Page 32 of My Fake Italian Marriage

She thought of the new clothes Luca had helped her choose. Like father, like son.

“My father designed the wine boxes and the logo too,” Luca added. “He worked as an advertising graphic artist in Rome before his brother died and he came home to take over the vineyard.”

So design was one task they could safely leave in Giovanni’s hands when they replaced him as manager and vintner. Would that be enough to soften the blow?

* * *

When they returned to the hotel, it was already dark, so Luca ordered them room service. After dinner, while Luca took his turn in the bathroom, Cleo set up her laptop at the dining table and set to work. Though she was officially on vacation, her inbox overflowed with emails, but when Luca emerged from the shower, tanned skin damp and glistening, it took all her concentration to keep her eyes on her screen. He opened a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio from Veneto and brought her a glass, then stretched out on the sofa, flicking the television on to a football match. He turned the volume down so as not to disturb her, but the excited commentary pulled at her attention, until, feeling only a little guilty, she hit send on a lengthy email to Kevin, shut her laptop, and joined Luca on the sofa.

“I didn’t disturb you?” His bushy brows pulled together in concern.

“Not at all. This reminds me of being home, of my father and brothers shouting at the players on the screen.”

“I was not shouting at the screen,” he protested, and she grinned.

She’d missed this. It had been years since she’d had someone to kick back and watch football with, the way she used to with her family. Moira would rather gouge her eyes out than sit through an entire match, and Evan had been a rugby fan rather than a football fan. This was nice, even if the sofa was decidedly uncomfortable.

“We really are like an old married couple,” Luca commented during a commercial break, as he re-filled their glasses with more of the light, citrusy white wine.

“You don’t bring your girlfriends home to watch football with you?” she teased.

“I don’t have girlfriends, only dates, and no, I don’t bring them home to watch football. That’s something I do with my friends.”

She raised her half empty glass. “Here’s to being friends then.”

He clinked his glass solemnly against hers.

She was yawning by the time the match ended. Luca removed the empty glass from her limp fingers and nudged her. “Go to sleep. You’ll need the rest before the madness of the wine show. You’ll see—we’ll hardly get a moment’s break over the next two days.”

He needed to rest, too, and for a fleeting moment she contemplated letting him share that enormous bed. Then he smiled, eyes crinkling and dimple flashing, and she bit her lip to prevent the offer from slipping out. Sleeping with this man, even platonically, would not be a good idea. Because what she was feeling was most certainly not platonic.

* * *

Luca was right; they were so busy the next day that by midday Cleo’s feet ached in her strappy heels, and her cheeks hurt from smiling.

Her new dress, another Luca suggestion, was a 50s-inspired fire-engine-red halter-neck number which felt like her, yet somehowmore. It made her feel sexy and sassy, like a latter-day Marilyn Monroe. Was this Luca’s magic sauce—the ability to see potential in a woman and make her feel empowered?

The dress even gave her the confidence to make her first attempt at speaking Italian. It wasn’t much; she only knew the basics, not yet enough to convey what she wanted to say, and she was probably butchering the grammar, but the effort won her goodwill and smiles from their stand’s visitors. As Kevin had assured her, most people switched to English—and the Italians’ habit of speaking with their hands helped too—but the concentration required to simply communicate had her head aching as much as her feet.

Luca, on the other hand, looked as fresh and energised as when they’d arrived. He’d removed his suit jacket, but in a crisp white shirt and tailored waistcoat, he still looked as if he’d been styled for a fashion shoot.

For someone supposedly averse to work, he was clearly in his element, flirting with the women, schmoozing the men, and talking up the changes coming to the vineyard. His knowledge of wine and of their vineyard was far greater than he’d led her to believe, and his usually indolent manner was infused with enthusiasm. This Luca was very different and far more attractive than the man she’d met two weeks ago.

But though their stand received many curious visitors, none of Giovanni’s distributors dropped by to renew their contracts—and wasn’t that the main reason they were here?

While Luca flirted with a couple of potential customers, Cleo slipped away to grab them coffees and sandwiches. The canteen lay in the opposite wing, giving her plenty of opportunity to scout out the competition and eavesdrop on conversations, a medley of languages and accents from every corner of the globe, and wine, wine, wine everywhere she looked.

She returned to their stand to find Luca talking to a portly gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair. When she arrived, he switched to English. “This is Sebastiano, who distributes our wines in Canada. He is here to renew his contract.”

Thank heavens. Cleo shook the hand proffered to her.

“Allora… we have been discussing the changes at the vineyard,” Sebastiano said. She recognised that look. He was hedging, not as ready to commit as Luca seemed to think.

She smiled brightly, drawing the older man to sit on the sofa beside her. “Yes, we’re very excited for the future. Did Luca tell you about…” The up-side of having been on about a million dates was that she was a pro at pretending enthusiasm even when she wasn’t feeling it. Fifteen minutes later, Sebastiano left the stand smiling, and she held a signed contract in her hands.

She sank back on the sofa. “One down and only nine more to go.”

Luca sat beside her. “You’re not bad at marketing for someone who works with numbers.”

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