Page 34 of The Road to You
I unlock the door and pull it open.
Michele stands there, holding a tray with two cappuccinos in delicate ceramic cups, steam curling from their surfaces. A brown paper bag rests beside them, slightly crinkled, and the scent of something sweet drifts toward me.
He looks at me, his eyes scanning over my face, down to my barely-there nightgown, and back up again. If he has any thoughts about my attire, he doesn’t show it. His expression remains as calm and confident as ever, but I can see a glint of lust before he hides it behind his beautiful smile.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice still tinged with sleep.
I blink at him, trying to shake off the fact that he’s standing here, looking so effortlessly put together in a crisp white T-shirtand navy shorts, his dark hair slightly tousled. He looks like he belongs in an ad forHow to Be the Perfect Italian Man.Damn, he is sexy as sin.
“Good morning,” I murmur, stepping back to let him in. “You bring breakfast to all the women you kiss, or am I special?”
His lips curve into a smirk as he strides past me. “Depends. Do all the women I kiss look this good first thing in the morning?”
My stomach tightens, appreciating the compliment, but I roll my eyes, pretending he doesn’t affect me so much, and shut the door behind him. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Moretti.”
He sets the tray down on a small table by the open terrace doors. “That’s a lie, and we both know it.”
I shake my head, but I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. He is right, and if he keeps up his charming persona, I can’t guarantee how I will react. Or do.
The morning air is cool as I step onto the terrace, the view stealing my breath for the hundredth time since we arrived. Rome stretches before me, rich in history and tales to discover. Terracotta rooftops bathe in golden sunlight, church domes pierce the sky, and streets are lined with flower-filled balconies. It feels surreal, like I’ve wandered into a Fellini film, where the city itself is a character whispering secrets to those who pause long enough to listen.
Michele follows, setting the cappuccinos and the bag on the small wrought-iron table. He pulls out a chair, gesturing for me to sit. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s done this for me.
I arch a brow. “Are you always this much of a gentleman?” I like to tease him for his gestures that feel like another era, mostly because I’m not used to it, and I don’t know how to react to them.
“Only when I’m trying to impress a woman in a nightgown,” he says, winking.
And here we go—he’s so candid in expressing what he thinks that sometimes he shocks me.
I laugh, sinking into the chair. “Well, points for honesty.”
He sits across from me and pulls out two pastries from the bag. They are golden, pillowy soft, split open, and filled with thick, glossy cream.
I raise a brow. “That looks dangerously good. What is it?” My mouth starts to water just from the smell of it.
“Maritozzi,” he says, handing me one. “A Roman classic. Sweet bun and whipped cream. Basically perfection.”
I take a bite, and my eyes nearly roll back in my head. “Oh my God.” I moan like an orgasm just hit me. And from how my body is tingling for this delicacy, I might have just come and don’t realize it.
He chuckles. “I’ll take that as a good sign.”
“It’s averygood sign,” I say around another bite. “This is…unreal.” How is it possible someone came up with something so good?
“See? You’re getting the full Italian experience.”
I sip my cappuccino, letting the creamy foam linger on my lips before licking it away. Michele watches me, something unreadable flashes in his gaze, like there is some worry in his chest that he is deciding to share with me, but he is not sure. I study him from behind the rim of my cup.
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You said last night that we were lucky we walk a lot. What did you mean?”
He goes straight for what is bothering him, I can see it in his tight muscles and frowning brows. I appreciate this side of him.
I wave a hand. “Just that if we keep eating like this, I’ll need to live on a treadmill when I get back to LA.”
I realize it’s the wrong thing to say when his face darkens, leaving me puzzled.
His expression shifts slightly, his brows drawing even more together. “You worry about that?”
I shake my head. “No, not really. I mean, yeah, Hollywood has its expectations, and I do need to stay in shape, but I don’t obsess over it. I love staying active. I feel better when I exercise. But I also love food, and I’d rather enjoy what I eat than spend my life counting calories.”
