Page 19 of The Fake Date Deal

“Sounds perfect,” I said.

We left the city behind us, and the bustle of the tourists, and headed out eastward along a narrow, winding trail. The country was hilly, the sun high and hot, but a fresh breeze kept us cool as we went on. Marco told stories of his big family, aunts and uncles and cousins and kindly grandparents.

“I have four Uncle Tonys,” he explained as we walked. “There’s Uncle Sal’s Tony. You just missed him today. He works at the bakery, but only till noon. He gets up at four and does the day’s baking, then he stays and minds the place through the lunch rush. Then Uncle Sal comes in for the rest of the day. Then there’s Tony in London. He’s a fashion designer. He was pretty big, but there was this scandal, this tax-dodging thing… He did two, three years. Broke his ma’s heart.” He scowled for a moment, then brightened up. “But he’s flying straight now, so that’s all good. Then the two other Tonys both live in Siena. One runs a bar there. The other’s a butcher. He’s the one I was talking about, who moved to New York. He was there all of six days and he came running back.”

I nodded along, hoping he’d tell me more. His family sounded a lot like most families, confusing and messy with the odd little drama. But I liked how he smiled when he talked about them, how his voice went all thick with real affection. I had a big family too, but not quite like he did. My parents did love me, and I loved them, but there were times we felt kind of… corporate. Like a family-run brand, more than a family.

We crested a hill, and Marco stopped walking. “Over there,” he said and pointed.

I shaded my eyes to block out the sun, declining now with late afternoon. At the top of the next hill, I could see an old farmhouse, or the stone walls where one had once stood. The roof was missing, apart from the beams. A dry, crumbling fountain stood in the dooryard.

“Ruins,” I said.

“For now, maybe. But that was my nonno’s place. Where I spent my summers. He grew olives for olive oil, and a few grapes. Come on, I’ll show you.”

We headed up to the house and the old fountain. I could see olive trees still growing down the hill, a few black and lightning-struck, most hale and healthy.

“I bought this,” said Marco. “First race I won. I’m going to rebuild one day, when I’m done racing. Come here in summer, like when I was little.” For a moment, his shoulders drooped, and he seemed sad. Then he brightened up and dug into our hamper. He pulled out a blanket and shook it out by the fountain. My mouth watered as he laid out our lunch, a platter of cold meats, greens. Pasta salads. Bottles of lemonade and Orangina. Big juicy sandwiches I couldn’t wait to bite into.

“All my favorites,” he said. “Uncle Sal is the best.”

I sat down on the blanket and opened a lemonade. “You going to bring your own kids up here, y’know, down the line?”

“That’s the plan.” Marco grinned and clinked our bottles together. “To family, the future.”

“Family.” I sipped cold lemonade, enjoying its tartness. It shouldn’t have surprised me Marco wanted kids, coming as he did from such a large family. But still, it felt strange to hear him planning family vacations — Marco Barone, the famous playboy.

“Not the near future,” he added, more true to form. “I mean when I’m older. Rich and retired.”

We watched the sun go down as we devoured our feast, the hills turning golden, then blazing red. The shadows of olive trees stretched out in long scrawls. When the first stars came out, they seemed close and bright. I stretched back on our blanket for a better look.

“The sky’s amazing out here. Like it has extra stars.”

“Less light pollution.” Marco lay down beside me. A chill had crept in with the death of the day, and Marco drew me closer, keeping me warm.

“Today’s been perfect,” I said. “Except for one thing.”

Marco flicked my elbow. “No, I brought dessert. Tiramisu.”

“Not that. Though, dessert does sound good.” I pulled out my phone — no bars. No signal. “We got so caught up having fun, we forgot to do socials. And there’s no paparazzi way out here.”

Marco smacked himself lightly in the forehead. “Oh, yeah. The whole point was being seen, huh?”

“I mean, kind of.” I tucked my phone away. “Still, this is great. As long as you know your way back in the dark. I’d need a lot more pillows to sleep under the stars.”

He laughed. “Are you kidding? I’d know my way blindfolded. Plus, you can follow the lights from the towers.”

“Then, yeah. This is perfect. A perfect day.”

Marco leaned over and kissed me on the nose. “We’ll get papped next time. Promise. I’ll take you to the opera next week in Milan. But I had to bring you here. I knew you’d love it?” It came out a question, sweet, almost shy. Maybe it was a trick from his playboy playbook — bring girls home, melt their hearts with his childhood — but if it was, it was a good one. My own heart was pounding hard in my chest.

“I love it,” I said, to break up the tension. “But next time, more pictures. More socials. More press.”

CHAPTER 8

MARCO

Ihad maybe a second to react when it happened.

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