We walk out into the garden area hand in hand, not a single word uttered between the two of us from the tea room to the porch outside. The air hits my face, and I breathe in the fresh Italian air. I close my eyes for a moment, relishing in the freshness.
When I open my eyes again, I’m met with a pair of warm caramel eyes that move over my face. His gaze is far less intense than that of his father’s. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks, and I turn away.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I drop his hand and walk down the stairs. I head over to one of the lounge chairs by the pool and glance back at him still standing on the porch. He has his hands in his pockets and watches me with a cocked brow. He still has that same mischievous glint in his eyes whenever he’s up to no good in his head.
“Checking me out, Faravelli?” He chuckles and makes his way down the stairs. I haven’t been called by my last name in years. He walks up to me with a smile on his face and drops down to one knee to help me out of my shoes.
“What are you doing?” I’m surprised by how easy it is to feel so at ease with him. It’s like fourteen years haven’t passed since our last meeting. We’re back to being those ten-year-old kids who laughed and joked with each other. Except now, we’re engaged to be married.
“The weather’s too nice not to feel the water. And last I remember, you love being in the water.” He looks up at me through his lashes and smiles. He gently takes off my shoes and places them to the side. “Come on.”
He takes my hand in his and leads me to the edge of the Olympic-sized pool. The movements between us feel so natural, like we’ve been doing them all our lives. It both scares me and gives me hope for what the future holds for the two of us.
I try not to let my heart get ahead of itself. When people are in mourning and faced with despair, any shred of light becomes dangerously addictive. I can’t allow myself to latch onto it.
We settle onto the edge, our feet in the water and the calm of the Florence summer around us. The silence passes between us, but it’s not awkward.
“You look well, Maria,” he says. “When my father told me about our union, I’ll admit I was shocked. Marriage was never a topic of discussion until recently. He always said I should marry whom I choose—the way he chose my mother. But I guess times have changed.”
I guess we both have that in common.
“I’m sorry that you got stuck with me.”
He clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “Please. As far as I see it, I hit the jackpot of arranged marriages. We know each other at least, and you aren’t some airhead bimbo who can’t tell the difference between a fork and a spoon.”
I choke out a laugh. “Who have you been dating over the years, Danny?”
His nickname slips from my lips easily.
“You don’t even want to know my dating history. A lot of life lessons and character development there.” He laughs under his breath, and the sound makes me feel all warm inside. “What about you? How has your love life been?”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “Oh, well… that has been non-existent for me. I was just so busy with school and then my art, so…”
The truth is that my brother and father had me under a watchful eye. Every time a boy wanted to take me out on a date, they had to pass the Antonio test. Spoiler: very few made it ten minutes.
As a sister, I should have been annoyed, but I didn’t mind. I knew he was looking out for me, and at the time, I had no interest in men. To be honest, I still don’t—but with the turn of events, I’m glad I can at least speak with my fiancé, and he isn’t some weird old man.
“Maria Isabella Faravelli, are you telling me that you are a virgin?”
My blush deepens. “I mean… I’ve kissed a man before, if that’s what you mean?”
I am quite underdeveloped compared to the average twenty-something-year-old. While many are experimenting and clubbing, I lock myself away in my home and paint and draw to my heart’s content. I find comfort in the silence of creating. Bringing all of my thoughts and imaginations to life is something that I love to do.
“So you are a virgin.”
I duck my head and turn to the side to hide my heated face from him.
“Maria.”
I keep my gaze averted, not daring to look his way. Why do I feel so mortified?
His hand comes up to cup the side of my face. He gently draws me toward him so I can meet his gaze. There’s a gentleness in his eyes that eases the slight chaos inside me.
“In the world we live in, your virtue is gold, Maria. Own that.” He strokes his thumb against my cheek. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed or shy about at all. And to be honest, I think it’s quite admirable that you’ve kept your innocence for so long. Most women are… loose these days, and willing to let anyone between their legs.”
“But aren’t you used to more experienced women? What if… I don’t satisfy you the way you need me to? I know sex is a very big part of marriage, and I need to make sure that you enjoy it with me.”
His eyes smolder with a gentle warmth. “And we can take things as slow as you want. We don’t need to dive in headfirst.” He drops his hand from my face, and I lean away from him, feeling a little awkward.
“Take it slow?”
He nods. “We’re going to be together for the rest of our lives. We can take things in stride. I’m not in a rush for anything—are you?”
I shake my head. The weight that’s been pressing on my chest since my brother’s wake lifts a little, and some of the anxiety I’ve been carrying subsides. This is all going far better than I hoped it would.
“Good. So don’t stress or feel embarrassed. And as far as wives go, I don’t think you’re all that bad of a pick, do you?” He kicks his feet in the water. He turns his head to the side and shoots me a smirk that leaves my insides fluttering. “Easy on the eyes, knows how to hold a fucking conversation, and doesn’t like pineapple on her pizza.”
A laugh rumbles from my lips. “Thank God I don’t like pineapple.”
“Anyone who likes it is inhumane, in my opinion. And we’re Italian—isn’t it heresy to like it on our sacred dish?” He chuckles and dips his hand into the water. He swirls his fingers about before lifting them and flicking me with water.
I let out a little shriek that didn’t sound like it came from me at all. Who am I right now? I’m not this gushy, girly kind of person. But I guess Daniele has a way of bringing out the little girl in me.
Our laughter fades, and we settle into a comfortable silence. We sit and listen to the birds chirping in the trees and the gentle breeze that whistles through the leaves around us. I love our backyard—it’s one of the places I like to spend most of my time.
“I’m sorry about your brother, M.” Daniele nudges his shoulder against mine. “I know how close you were with him.”
I knead my fingers together in my lap and stare at the water.
“Thank you.” I bite down on my lower lip, not wanting to dwell too much on the negative emotions. “I know this should’ve come sooner, but I’m sorry about your mother. I don’t think I ever reached out when she died.”
His eyes soften. “It’s okay. We had lost touch at that point, and I had my dad, so… it’s okay. I think she would be over the moon if she knew we were getting married. I remember how she used to tease us about getting married—and how you’d be the perfect bride for me.”
Beatrice had wanted us to get married. She didn’t have any other children besides him, so she viewed me as her daughter. She always gushed to my mother about what the wedding would look like. Only now, hearing him say this, does my mind take me back.
That’s where my crush began.
We talk by the pool for what seems like minutes, but it turns out to be two hours. We joke, laugh, and tease each other like we’ve known each other all our lives. I learn more about the man he’s become, and he asks me questions about the woman I am—and hope to be.
For the most part, we steer clear of any wedding or marriage talk, which I’m grateful for. But at the end of our conversation, he walks me back to my room—bare feet against the cool marble floor. We come to a halt by my door. He hands me my shoes, and we just stand there, staring at each other with the goofiest grins.
“Thank you for today. I had a great time getting to know you all over again,” I say, smiling up at him.
He steps closer, the space between us almost non-existent. For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. My eyes flutter shut as I feel him inch closer—but his lips never meet mine. Instead, I feel the soft brush of a kiss against my cheek before he pulls back and stands to his full height.
“You thought I was going to kiss you, Faravelli?” His warm caramel eyes lock onto mine, dancing beneath the hallway lights. “On the first day? I’m a gentleman. I’ll wait until tomorrow.”
With a wink and a kiss on the back of my hand, he saunters down the hallway toward the stairs—leaving me floating on cloud nine.
I want to believe this is truly going to work out. That this arrangement might actually become something good.
But if life has taught me anything, it’s that everything can change in the blink of an eye.
Thunder rumbles through the walls of my bedroom, and I jolt upright in a cold sweat. My chest rises and falls rapidly as I struggle to calm my panic. I run a hand through my messy hair and lean against the headboard.
“Jesus,” I groan, tilting my head back toward the ceiling.
Nightmares. They’ve been relentless lately. So vivid, so terrifying—I don’t think I’ve slept properly in days.
A flash of lightning spills into the room. I rub a tired hand over my face and sigh.
A storm.
I usually love the rain, but I’ve never been able to sleep through Mediterranean storms. It has a lot to do with the accident that happened when I was a little girl—one of the reasons Papá decided to fly us across the ocean.
I throw the blanket off my legs and head for the kitchen. When I wake during a storm, there’s only one thing that eases my nerves: hot milk. I don’t know what it is, but the warmth calms me. Grounds me. Makes me feel safe.
My bare feet touch the cool marble as I move quietly through the dark halls and down the stairs. But as I round the corner into the kitchen, I come to a sudden halt at the sight of a shirtless man leaning against the counter, a cup in his hand.
“Shit,” I hiss, turning to make a run for it. The milk will have to wait. The last thing I need right now is to be alone with a half-naked Matteo Davacalli.
“Maria,” he calls after me. “You don’t need to leave. I only came for some water.”
I curse under my breath, briefly closing my eyes before turning back to face him, a smile plastered on my face. I walk over to the counter, nerves skittering through my body.
“Sorry, I didn’t think anyone would be up at this time.” I shift on my feet uncomfortably. I try to keep my eyes on his face, but his chest is on full display—and it’s hard to focus when you have a masterpiece in front of you.
Oh my God. No. I cannot be thinking about him like that. He’s my father-in-law. Well, soon to be.
“No need to apologize. This is your home, Maria. I’m merely a guest here.” He gestures toward the fridge behind him. “Did you want some milk?”
My eyes go wide, feeling a little too exposed. “How did you know that I…”
“You used to sleep over at my home quite frequently, once upon a time. I’m not a man who forgets details about people.” He holds my gaze with great intensity. “Warm milk calms you during storms. Allow me.”
Before I can stop him, he goes to the fridge, pulls out a carton of milk, and pours it into a cup. He microwaves it while I stand on the other side of the counter, silently watching him.
I am well aware that I’m standing in the middle of the kitchen, in the middle of the night, with my future father-in-law—who just so happens to be shirtless. I don’t miss the way his muscles flex as he reaches up to retrieve the cup from the microwave. When he turns to face me, I quickly avert my gaze from his body.
Why did it suddenly get hot in here?
“Here you go.” He slides the cup toward me.
I accept it with a small smile. “Thank you. I should head back to bed.”
I don’t want to stay and make small talk with this man. Ever since my brief encounter with him at the wake, I’ve wanted to avoid him as much as possible. Something happens to me internally whenever I’m near him, and I don’t understand it. That’s why I don’t like it.
“See you in the morning, Mr. Davacalli.” I turn and begin to walk away from the counter.
“Maria,” he calls just as I’m about to turn into the foyer.
I pause and glance over my shoulder. There’s something in his eyes—something raw, threaded with deep emotion.
“He’s a good boy, my son. He’ll take care of you well.”
I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. “I’m sure he will. Goodnight, Mr. Davacalli.”
“Goodnight, Maria.”
And with that, I turn—hot milk in hand—and scurry toward the stairs, feeling this strange fluttering sensation in my chest. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I have no idea if it’s fear, intrigue, or a mixture of both.
All I know is that Matteo Davacalli is not a man I should be alone with. And I should avoid him at all costs.
But how is that even possible, when I’m literally marrying into his family within the coming week?
