Page 72 of The Road to You
I loop my arms around his neck, and we dance slowly, our bodies pressed close and following the rhythm. The night air is warm and honey-sweet, and the candlelight from the table flickers across the stone wall of the masseria. His hand is splayed across my lower back, and his fingers sift through the fabric of my sundress.
“So,” I say, tilting my head to look up at him, “you really played the same song every night for a whole summer?”
He groans. “You said we were done with this.”
I grin.
“I lied. Was it a ballad?” I tease him.
“Lena.” He growls my name in a way that I don’t know if it’s a warning or lusty desire. Heat pools in my lower belly.
“Did you do the whole kneeling-down thing? Maybe some tortured eye contact?” I press teasingly, wanting to know how the young Michele was. Was he as confident as he is with me now, or was he shy around the girls? I find it sweet that he played the same song for the entire summer because the girl he had a crush on loved it. It somehow fits the Michele I know now, thoughtful and romantic.
His eyes narrow playfully. “You’re walking a very dangerous line.”
And I’m not even done yet.
“Did you make a video clip for her with that song? Did you have backup dancers? A costume? I feel like there was glitter involved.” Now it’s hard to hold back a laugh.
That’s when he retaliates with a swift tickle to my waist that makes me yelp and jerk in his arms. His deft fingers are playing my body way too well.
“No! Stop! Michele!” I gasp, laughing so hard my ribs ache.
He grins like a boy caught sneaking cookies, looking smug and stupidly beautiful, the shadows from the fig trees softening the angles of his face.
“You deserved that,” he says in a low voice. More serious.
My fingers skim the back of his neck, toying with the edge of his dark hair. “It’s nice, you know. Hearing all those stories. It means they really love you.”
“They tolerate me. Barely.” He playfully rolls his eyes.
“They love you,” I say again, more firmly. “And they included me. Like I’ve always been here,” I add more to myself than to him.
In their eyes, we are a couple, something serious and definitive, as if we have already figured out the rest of our lives, unaware that we are far from that outcome.
He’s quiet for a beat, watching me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with no rush to the answer. I can’t read his thoughts, but there is a bit of longing in his gaze, covered by a layer of uncertainty.
“I think they’ve already decided you’re staying,” he says, his voice soft. “Even before we figure it out.”
My heart kicks against my ribs. The conversation is too close, too tender, and mirrors my thoughts exactly. It’s too important and delicate to talk about here, when anyone could interrupt us, leaving us more confused than we are now. So I cover this seriousness with a grin.
“I mean, after you serenade a girl with her favorite song and fall off a roof, what else is left but marriage?” I wink at him, and a smile spreads across his face, lightening the tension between us.
He laughs, and I kiss the corner of his mouth—just a tease—but when I pull back, he doesn’t let go.
He shifts one hand to cup my cheek, fingers tracing my jaw like I’m something rare. The kiss he gives me isn’t rushed or playful. It’s slow, thorough, and deeply aware of where we are, of the laughter still echoing in the background, of the fact that anyone could see. And someone does.
A whistle cuts through the air, followed by clapping.
“Finally!” Gianna shouts from the table.
Andrea raises his glass. “About time!”
My cheeks flame, but Michele just presses his forehead to mine and chuckles.
“Well,” he murmurs, “I guess that makes it official.”
“Looks like it,” I whisper, not moving from his arms. Because if I move, I’m not sure I can stand on my own. My legs are weak, and my stomach trembles, succumbing to the flutters that are wreaking havoc in my chest.
