Page 19 of My Fake Italian Marriage

“You stayed there last night,” she pointed out.

“My mother thought you would be more comfortable with another young person around, so I slept in my old room.”

“Well, don’t stay on my account. I can manage on my own. I don’t need you holding my hand.”

He grinned. “I am sure you can. Even though it would be a pleasure to hold your hand.”

The way he spoke, husky and suggestive, made her hand tingle, as if it could actually feel his fingers woven through hers. But it meant nothing. He used that voice on everyone, as she’d already seen for herself.

He drove her back to the vineyard, pulling up in front of the stairs at the entrance. He held out a set of keys. “These are my keys to the house and the winery, so you can come and go as you need. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”

Absolutely 100% sure.

“I’ll see you for Sunday lunch tomorrow then.”

She shook her head. “I’m spending the day with Sarah.” She climbed out of the low-slung car, and he idled until she’d walked up the stairs and let herself inside before he drove away. She leaned back against the door, suddenly breathless, and hating herself for it.

She couldn’t blame it entirely on the wine. What was it about men like him, too attractive, too charming, too confident, that made her knees go weak and her palms sweaty? Why couldn’t she ever fall for one of those sweet, sincere, boring men she’d tried dating? But there was never any spark with the good guys, the kind of guys who could tick the best friend box.

The kind of spark she felt at the mere thought of Luca touching her hand.

But that was so not going to happen again. Not if she had anything to say about it.

ChapterEight

Chi vuole acqua vada alle fonte.

(Those who want water should go to the source.)

Mid-morning, Sarah fetched her in Castel Sant’Angelo’s beat-up truck. “I’m sorry, it’s not the most luxurious transport,” she said as Cleo hopped in.

“It’s perfect. My father has a truck like this, and I prefer it to a fancy sports car any day.”

“Things not going well with Luca?” Sarah cast her a twinkling sideways glance. “I thought he’d be just your type.”

“Yeah, and you know better than anyone that my ‘type’ usually ends in disaster.”

Sarah laughed. “I’m not suggesting youmarryLuca. Just have a little fun with him. After all, you’re a lot alike.”

“We are nothing alike!” Cleo protested.

Sarah only smiled. “You could do with the distraction to get over Evan.”

“You’ve been talking to Moira, haven’t you?”

“You can’t blame us. This is the longest you’ve ever gone without dating. You’re our eternal optimist, and I’d hate to think that The Arse took that away from you.”

Cleo shook her head. “He didn’t, but if—when—I date again, it certainly won’t be someone like Luca.” Or Evan or Hannes. “I’m getting too old to date just for the sake of dating. I want someone I might actually have a future with. Someone with a backbone who isn’t a Mama’s Boy.”

Sarah said nothing, but Cleo caught her fleeting sceptical expression.

“You don’t believe me? He cancelled a date at the last minute on Friday night because his mother wanted him to babysit me. On the plus side, whoever his poor date was, she probably dodged a bullet.”

Sarah shrugged. “Maybe there was more to it than that. Have you considered that maybe you’re a bit tough on the men you meet?”

Cleo rolled her eyes. “Don’t you start. I already have Moira and my mom telling me I’m too fussy because I don’t want to drop my standards.”

Sarah kept her eyes on the road as she indicated to turn. “It’s not about having high standards. I think you’re addicted to the wine-and-roses phase of relationships—exactly like Luca. But as soon as any relationship starts to get too real, you look for a reason to cut and run. You prefer the dream to the reality.”

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