The kind that makes your insides explode like a can of soda after you shake it. It was perfect on so many levels that if I think about it, I can still feel the tingling on my lips and his body pressed against mine. It would be so easy to slip into something more withMichele, but I’m not the kind of woman who goes straight for the next man, even if he is attractive and emotionally available.
But no matter how much I try to tell myself to slow down, Michele makes it easy to forget about the rest of the world. He’s level-headed, effortlessly funny, and so damn considerate that I never feel the need to escape for some alone time. In fact, I crave his presence. More than once, I’ve found myself thinking about the moment I’ll have to leave, and every time, an unfamiliar ache settles in my chest.
I don’t want to think about what that means.
“I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this relaxed,” I muse, stretching out on the lounge chair as Michele passes by to refill our glasses with iced tea. “Actually, I don’t think I ever have.”
He hands me my glass and settles into the recliner next to mine. The sun kisses his tanned skin, highlighting the tattoos sprawled across his torso. My gaze lingers on the scar running down his thigh before I quickly glance away. He seems more relaxed these days, even though I know he would never tell me if he is in pain. He strikes me as the type who suffers in silence rather than worrying those around him. If I weren’t in that bedroom that night, I would have never known the extent of his injury.
“Yeah,” he says, exhaling deeply. “I know what you mean. I don’t think I’ve ever had this much time to myself, not without the pressure to train or the constant rush to get back to work.”
I tilt my head, studying him from behind my sunglasses. He wears his too, making it impossible to decipher what’s going through his mind, but something in his tone tells me this conversation isn’t just casual small talk. We skipped the awkward stage where you don’t know how to make the conversation flow, or maybe it was never even there. Spendingso much time with a person makes the small talk dry up fast, leaving space for more meaningful conversations.
I care about him, more than I should, more than I want to admit. And no matter how hard I try to suppress it, a part of me worries about what will happen when this brief escape ends.
“Do you have a timeline for your recovery?” I ask, my voice softer now. I don’t know exactly what his injury entails, but I do know that for an athlete, something like this can be career-ending.
He shrugs. “Not really. I just have to keep working on it and hope it gets better.”
I nod, even though his answer unsettles me. He’s being deliberately vague, and I don’t know if it’s because he genuinely doesn’t have answers or because he doesn’t want to talk about it. Either way, I don’t push. Whatever he’s facing, I have no right to pry. When he is ready to tell me, he will.
“Does it still hurt?” I ask instead. Our bedrooms are right next to each other, and more than once, I’ve strained my ears at night, wondering if he needed help. But I never hear a sound.
He shakes his head. “Not this week. Being here, away from everything, helps.”
That small confession tightens something in my chest. It’s my fault if his leg is getting somehow worse. When he says he has to “work on it,” I imagine that entails physical therapy and rest, something I haven’t seen him do since we left Milan.
“Driving all this way couldn’t have been good for you,” I say, sitting up straighter. “I should go home and let you focus on recovering properly.”
His head snaps toward me, and his jaw tightens. “Don’t even think about it.”
His words hold a weight that sends a shiver down my spine. There’s something in the way he says it, something firm butalmost desperate. It’s like he is grasping for something I can’t see.
“I don’t want to make your injury worse,” I insist, trying to keep my voice steady. “I don’t need this trip. I can go back to Milan…”
