Page 18 of Giovanna

“You’re a good match and it is important for the Family,” she continues.

Frowning, I focus on my plate and not the disappointment causing my mood to plummet. “That’s all that matters, huh?”

She doesn’t respond and a lump forms in my throat. Eight years has done nothing to quell the infatuation I’ve had with Giovanna since I was a little girl. I’m still the little puppy pathetically following her around.

“You need to take it seriously and make a proper go of it.” She is gruff and authoritative. Gone is the flirty woman who was here for a few tantalising moments.

“What if I don’t want to? What if I want to go back to the UK? Forget all about this shit?” I’m angry now and I am terrified that I will cry.

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Francesca.”

I just shake my head at her, gutted that she is just like my parents and her dad. She sees my life as something that can be moved around like a pawn. Sees me as an empty vessel to be married off and filled with babies.

My plate clatters as I slam it into the dishwasher a little too aggressively and I finally lose the battle against my tear ducts. Keeping my head down and hoping she won’t see, I move quickly to get out of the kitchen, but she grabs my arm.

I refuse to look at her, turning my face away to hide my tears.

“Francesca,” she says softly, but I just shake my head again. I’d rather she didn’t pretend to care.

Furiously, I swipe at my cheeks and extract my arm from her grip. She reluctantly lets go and I turn quickly only to run smack bang into Elio’s broad, naked chest as he strolls into the kitchen in just a pair of grey track pants.

I’m forced to take a step back and he steadies me before I fall. His face quickly pulls into a frown when he sees the tear tracks on my cheeks and he cups my face in his hands.

“Who’s been making my wife cry? That’s my job isn’t it?”

“I’m not your wife yet,” I grumble. He looks over my head at his sister, confused about what has gone on between us.

He sighs and, clearly having received wordless instructions from Giovanna, says, “Come on, come sit outside with me; let’s have a chat.”

I shadow him out to the outside sofa and the muscles in his back ripple as he raises an arm to run his hand over his short hair. He is a spectacularly good-looking guy. Like ridiculously hot. But, every movement of his body feels calculated to pose and show off. His vanity is second only to his charm.

The sun is already warming up the back garden despite the early hour and I raise my face to bask in the morning light. The salt from my tears dries tight on my cheeks.

Cross-legged, I regard Elio cautiously from the opposite end of the outdoor sofa. He stretches out luxuriously. He is like a lion, lounging under the powder blue sky, awaiting the arrival of lionesses who will kill his dinner and allow him to mount them. I can almost hear David Attenborough’s narration.

“I don’t want to get married,” he admits.No shit, Elio. “But that’s nothing to do with you. You’re beautiful and most men would kill to marry you.”

“Hmmm. I don’t want to spend my whole life feeling unwanted. I’ve already had 24 years of it.” I shrug.

All the emotions that I have tried to keep at bay for the past 48 hours are threatening to boil over again and I don’t think my emotionally stunted husband-to-be is equipped to deal with them.

He is stunning as he tips his head back, the golden hues making his skin look ethereal. A light dusting of stubble coats his chin and his pronounced Adam’s apple bobs with each breath.

The picture of masculinity.

On a purely physical level, my body reacts to him even though mentally and emotionally I feel nothing good. His long muscular limbs and strong torso would dwarf me and I can’t help but think he probably goes alright in bed, especially given how much bloody practice he’s had.

“Come here.” He pats his lap.Cheeky bastard. Do women usually just sit on his lap on demand? Wait, I don’t need an answer to that.

“You hooked up with another woman at our engagement party,” I accuse him, ignoring his audacious invitation. “Is she still in your bed?”

“Nah, she’s gone.” He is indignant but, after a beat, lets out a strangled noise of frustration and rubs his hands over his face. “Look, I did that as a ‘fuck you’ to my Dad; to show he can’t control me.”

“Well, I get that obviously, but your Dad doesn’t give a shit. It is me who you humiliated.”

“I didn’t think you’d care. We don’t know each other…really.”

“It’s about respect,” my voice catches and a couple more treacherous tears escape. “Neither of us wants this, but you don’t have to make it worse.”

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