Page 71 of The Road to You
It’s Gianna who voices their thoughts. “You limped for attention because Serena was all over you when you got out of that pool.”
Alessandro raises his eyebrow in agreement, and I feel my cheeks heat up when I realize a part of me is jealous of a teenage girl, now an adult, who is not even here right now.
I can’t breathe from laughing. “Please,” I gasp. “Keep going. I need more stories to torment him with later.”
Michele looks at me like I’ve just committed the ultimate betrayal. “Et tu, Brute?”
“Absolutely,” I grin. “I’m just trying to understand the man I’m…” I pause. Dating? Seeing? Sleeping with? Falling for?
He arches a brow, waiting for me to finish. This is a discussion we’ve both avoided after the latest developments, and right now, my brain is scrambling to find the right word without appearing like a complete idiot in front of his friends. Theydidn’t ask us if we were together, or at least they didn’t express this thought to me, but I saw the curious gazes between us when they joined us tonight.
“…having dinner with,” I conclude, taking another sip of wine but never letting my gaze leave his eyes.
A small smirk appears on his lips while he studies me intently. I can’t tell if he’s happy with my definition of our relationship, or lack thereof, but I decide not to bring it up here, and neither does he. But this is something we have to discuss at some point, because we are clearly not just friends anymore.
Laughter eruptsaround the table again, bringing us back to reality, and his hand slides beneath the table to rest against my thigh. It’s innocent. Almost. Because when he reaches the hem of my dress, he caresses my inner thigh way too intimately for a dinner with friends. Thank God, Italians use a tablecloth for every meal. Otherwise, his mother would be horrified.
The rest of the night is a blur of food, wine, and stories. Lucia makes her rounds like a queen holding court, pressing more focaccia into my hand every time I so much as glance toward my empty plate. Michele’s younger cousins dart to and from the table with the energy only teenagers on summer break can have. Someone starts pouring limoncello from a bottle that appears to be older than most of the guests.
Eventually, the stories give way to quieter conversations. Candles flicker low. The cicadas sing in the trees.
I lean back, sipping my drink, and let the moment settle into my bones. I’ve never felt this kind of belonging before. Not on a movie set. Not even at one of those exclusive Hollywood partieswith champagne and string quartets and gowns that cost more than my car.
This is real.
Michele’s mother walks by and sets a warm hand on my shoulder. “You’re part of the family now,tesoro.Whether you like it or not.” Her smile is so soft that, as her son translates it to me, my heart almost explodes in my chest.
I blink hard against the tears that threaten to rise. “I think I’m okay with that.”
Michele looks at me, and something passes between us, unspoken words that warm my chest. He reaches for my hand again and threads his fingers through mine.
I squeeze.
I want to remember everything. The glow of the lights, the sting of the limoncello on my tongue, the scent of summer in the air, and the way Michele smiles at me like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever had the nerve to want.
In this moment, surrounded by laughter, flickering candlelight, and the low hum of an Italian summer night, I think I might love him. I might really, truly love him, and that might be the most terrifying, wonderful thing I’ve ever felt.
The wine has goneto everyone’s heads in the best possible way. Some of his friends are still telling stories about their childhood, while others are walking between the olive trees, trying to digest the Italian dinner we just had. Some others pour another glass of limoncello, with flushed cheeks and watery eyes.
Michele’s hand slides over my knee under the table, squeezing lightly. I turn my head, and he’s already looking at me with a lopsided grin.
“I’m getting you out of here before Andrea tells the watermelon story,” he murmurs.
“What watermelon story?” My eyes light up with curiosity while my cheeks beg me to take a rest from laughing.
“Exactly,” he says, already pulling me to my feet.
“Michele!” I half laugh, half scold as he tugs me away from the table, down a stone path a few meters from the pergola, near a cluster of fig trees and an old radio propped on a barrel. The music is low, a slow and romantic tune, the kind that makes the cicadas seem quieter in comparison.
He stops and turns, slipping his arms around my waist. “Dance with me.”
My heart does its usual backflip, like every other time Michele looks at me with those intense eyes. He makes me feel seen, loved, and a part of something. He sees the real me, and I’m not afraid to show him the most intimate part of myself. I don’t even remember the last time I wore makeup this summer, maybe a few days into our journey.
“You’re saving yourself from public humiliation, aren’t you?” I raise an eyebrow, challenging him.
He smirks. “Absolutely. But also, I just wanted you in my arms again,” he whispers in my ear while he pulls me against his chest as we sway to the slow song.
God. How is it that he says things like that with zero hesitation? Like it’s inevitable. Doesn’t he know that my legs go weak when he says things like that? Even my words fail to give him a reply.
