“No? Because that would make sense, given how you feel about him.”
“How I feel about him is irrelevant.” She hesitated, though she couldn’t say why. “It’s over. Once and for all.”
Francesco turned his whole body to face Willow then, his eyes raking her face, not saying anything, though, so she felt a rush of impatience and pain, threading through her.
“You just had dinner with him,” Francesco finally said.
“Yes, and after dinner, we agreed that would be the last time.”
“Youagreed?” he repeated, incredulously.
“It wasn’t right, for either of us. I think it was just wishful thinking that had me clinging to the idea of him, for so long.”
“But you’re—he’s the entire reason we’re doing this. The reason you wanted to avoid being set up on dates by your stepmother.”
“I want to avoid being set up on dates by my stepmother for a thousand reasons,” she muttered.
“Right.” His brow furrowed. “Are you okay?”
“Surprisingly, yes. I think I was more invested in what he represented, than him.”
“What did he represent?”
But that was a secret she didn’t intend to share. Certainly not with Francesco, who already saw and understood too much.
“Something different,” she said, after a beat. “A break from people like my parents, my sisters.”
“People like me?”
“You’re different too,” she said, thoughtfully. “For one thing, you’re not British.”
“That’s true,” he agreed, and her heart lifted at the small smile playing about his lips.
“And you’re not superficial. Fancy. Part of some old lineage that has to be carried on.” She lifted one shoulder. “I mean, I know you’re incredibly wealthy, and your family is really powerful or whatever, but…you’re a normal person.”
He laughed. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”
“Probably a little bit of both,” she admitted. “I mean, I guess you’re not actually that normal. Lots of people would probably find you all kinds of intimidating.”
“But you’re not one of them.”
She glanced up at him, pulling her lower lip between her teeth, and shaking her head. Wondering why that was the case. She’d never felt intimidated by Francesco, or anyone in his family. If anything, she’d felt like they were somehow familiar to her, even from that first meeting.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said, shaking his head a little, his hands hooking to her hips.
“You’re not going to,” she promised. “Neither of us will.”
And as he kissed her, she just hoped and prayed that she was right.
11
SHE REMEMBERED THE NEARBY town of Senzafine from the first time she’d visited. It was the sort of Italian town that was so picturesque it could almost have been a film set, from the whitewashed buildings with terracotta roofs, tiny wrought iron balconies with colourful washing strung from one side of the winding street to the other, elderly Italians sitting around uneven tables, playing cards and drinking liquor. The air was heavy with the smell of flowers and garlic, and even now, with a leaden, winter sky as the backdrop, there was a beauty to this place that almost took Willow’s heart away.
Or maybe that had something to do with the man walking beside her, holding her hand despite the fact the rest of the family had stayed behind in the villa, while they came into town in search of lunch supplies.
Even that wasn’t strictly necessary. The villa was obviously well stocked, with a team of staff who ran most of the essential functions. But there was something so delightful about the idea of exploring the local market and stores that had Willow itching to come into Senzafine for the morning. When she said as much,over breakfast, Portia had insisted she should, and naturally everyone presumed Francesco would accompany her.
Despite the fact they’d made love well into the early hours of the morning, she hadn’t expected him to be like this.