Page 7 of The Road to You
I look up and find myself staring into the bluest irises I’ve ever seen. For a heartbeat, I’m lost. Those eyes lead to a buttonnose and lips so full and soft they could make a grown man forget his own name. I’m talking from experience here.
“I’m so sorry,” she says again, her cheeks flushing. She snatches a pile of napkins from the counter and starts patting my chest, the motion so awkward and clumsy it melts my irritation on the spot.
The stain is beyond saving, a beige disaster spreading from my chest to my sweatpants. But who cares?
“Don’t worry.” I chuckle, trying to put her at ease. “Let me buy you a cappuccino, unless you’d rather try to squeeze this one out of my shirt.”
She looks up at me, wide-eyed, and suddenly, nothing else matters. Not my leg, not the clinic, not Marco’s pissed-off expression still seared into my mind. Right now, my world has shrunk to the hope that she’ll say yes.
4
LENA
Yes or no? A simple answer to a simple question.
This gorgeous man just offered to buy me a cappuccino after I thoroughly ruined his shirt. Logic says I should be the one offering to pay for dry cleaning, not accepting free coffee from him. And more than that, I shouldn’t even stay here. I should turn around and disappear. Lay low, Lena. You have one job this summer:lay low.
But how am I supposed to say no when he looks likethat?
Warm brown eyes, a sharp jawline dusted with the perfect amount of dark scruff, and full lips that appear to be far too easy to fantasize about. I always thought that the wholeItalian men are next-level attractivething was an exaggerated stereotype. But if he’s the standard, then yeah, I get it now. This man could convince me to rob a bank, right here, right now, and I’d probably ask which getaway car he prefers.
“Yes,” I breathe out, and the smile that spreads across his face isblinding.
He says something in Italian to the barista—something deep and smooth that I don’t understand butdefinitelywouldn’t mind hearing again—then places a firm hand on my back,guiding me toward a small table outside. His touch is light, but it leaves a trail of heat against my skin. The bar is quiet at this time of day. Most people are tucked away in air-conditioned offices, while we sit beneath a large umbrella shielding us from the hot Italian sun.
A gentleman, he pulls my chair out for me like he’s done it a thousand times before. It looks effortless, second nature for him. When he takes the seat across from me, he extends his hand with a confident, easygoing smile.
“I’m Michele Moretti. Nice to meet you.”
Oh, that voice. It’s rich and deep, laced with something that makes my stomach dip in a way that isverydangerous.
I clasp his hand way too clumsily, and my fingers are sweaty against his warm palm. “Lena. Lena Sinclair.”
The second the words leave my lips, I regret them.Idiot. I should have just saidLena. But it’s too late. His eyes flicker with recognition, and my stomach clenches in a grip.
“ThatLena Sinclair?”
My heart sinks. It was too good to last. I made it fifteen whole days without being recognized, and now my anonymity is over.
Heat creeps up my neck, but I force myself to nod, staring down at my hands. The urge to bolt is strong, but if I run now, I’ll make a worse scene.
Instead of an over-the-top reaction, he simply leans back in his chair, studying me like he’s debating whether to say something or let it go.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says, his voice still smooth but now careful. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just prefer to be straightforward. Pretending not to recognize you would feel dishonest, and I’m not that kind of man.”
My head snaps up, and my eyes lock onto his. I was bracing forsomething else, the usual fake nonchalance, then the casual request for a selfie, maybe even a veiled attempt at getting moredetails about my situation. But he just says it like it is. No big deal.
And for some reason, that makes my shoulders relax.
“I’m just not used to people recognizing meandkeeping it cool,” I admit. “Most of my encounters end with a ‘quick photo’ that’s on social media before I even walk away.”
His brows pull together slightly, but his lips stay tilted in that barely-there smile. “Would it make you more comfortable if I asked for one?” His voice is teasing. “I could sell it to the gossip magazines. Make a fortune.”
I scrunch my nose at him, but my lips betray me with a small smile. “Oh, absolutely. I hear they pay big money for blurry pictures of me covered in cappuccino stains.”
He lets out a low, warm chuckle that makes my stomach quiver.
“Trust me, I’m not sellinganythingto those vultures,” he says in a firm voice. And for some unexplainable reason, I believe him.
