Page 9 of The Road to You
Michele clears his throat, and his tone is almost hesitant when he speaks again. “Okay, this might sound strange, but would you like to have dinner with me?”
I blink, surprised not just by the offer but by the hopeful edge to his voice. A sentiment that mirrors mine.
“Now?” I ask, just to be sure we’re on the same page.
He nods. “Unless you have plans.”
There’s something endearing about the way he says it, like the thought of me having evening plans hadn’t even crossed his mind until now.
I chuckle. “I’m here alone. My only plan was watching TV with a cup of gelato.”
His lips curve into a slow, confident smile. “I promise you won’t regret missing the gelato.” He extends his arm slightly in an invitation, not too intimate, just enough to suggest we walk together.
I hesitate only a second before slipping my hand through the crook of his elbow.
As we start strolling toward a quieter street, I glance at the stain still marring his shirt. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home and change?”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Where we are going, they don’t mind if I walk in wearing only my boxer briefs.”
I let out a laugh. “Is this a common occurrence? You showing up to dinner half-naked?”
Michele smirks, shaking his head. “No, but they’re used to worse. Believe me. And this?” He gestures to his stained shirt. “This is nothing. Accidents happen.”
His casual attitude about it is almost charming. In my world, if I as much as step outside with a coffee stain, the headlines would have a field day.
We reach a tucked-awaytrattorianestled between a residential building and a covered walkway leading to a small square. Above the door, a wooden sign reads Trattoria Mamma Rosa, and from the terrace above, a cascade of pink, white, and purple flowers spills over, partially veiling the windows. It’s intimate and charming, the kind of place only locals seem to know about.
As soon as we step inside, a woman behind the counter looks up and her face lights up when she sees Michele.
“Ragazzo mio!” She sets down the bottle of wine she is opening, hurrying around the counter.
I watch as she wraps her short arms around his torso, pressing her cheek against his chest with motherly affection. Michele chuckles, resting a hand lightly on her back, murmuring something in Italian.
The brief exchange is warm and affectionate. Around us, a few tables have turned their attention our way. For a split second, my stomach clenches with nerves. Have they recognized me? But no. They’re not looking at me. They’re looking athim. Maybe because of the stained shirt? I don’t linger looking for an answer, but I’m glad I’m not the one drawing attention.
After a few more words I don’t understand, the woman leads us to a corner table. The trattoria is cozy, with butter-yellow walls and old-fashioned tools hanging as decor. It feels worlds away from the upscale, modern restaurants I’m used to. I sigh in relief when I realize I can relax a bit and not think about being perfect in here like I usually do when I go out in Los Angeles.
Michele settles into his chair and glances at me. “Sorry, she doesn’t speak much English. She was just asking how I’ve been.”
I smile. “No problem.”
Honestly, I’ve noticed it’s rare to find someone here who speaks English fluently, especially the older generations. Most know enough to get by, but deeper conversations are another story.
Michele picks up a menu but doesn’t even glance at it before looking at me again. “Do you trust me to order for you? I’d like you to taste a bit of Milan.”
There’s something almost boyishly eager in his expression, and it’s contagious.
“I’d love that,” I say. “I’ve mostly been playing it safe with food since I got here. I’m sure I’m missing out.”
His grin is almost triumphant as he orders anantipasto: cheese, cured meats, marinated vegetables, and thin, crispy breadsticks he callsgrissini. Everything is paired with a bottle of wine.
As he pours us each a glass, his gaze flickers back to me, more curious now. “So…do you always have this much time between films, or did you take time off just to visit Italy?”
I hesitate, taking a slow sip of wine. Do I tell him the truth? He knows who I am. He will notice my face on the magazines for sure, if he hasn’t already. I exhale and decide that if he’s going to hear about it, I’d rather it be from me than from a gossip column.
“Usually, no. My schedule is packed. But…my ex-boyfriend was caught by paparazzi cheating on me with his male co-star. My publicist suggested I lay low for the summer to avoid fueling more headlines. Hence, my impromptu trip to Milan.”
Michele’s expression darkens, not with pity, but something closer to disgust. “That sucks. I hope you found out before it hit the magazines.”
