Page 42 of Friends Who Fake It

And as he kissed her, she just hoped and prayed that she was right.

ChapterEleven

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.

To put his hand on her knee as they drove, to come around and open her door once they parked, to lace their fingers together as they strode through the streets, side by side, so close they were brushing up against one another.

She hadn’t expected it, but she liked it more than she could say. She liked it a whole lot.

She’d been in the town before, and always found it charming, but there was something about exploring it with Francesco that layered a sort of magic over it, so she found herself reluctant to head back to the villa, even when they’d walked down every side street and identified the ingredients they wanted to pick up.

“There’s no rush,” Francesco said, as they passed a quintessentially Italian wine bar, with seats and tables set up on the footpath. “Let’s stop here a while.”

Her heart leaped into her throat, forgetting, temporarily, that it was supposed to be safeguarding Willow from stupid mistakes and hopes. She nodded, rather than trusting her voice to speak.

They took a seat on the pavement and a waiter immediately descended upon them, fluttering menus and offering charm. He spoke in rapid fire Italian, which Francesco returned, though paused to translate for Willow, so she was included in the conversation. Beyond some basic tourist phrases, she was out of her depth.

Francesco ordered a local prosecco and some entrees to share, and then, they were left alone, to watch people strolling past, and observe all the local colour of the town.

“Do you come here often?” Willow asked, once their prosecco was brought and poured by the waiter.

“At this bar?”

“In town, I meant.”

“A fair bit, yes.”

“In the bar?”

He grinned. “The town. There was another bar we went to more than is healthy, when we were teenagers. Think cheap drinks, and an abundance of tourists, looking for a holiday fling with a local guy.”

She smiled at that. Francesco had been born confident, able to charm anyone and everything. She could imagine how easy it would have been for him to make those connections.

“Our school was on the outskirts of town—that way,” he pointed in the opposite direction from which they’d come. “So, we passed through here every day. As boys, we’d stop for gelati, then, as we got older, coffee or a beer.”

She tilted her head to the side, remembering this version of Francesco. “You always seemed so care-free. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that your own upbringing was far from a walk in the park.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his pose relaxed, even when there was a hint of tension in the way he held his mouth.

“It wasn’t so bad.”

Willow sighed softly. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

He turned to face her. “Do you?”

She bit into her lower lip. “After your father died, you opened up to me about it.”

Surprise was obvious on his features.

“Did I?”

“You’d been drinking; I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

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