Page 44 of My Fake Italian Marriage

“Three and a half weeks,” he bartered back.

When she opened her mouth to argue, he made his eyes big and round, like a puppy’s. “Please?” he begged. “It’s my parents’ anniversary in three and a half weeks. I’d like to let them have their happiness until then. After that, we go our separate ways.”

Another three and a half weeks. She’d already used up all her holiday leave, so the extra time would be unpaid leave. She could afford it, and it would certainly make Kevin happy to know she was here, steering the ship until the new manager took over. Another three and a half weeks of sunshine, great food, and none of the push-and-shove of London life. Another three and half weeks of living with this gorgeous man who made her want things she had no business wanting. She’d deserve Fern’s corner office, an Oscar, and a very cold shower if she managed to resist temptation for three and a half weeks.

“Fine. Let’s do this.” She held out her hand to shake on the deal. But he didn’t shake her hand. He leaned in to brush a kiss against her cheek.

“Thank you,” he said.

Yeah, like that was going to help them keep this all business.

She fought another wave of heat rushing up her cheeks. “Let me dry my hair, and then we can go downstairs. I suppose the sooner we start, the sooner it will be over.”

He laughed. “Is being married to me such a bad thing?”

“You have no idea!” But she said it with a smile.

ChapterSeventeen

Bisogna navigare secondo il vento.

(You must set your sail the way the wind blows.)

While his mother fussed over Cleo, introducing her to his relatives, his father waved him over. Luca moved to sit on the straight-backed sofa beside his father’s wheelchair. Even this sofa was more comfortable than the purely decorative one he’d slept on in the hotel.

“I have something for you.” His father dipped a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, flat antique leather trinket box. “Your marriage was clearly so impulsive you did not even take time to find a ring. I notice that Cleo is still not wearing one on her ring finger.”

Oops. He hadn’t even considered a ring. What else had he overlooked in his rush to perpetuate this deception?

While Luca did not recognise the box, as soon as his father opened it, he recognised the contents. “That should have gone to—”

Babbo waved a hand, dismissing the rest of what he’d been about to say.

This heirloom wedding ring should have gone to the oldest son, to Gio, for his bride. Luca’s chest pulled tight. “How is it that you wouldn’t let him have it, but you’re willing to give it to me for a woman you barely know?”

His father closed the box and folded it into Luca’s palm, trapping Luca’s hand between both of his. “Because she will make you a better man. You will be happy together.”

Luca bit his lip to stop himself from pointing out that Stefania had been good for Gio, and they’d been happily married for nineteen years and now had three delightful children. But if he did, his father would know he was still in contact with his brother, visited him sometimes on the wine farm where he worked near Chiusi. As a whisper in the back of his head, he heard Cleo’s words “This isn’t going to end well.”

He accepted the glass of Lambrusco Stoyan offered him, breathed in its aroma, then took a sip of the deep-red sparkling wine. The bubbles tingled on his tongue, and he hummed in appreciation. Dry yet fruity, with notes of cherry and red pepper.

He leaned back to watch his “wife” circulate the room, and his tension eased. She smiled, laughed, greeted his relatives. If he hadn’t known she was playing a role, he’d have thought Cleo was actually enjoying herself.

She glanced his way, their gazes meeting. He’d known her little more than a couple of weeks, and yet in that time he’d learned how to read her expressions. He breathed out an audible sigh of relief to see that the reluctance in her eyes had changed to amusement at all the fuss being made of her.

He slid the ring box into his pocket, nodded to his father, and crossed to her side, snagging another glass of Lambrusco along the way. “This might help,” he whispered in her ear, offering her the champagne flute.

She took the glass and smiled. “Your family is not as scary as I first thought.” She dropped her voice. “And your cousin Camillo is gorgeous! He’s got to be a model, right?”

He rolled his eyes. “Worse: a paediatric surgeon. I call him ‘sainted cousin Camillo’ because he walks on water.” He dropped his voice. “I would hate him for being so perfect, but he’s just too nice to hate.”

Cleo laughed, dropping her voice even lower. “I’m grateful so many of your relatives speak English, but I’m also intimidated. I can still barely string a sentence together in Italian.”

She’d done more than string a few sentences together at the show. “You speak two languages already,” he pointed out. He’d heard her on the phone to her family a few times over the past few weeks, and had been impressed with her fluency in a language of which he hadn’t understood even a single word.

“That’s enough whispering, you lovebirds.” Camillo snuck between them, looping his arms through theirs. “You have a lifetime to whisper sweet nothings to each other, and I want to hear all about the wedding.” He turned to Cleo. “Where did you marry?”

“In Florence,” Luca answered, keeping the answer deliberately vague on the off-chance anyone thought to check their story.

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