Page 44 of The Road to You
I sit up a little. “What? I’ll let you pick the next pastry shop. Deal?”
He sighs, not irritated exactly, but there’s a tightness to it. “Why don’t we just stay here a bit longer? Relax. That’s what people do in Positano.”
I blink at him. “I am relaxed. I just want to walk around. See the town.”
He finally turns his head toward me, the corners of his mouth quirking like he’s trying to hold on to his patience. “You’ve been bouncing on that lounger for the past fifteen minutes like a kid waiting for recess.”
I open my mouth, then close it again, suddenly aware that yeah, I might be doing just that. But still, I don’t understand his reluctance.
“You’re not on a Hollywood set, Lena,” he says, his voice gentler now. “There’s no schedule to meet. No director yelling ‘cut.’ You can just…enjoy this moment.”
I plop back onto the sunbed with a dramatic groan. “But there’s so much tosee. I don’t want to miss any of it. Who knows when I’ll be back here?”
“That’s exactly why you should slow down. Take it in.Breathe.”
I glance sideways at him. His skin has gone golden under the sun, his curls drying into lazy waves, and there’s a quiet, steady rhythm about him I still don’t fully understand. It’s like he belongs here, carved into this place as if even the waves adjust their rhythm to match his.
But something’s off. His words are calm, but there’s a stiffness to his body. I watch as he shifts on the lounger. Once, twice. Then again. And that’s when I notice it. His injured leg is trembling ever so slightly. I sit up a little straighter. My stomach drops. He’s in pain.
How did I not notice earlier? I was too busy going on about linen dresses and lemon tarts and dragging him from one corner of Italy to the next. What an idiot I am. Michele is the one dragging me around to see places and fill my heart with the beauty of this country, but not today. I should have guessed sooner that something was bothering him.
“Are you okay?” I ask carefully, pretending to adjust the umbrella shade.
“I’m fine.” The answer is automatic. Way too quick to be sincere.
I glance at him again, and I realize the set of his jaw isn’t from my enthusiasm. It’s from discomfort. His fingers are pressedagainst the edge of the lounger, gripping the wood tightly like he needs the anchor.
I shift my tone, light and casual. “We don’thaveto go. I was just saying.”
“You should go,” he says, not looking at me. “Go explore. I’ll be here when you get back.”
A tiny flame of guilt sparks in my chest. “Nah.” I wave a hand dismissively and plop back on my lounger. “Too hot. I’ll just melt on the cobblestones and get run over by a Vespa or something. Besides, I want to see if you’re secretly hiding the rest of that lemon cake under your towel.”
He glances at me, brow lifted. “You’re staying because of the cake?”
“Of course,” I say with a straight face. “You think I’d give up my shot at the last bite?”
He snorts, but I see that his shoulders relax. He adjusts the pillow behind his back, loosening up an inch or two.
I don’t mention his leg again. I don’t tell him that I noticed. I don’t want to embarrass him or make him feel like a burden. Even if it does worry me, the worsening of his injury. I’m certain he should be working on it and not traveling with me, not overexerting himself to make me happy.
Instead, I lean back, pick up my sunglasses, and slide them on again. The sun is high now, warm and heavy and rich. The sound of the sea rushes in steadily and comforting. I pull the edge of my towel over my stomach, tucking it in like a blanket.
He doesn’t know I’m staying for him. That I’d rather sit here in the heat and sweat through my swimsuit than leave him alone to grit his teeth against the pain. Though I’m pretty sure he’s guessed it. He’s too smart to ignore my sudden change of heart.
However, the truth is that I enjoy being near him. I like watching the way his brow furrows when he’s lost in thought or how he always seems to know when I need a sip of water beforeI do. I like that he can tease me about my tourist energy one second and then make sure I have the softest spot on the towel the next.
There’s a rhythm between us now. Something unspoken. We gravitate toward each other, anticipating what the other needs without even needing to speak.
And if that means skipping a stroll through linen boutiques, then fine. I’ll stay. I’ll sit in the sun and eat lemon pastries and let the sea lull us into this strange, perfect stillness.
Besides, it’s not like the town’s going anywhere. But this moment? I’m not willing to miss the quiet closeness between us.
The sun is just beginningto dip behind the horizon when we find ourselves climbing a narrow stone path that winds along the edge of Positano. The air smells like sea salt, grilled fish, and blooming jasmine. My hair is still a little damp from the beach, curling from the salty breeze, and every few minutes, Michele reaches out to tuck a strand behind my ear like he can’t help himself. Not that I mind, honestly.
He doesn’t say where we’re going. He just gives me that slow, secretive smile that sends heat curling low in my belly, and I follow him willingly. I would follow that smile down a cliff, if I’m being honest. When we reach a quiet restaurant perched above the sea, I understand. There’s only a handful of tables, and none as magical as the one waiting for us in the farthest corner of the terrace.
It’s tucked beneath a flowering pergola, candlelight already dancing across the small tablecloth, the view stretching wide and infinite beyond the cliff. The sea below glows with the last amberlight of the day, and the sound of waves echoes gently up the rocks.
