Page 94 of The Road to You
Is this really happening? If I wake up right now and discover it’s just a dream, I will scream.
I take a step forward. He watches me, eyes bright, glistening just a little. “Why?” I ask, even though I already know.
Something gets loose inside my chest, and a wave of expectation hits me in the gut. I’ve never believed in miracles, but this looks a lot like one.
He swallows. “Because I couldn’t spend one more day wondering what would’ve happened if I had the courage to try. I don’t know if long distance would’ve worked. I don’t know ifanything will. But I know I’m in love with you, and I had to come and ask if you’d give me a real chance to make this work.”
My heart cracks wide open. Tears threaten to spill, but I keep them at bay. I don’t hesitate. I don’t think. I just run the last few steps and lock my arms around his neck and inhale deeply.
He grabs my waist firmly and encircles me with a laugh before pulling me against him even more tightly, like he never plans to let go again. I bury my face in his shoulder, breathing him in. He smells like sunshine, cologne, and home—my home.
“I love you too,” I whisper. “I’ve missed you so much.”
He pulls back just enough to kiss me, and when our lips meet, it’s not just a kiss. It’s a homecoming.
It’s the unraveling of every lonely night, every aching morning, every what-if. It’s slow and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my mouth, and I kiss him like I’m afraid he’ll disappear again. My hands cradle his face. His thumb brushes a tear from my cheek. His lips whisper things mine have been starving for.
We kiss like time stops for us. And maybe, for once, it does.
When we finally break apart, I press my forehead to his, breathless, overwhelmed, and completely whole for the first time in four months.
“You came back,” I murmur.
His smile is pure sunshine. “I never really left.”
The world clicks back into place, and on this random December Wednesday, I know this is our second chance, and this time, we won’t let it slip away.
38
LENA
It’s a late July morning, the kind that already smells like sunshine and jasmine, and our backyard is drenched in warm light. The sliding glass door is wide open, letting in the scent of basil from the potted plant Michele insists on keeping alive like it’s a child, and somewhere in the distance, a neighbor’s sprinkler ticks in rhythm with the breeze.
My Los Angeles house somehow turned intoourhouse—emphasis on theour, because within weeks, it started sprouting basil and rosemary like it had been waiting its whole life for an Italian man to move in and reclaim the kitchen. Now it smells permanently like garlic and ambition. And when I sayweuse the herbs from the garden, I mean I pluck them proudly like a forager in yoga pants while Michele does all the actual cooking. I provide the moral support and enthusiastic taste-testing. It’s teamwork. Sort of.
Inside, I’m perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging lazily while Michele bustles around in front of the stove, shirtless, wearing only cotton shorts and that smirk he saves for when he knows he’s showing off.
“You’re watching me like I’m a cooking show,” he teases, tossing a handful of cherry tomatoes into the pan like he’s onTop Chef.
I let my gaze linger, shamelessly drinking him in—every line of his chiseled chest, every flex of muscle in his thighs as he moves around the kitchen like it’s just another workout. Two years post-surgery, and he’s not just healed, he’sthriving, carved back into almost peak form with that effortless grace that once made headlines and now just makes me melt. But the most breathtaking part isn’t the body, it’s the joy. The quiet, steady happiness that lights up his face every morning when he pulls on his gear and heads to the facility. He’s not playing for the glory of a European superclub, not for trophies or headlines. He’s playing because helovesit. Because it fills him up. And every time I see that easy, satisfied smile as he laces his cleats, I know he’s exactly where he’s meant to be. And that’s what matters most to me.
“Youarea cooking show,” I grin, lifting my coffee to my lips. “A very sexy one with a light sprinkling of olive oil.”
He looks over his shoulder and winks. “Stick around, there’s going to be a plot twist.”
“You burning the eggs again?” I grin, loving how I can push his buttons just by reminding him of that one debacle.
“That happened once. And they were scrambled. On purpose.” He narrows his eyes at me.
“Sure they were.” I smile, hiding behind the rim of my cup.
He rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing, and I let the sound sink into my bones. This is how our days feel now, like love and breathless laughter and skin caressing skin in the middle of the day and night.
We’ve both been off work for a couple of weeks. He is between games, and I am between projects. Instead of flying to some exotic island like we swore we would, we ended upvacationing at home. Turns out, we’re terrible at planning and even worse at packing. But I wouldn’t change a second of it.
We sleep late. Make love in the middle of the day. Take walks to the farmers’ market and fight over what gelato flavor to get like it’s a life-altering decision. And sometimes, when it’s quiet like now, I catch myself staring at him, this man who barged into my summer in Italy and somehow stayed for all the seasons after.
I hop down from the counter and sneak up behind him, slipping my arms around his waist and resting my cheek against his back.
