Page 63 of The Road to You
When he kisses me, it’s nothing like the fiery, frantic kiss of that first night. It’s slow. Deep. Reverent. Like he’s making a promise. Like he’saskingfor something. And I give it, whatever it is, without hesitation. My hands find his chest, his heart hammering under my palms, and I press closer, needing the anchor of him. His arms wrap around me, strong and sure, like he could hold me here forever.
I don’t even realize I’m trembling until he pulls back just enough to whisper against my lips, “Hey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
God. If only he knew how much I want that. How much I crave someone I can trust blindly and count on. Someone I can see in my future, when we’re old, and we smile at the memory of a life spent together.
An olive branch creaks somewhere behind us, and we break apart, reluctantly, turning toward the sound.
It’s Mariasole, Michele’s younger sister, stepping into the courtyard, barefoot and grinning mischievously. She folds her arms and says something rapid-fire in Italian that makes Michele groan softly.
He turns to me, his mouth twitching.
“She says she set up two bedrooms for us,” he translates, his voice teasing but a little rough around the edges. “Because, you know, as open-minded as my parents are, they’re notthatopen-minded.”
I blink, feeling my cheeks heat. The implication hangs heavy between us.Two bedrooms.Because we’re not official.Becauseeven though we’ve kissed, even though we’ve shared a bed once, even though tonight feels bigger and deeper than anything I’ve ever known, we haven’ttalkedabout what we are.
But his family has already decided. They see us as a couple, something real, something serious. And somehow, I realize that the idea doesn’t terrify me. It fills my heart with a quiet, yet dangerous kind of hope.
Michele looks at me, one eyebrow raised, giving me the chance to say something, to joke, to deflect, to change the subject.
I don’t.
I just smile, small and a little shy, and say, “Lead the way.” And as we walk inside together, the night warm and heavy around us, I know that whatever happens next, we’ve already crossed a line we can’t uncross.
22
LENA
There’s a soft thump in the corner of the room, like someone’s gently nudging the old stone walls. I blink awake, the moonlight casting silver shapes across the terracotta floor. My window is half-open, letting in the scent of warm earth and jasmine, and the distant sound of crickets buzzing in the olive groves.
I squint toward the doorway, heart picking up pace, until a familiar, tall shadow steps fully into view.
“Michele?” I whisper.
“Shh.” He presses a finger to his lips, eyes sparkling as he closes the door behind him with exaggerated care. He’s barefoot, in a white T-shirt and sleep-rumpled shorts, hair wild like he’s been tossing and turning in bed. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I stepped on something outside your door. Think it might’ve been a Lego.”
“A Lego? In a centuries-old fortified farmhouse?”
“We’re a modern family.”
I choke down a laugh. “You scared me.”
He crosses the room in just a few steps and crouches by the edge of the bed, elbows on the mattress. “Sorry, I couldn’t sleep.”
“Did you try counting sheep?”
“Yeah, but they all looked like my cousins and started asking me when I’m getting married.”
That gets a giggle out of me, and I swat at him lightly. The room feels smaller now, filled with his presence. The citrusy clean scent of his skin, the warmth rolling off his body, the low husk of his voice in the quiet of the masseria tickles all my senses in the best way.
The walls are thick here, whitewashed stone that holds the day’s heat outside, guarding our sleep while the earth outside releases the intense temperature of the scorching sun. My room is spare but cozy, with high ceilings and exposed beams. The bed is soft and creaky, the kind that hugs your weight and promises heavy dreams. There’s a lace curtain swaying at the window and a painted ceramic bowl on the nightstand with dried lavender tucked inside. The whole place smells like summer and old stories.
“You’re sneaking into my room like a teenager,” I tease, shifting onto my side to face him. My voice is soft, sleepy.
“I feel like one. Except back then, I didn’t have legs full of screws.”
I touch his wrist gently. “How’s your leg?”
“It’s fine,” he says quickly. “Doesn’t hurt unless I overdo it.”
