Page 35 of The Road to You
He let out a sigh of relief that surprises me. Was he worried about my approach to food? I know most people think Hollywood has the highest rates of eating disorders, but I’m not part of that statistic. I value my health.
He studies me for a moment, then nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer. “That’s good.”
I tilt my head. “Why do you look so concerned?”
“Because too many people, especially women in your industry, don’t see it that way,” he says simply.
Is he worried about me? The realization hits hard in my chest. It’s a kind of confirmation of the feeling I have that our relationship is far more complicated than we want to admit.
I purse my lips, nodding. “Yeah. It’s a weird world. Sometimes, it’s exactly like people imagine: glamorous parties, designer clothes, eccentric rich people with ridiculous habits. And sometimes, it’s just…work. Waking up at four a.m., sitting in a makeup chair for hours, shooting until midnight, then going home and collapsing into bed like any other exhausted person. And this applies to food too. I see way too many actors and actresses, killing themself in the gym for a part, eating ridiculously tiny portions, but others just live a healthy life. We’re lucky enough that we have access to the best food and the best trainers to help us with that.”
He seems to think about it for a long moment before smiling and nodding.
“You don’t sound like you mind working your ass off for it.” He takes a sip from his cappuccino, studying me.
I smile, shaking my head. “I don’t. I love what I do. I’m lucky. I get to live my dream, and I don’t take that for granted.”
Michele nods slowly. “I get that.”
I look at him, suddenly curious. “What about you? What’s life like for you outside of…well, everything that happened?”
He exhales, looking out at the city for a moment before answering. “It used to be fast. Always moving, always training, always preparing for the next game. Now…it’s different. Slower. And I thought I’d hate it, but…” He looks at me, his gaze soft. “I don’t.”
A warmth spreads through my chest. There’s something incrediblyrealabout this conversation, about sitting here with him, drinking cappuccino and talking about life like we aren’t two people who just had a kiss that could’ve set the world on fire. We are taking our time getting to know each other, and the feeling is so surreal it feels like I’m dreaming it.
The slow life. Michele is giving me that. Letting me exist in it, without expectations, without pressure. And I don’t know what that means yet, but I do know I don’t want it to end.
I know what he means, that he doesn’t hate it, because since coming here, I’ve discovered part of myself that I didn’t know existed in the frenetic chaos of my life. Things that you have to slow down to savor, such as taking your time to go to the grocery store and think about what you want to eat based on what you find, rather than rushing through the shelves and grabbing the first thing you see.
It sounds stupid and insignificant until you find yourself anticipating a meal because you notice the ingredient you didn’t even know you were craving. I’ve learned to listen to my body more, and this is reflecting on my mental health too.
I reach for another bite of mymaritozzo, flashing him a grin. “So, Moretti…what’s the plan for today? More sightseeing? More attempts to seduce me with food?”
He smirks. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” His usual playfulness hits me full force.
I laugh, and just like that, the morning feels even lighter. This moment, this slow, easy peace, it’s something I never knew I needed. And something I might not be ready to let go of.
The air smells like summer,with its warm earth, sun-drenched leaves, and the faintest hint of blooming flowers drifting through the breeze. Villa Borghese stretches before us like an oasis of green in the middle of Rome, with wide gravel paths winding through towering cypress trees and ancient statues peeking out between the hedges. There’s a quiet hum of life here, birds chirping in the branches, the distant laughter of children, the occasional swish of a bicycle rolling past.
I take a deep breath, letting the tranquility settle in my bones. Rome is full of breathtaking places, but this feels like a hidden pocket of magic.
Michele walks beside me, hands tucked into the pockets of his navy shorts, his steps lazy and unhurried. The morning light catches in his dark hair, giving it a golden sheen, and I find myself glancing at him more often than necessary. He looks…relaxed. Like he belongs here, like this version of him, carefree and unburdened, is who he was always meant to be.
“How is it that you’re Italian, and yet I’m the one who suggested Villa Borghese?” I tease, bumping my shoulder lightly against his.
Michele smirks, tilting his head toward me. “Because I don’t usually play tourist in my own country. But I have to admit, it’s not a bad suggestion.”
I feign shock. “Is that a compliment?” My stomach flips in response.
“Don’t let it get to your head,” he quips. “It’s already big enough.”
I gasp in mock offense, placing a hand over my chest. “Rude.”
He chuckles, the sound warm and deep, and I can’t help but smile. I want to record that laugh and bring it with me. I would listen to it every time I’m sad.
We continue strolling, the gravel crunching beneath our feet, the sun filtering through the trees in golden patches. I glance around, soaking it all in: the Renaissance fountains, the grand sculptures that seem frozen mid-motion, the endless greenery stretching before us like something out of a painting.
And then, out of nowhere, I feel his fingers brush against mine. It’s the lightest touch, almost accidental, but then, without hesitation, without even looking down, he links our fingers together. My breath catches in my throat.
