Page 29 of The Road to You
Not the most flattering comparison, I admit that. That’s what I get for strutting like a peacock in front of a woman.
For a moment, I just stare at her. Then, I lose it. A deep, gut-wrenching laugh bursts out of me, shaking my entire body. It’s been so long since I’ve laughed like this, so long since I’ve felt this light and free.
And that’s the problem. Because I already know when she leaves, she’s going to take a piece of me with her. A piece no one else will ever be able to replace.
12
LENA
The Boboli Gardens look like something straight out of a fairy tale. Sunlight filters through towering trees, casting intricate shadows on the manicured paths. The scent of blooming flowers lingers in the air, mixing with the warmth of the mid-July stillness. Everything here feels slower, like time itself has softened its edges, allowing life to be savored instead of rushed through.
I stroll beside Michele in comfortable silence, the warmth of the sun kissing my skin. My cheeks are still sore from laughing so much back at the Accademia. That’s the thing about him: being around him is effortless, like breathing. There’s no pressure, no need to be the poised and polished version of myself that Hollywood demands.
With Michele, I don’t have to be “Lena Sinclair, actress.” I can just be me. Messy hair, no makeup, raw emotions and all. He doesn’t judge. He never has. And every time I walk into a room, I catch his gaze burning into me like I’m something worth worshiping.
God, those eyes. Deep, dark, and molten, like rich, melted chocolate you want to drown in. They’re maybe the part I likethe most about him. Yes, his body is gorgeous, but his eyes make the world shrink down to just the two of us. There is no escaping the intensity of his gaze. Once he captures you with those irises, you’re locked in, forgetting the rest of the world.
I inhale deeply, letting the moment settle into my bones. “I could get used to this,” I murmur, stretching my arms above my head, tilting my face toward the sun. There is something magical about the Italian sun that makes you want to bask in it all day long. Or maybe it’s the laziness that surrounds us these days. It’s strange how a few months ago I didn’t know how to live without planning my life down to the minute, and now I can walk carefree without knowing what we’ll do the next hour. There is something powerful in knowing that anything is possible, we get to decide and nobody else. Coming to this country this summer, I realized how much my life depends on so many people. It’s refreshing, for once, to do what I want without caring about pleasing other people.
Michele glances at me with amusement tugging at the corners of his lips. “What? Italy or being on vacation?”
I smile. “Both, I guess. I love the pace of life here. The food. The sun. The…” I trail off, biting my lip as I catch his smirk.
“The devastatingly handsome company?” he finishes, cocking an eyebrow.
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help laughing. “You’re alright, I guess.” I’ve already admitted more than once that he’s handsome, and he’s caught me way too many times checking him out.
He clutches his chest in mock offense. “Alright?Tesoro, that’s cruel.”
I laugh at his dramatic response and bump my shoulder against his.
Before I can respond with some joke that will inflate his ego, my phone starts ringing. The shrill sound cuts through thetranquility, instantly dragging me back to reality like a slap in the face.
I sigh, already expecting to see Greta’s name flashing on the screen. She’s been calling almost every other day, demanding updates on my whereabouts and making sure I haven’t thrown my phone into the Arno River. She is worried about me because of the news of a possible tryst between me and a mysterious soccer player, which made the headlines back home, and she wants to be on the same page about what I want people to know about it. I told her I don’t care, as long as the paparazzi don’t start following me around in this country.
But when I pull the phone out of my purse, my stomach drops.
Preston.
A month and a half. That’s how long it’s been since his affair blew up every gossip site in the country. For weeks, I’ve been desperately awaiting this call. For an explanation. An apology. Hell, even a half-assed excuse. But now, I just feel nothing. No anticipation. No sadness. Just a simmering irritation at the fact that he thinks he has the right to disturb my peace.
I should send him to voicemail. Give him the silent treatment, the way he did after I discovered the truth. But something inside me shifts. Maybe it’s closure. Maybe it’s anger. Either way, I answer.
“I have to take this,” I say to Michele, noticing my voice turning somber.
Michele’s eyes darken with concern, but he simply nods and takes a step away, giving me space. God, I wish more men were as considerate as he is.
I press the phone to my ear. “Finally, you decide to call,” I say, letting my bitterness seep into every syllable.
Six weeks without being able to vent my frustration results in my fury raising its head in all its glory. And it feels good to direct these ugly feelings toward him.
Preston exhales sharply, already irritated. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Can we talk?”
His tone is so annoying I want to crawl out of my skin. I blink. Is he serious?Ishould be the one who’s pissed, not him.
“Oh, so, you’re finally ready to admit what you did and apologize?” My voice drips with sarcasm, and I don’t even try to rein it in. I want him to feel every ounce of my disgust for him.
The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. I can practically hear him calculating his next move, choosing his words carefully, just like always. I never paid much attention to this side of him; working in this industry teaches you to weigh each word carefully before someone takes advantage of you. But, now that it’s being used against me, I realize how little he cares about me, or at least what we once had.
