Page 134 of Nine Months to Love
OLIVIA
The cobblestones of Florence are murder on my feet. The literal millisecond we get home from our day of sightseeing, I collapse onto the villa’s terrace sofa with a groan that wakes half the countryside.
Is it a little melodramatic? Just a teensy-tiny bit? Yes, but Stefan doesn’t seem to mind. He’s already kneeling at my feet and pulling my sandals off, his fingers gentle as they work the straps free.
“Better?” he asks.
“Not yet. But getting there.”
He settles onto the ottoman and pulls my feet into his lap. His thumbs press into my arches and I nearly melt into the cushions.
“Oh my God.”
“Good?”
“Don’t stop. Ever. This is your life from now on.”
He chuckles and keeps working, his hands strong and sure. The tension bleeds out of me with every pass of his fingers.
We spent the entire day wandering through Florence. The Uffizi. The Duomo. Ponte Vecchio, where I made Stefan wait while I debated between half a dozen different handmade leather journals as gift options for Camille. He bought all of them without asking.
Then we hit the shops. Stefan insisted I needed new clothes for the trip. I protested. He ignored me. And guess what? He won. Shocker.
Well, I guess I sort of won, too. Now, I have four bags chock full of Italian designer pieces I’ll probably never wear again.
But watching him watch me try things on? Priceless.
As he massages me, my gaze drifts around the room. My suitcase sits by the bedroom door. Like I have Superman’s X-ray vision, I feel like I can almost see Matvey’s journal tucked carefully inside. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to show Stefan. To finally have the conversation we need to have.
It’s been a good day. A good trip, really. Maybe tonight is the night.
I take a breath. “Stefan, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Mhmm?” His thumbs dig into the ball of my foot and I lose my train of thought for a second.
“It’s about your mother.”
His hands pause. Just for a moment. Then they resume their work, but something in his touch has changed. Stiffer. More mechanical. Angry, almost.
“Olivia, we did this already.”
“I know you don’t want to hear it. But I think we should at least consider?—”
“The chicken parmigiana for lunch was incredible,” he interrupts. “We should have Giancarlo make it again before we leave.”
I frown. “Stefan, I’m serious.”
“So am I. That eggplant appetizer, too. What was it called?”
“I don’t remember. But Stefan?—”
“Melanzane. That’s it.” He presses his thumb into my heel and I wince. “Sorry. Too hard?”
“No, it’s fine. But can we please talk about this?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Yes, there is. Your mother?—”
