Page 17 of The Fake Date Deal

I rolled on my back, grinning. “Okay, okay. We’ll go on some dates. I’m racing in Monza three days from now, but there’s a place I could take you along the way.”

“What kind of a place?”

“The most romantic I know.”

“You’re not going to tell me?” She smacked me again. I caught her wrist.

“It’s a surprise.”

“I hate surprises.”

“This one, you’ll love.” I drew her into my arms and kissed her again, and we never did go out dancing that night.

CHAPTER 7

EVE

The most romantic place Marco knew was San Gimignano, a medieval walled city on top of a hill. We rolled up bright and early and Marco parked his car, then went and got something out of the trunk, a box wrapped in paper with a red bow on top.

“What’s that? A present?”

“Open it. You’ll need it.”

I tore off the wrapping and found a shoebox. Inside, I found — shocker — a new pair of shoes. Soft, comfy sneakers, perfect for walking. I frowned, confused. “These are for me?”

“I know, I know. Not quite your style. But trust me, you’ll need them. The town center’s car-free.”

“Car-free…?” I gaped at him. “But you’re, like… You love cars.”

Marco grinned. “I know. That’s what makes this romantic. That’s what love is. Sacrifice. I’m giving up cars for you, at least for today.” He pulled one of my sneakers from its nest of tissue paper. “And you’re giving up heels, because the streets here are bumpy.”

My heart did an unexpected flip-flop. What was he saying? Love? Sacrifice? I knew he was teasing, but my face still went hot. I couldn’t help wonder how he really felt, not about me, but about love, in theory. How he’d be if he fell in love. In a relationship.

“Come on, Cinderella. Give me your feet.”

I pushed the fancy away, silly thing that it was, and sat in the front seat with my legs sticking out. Marco crouched on the tarmac and slid off my shoes. He wrapped them in tissue and put them away, then pulled out a pair of socks from his pocket.

“You brought socks as well?”

“Of course. You need socks. Hey, are you okay?”

I realized my eyes were swimming. I blinked back my tears — I wasn’t crying. I was surprised, was all. Caught off guard by the gesture. He’d thought of everything, thought of my comfort. It was sweet in a silly way that clashed with my outfit.

“Sock me,” I said, and Marco chuckled. He put the socks on me and smoothed them over my arches, then slipped my shoes on and tied the laces in bows.

“You look great. Very sporty.”

I smiled down at my feet. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worn sneakers, unless you counted the tennis courts or the gym. Still, they looked kind of cute with my yellow sundress.

“So, what’s there to do here?”

“Oh, there’s a lot.” Marco lit up, glancing at the towered skyline. “There’s a lot of old churches, if you’re into that stuff. Museums and galleries. Shops for the tourists. And obviously wineries, a whole lot of those. I thought we’d walk around first and take in the sights, then find a café when the tourists flood in. Then I’ve something to show you, but it’s a surprise.”

We set off at a slow pace for the town center, pausing here and there to snap a few selfies. At first glance, the town seemed frozen in time, narrow streets crowded with ancient stone buildings. Old, faded signs hung on crumbling walls. But then there were newer signs, JUICE BAR, FREE WIFI, mostly in English, taped up in windows. Marco pointed out an ad for penis pasta, decorated with clipart straight from the nineties.

I laughed. “Penis pasta?”

“Sì, cazzetti. Little cocks.”

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