Page 57 of My Fake Italian Marriage

Cleo swallowed the sudden lump in her throat, and smiled brightly. “That could be a problem out there on the football field, if he can’t see the ball,” she joked.

She looked across the field to where Luca had re-joined his teammates. Young, mop-haired Federico waved to her and blew her a kiss, and Luca smacked him playfully on the back of the head, as if to say “Watch out, buster! That’smygirl.”

It was flattering to imagine that Luca really did feel more for her than his usual passing interest in a woman, but Sarah was wrong. He was merely being his usual self: outgoing, charming, playful. It was nothing more. Was it?

A drum roll sounded, and the crowd stilled. The town’s brass band played a musical prelude, ending with a triumphant fanfare, then left the field amid waving flags and cheers. Anticipation filled the air with electric tension, a whistle blew, and the game kicked off.

No match Cleo had ever attended had been so exciting. Along with the rest of the crowd, she spent most of the game on her feet, screaming, cheering and booing until she was hoarse. Though this was nothing more than an amateur regional match, both the players and the crowd took the game very seriously. Even the usually taciturn Tommaso shouted and gesticulated at the ref.

“Andiamo!Forza!” The crowd shouted as Yassine barrelled down the field with the ball. The shouts turned into a chant, “Dai, dai!”Come on, come on. He passed the ball to Federico, the team’s striker, and the crowd screamed. The ball sailed through the air, past the goalie’s elbow, into the net.

By half time, the teams were neck-and-neck with one goal each. When the whistle blew, Gigi grabbed Cleo’s hand and pulled her onto the field, to help Federico’s mother, Emanuela, serve the players with fresh lemonade and slices of seasonal fruit.

Luca, grinning widely, dimples flashing, looped his arm around Cleo’s waist. “You are enjoying the game?” His hair was tousled, his tanned skin glistened with a sheen of perspiration, and he looked sexier than ever. She breathed him in, the intoxicating male scent of sweat and adrenalin.

“He plays better with you here,” Emanuela said. “Maybe today we actually win.”

“I doubt that he’s ever short of admirers,” Cleo responded.

Luca grinned. “But there’s only one who matters.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are so full of bullshit. Just concentrate on winning this game.”

“I will.” He brushed her cheek with his, then gulped down his lemonade, handed her the cup, and ran off to huddle with his teammates.

“Do all Italian men flirt like that?” Cleo asked Emanuela. “Or is it a Luca thing?”

The older woman laughed. “It’s in his genes.”

“The Fioravanti Curse?”

“Is that what they call it? His father was the same. I was just a girl when Giovanni married Letizia, but my older sisters were crazy for him and cried because he was no longer available. Of course, we weren’t surprised that he’d fallen for a sophisticated Florentine woman, but it was obvious he was completely in love. It was like a switch had flipped, and he changed from Casanova to devoted husband just like that.” She snapped her fingers to emphasise the point.

Cleo shaded her eyes to look across the field at Luca. Would it be the same for him? One day, when he met the right woman, would he choose her and only her? Or was the Fioravanti Curse real? She shook her head. It didn’t matter. In another two weeks she’d be back at her desk in London. But until then…

When I’m with a woman, I want to make love to her.

* * *

With only minutes left in the game, the teams were tied with two goals each. Luca feinted to his left and sent the ball to Niccolò, who caught it and headed down the field. Luca wiped the sweat off his brow and cast a glance to the side of the pitch, where Cleo shouted and waved at the action with very Italianate passion.

The distraction cost him. Almost too late, he realised the ball was headed back his way. He intercepted it, dodged the opposition defender, and streaked down the field. The opposing team converged on him, and he ran faster, knowing she was watching him, suddenly feeling ten years younger. Niccolò darted forward, as if to receive the ball from him, and the opposing players circled to intercept him. Keeping his focus tight on the path between them, Luca kicked, sending the ball sailing, not to Niccolò, but to Federico, who had manoeuvred clear of opposition. Federico redirected the ball toward the opposition’s net. The roar of the crowd rose to fever pitch as the goalie lunged. And missed. The whistle blew as the ball bounced against the back of the net, dropped, and settled on the ground.

Three-two for the home team.

Luca piled into a group hug with his teammates, slapping Federico on the back, then, as the team hoisted the youngster onto their shoulders, the fans surged onto the field. Luca turned, flushed with victory, and there she was, running toward him. He had to dodge through the celebrating crowd to reach her, and when he did, he swept her off her feet and spun her around. It was the most natural thing in the world to press his lips to hers. For a split second, Cleo froze, and he feared he’d made a terrible mistake, then she kissed him back, her arms snaking around his neck to cling to him.

Slowly, he lowered her to her feet without breaking the kiss. She opened her mouth to him, and he dived in, tasting beer and sweetness, and then he couldn’t think anymore, lost in the taste and feel of her.

When at last they broke apart, both breathing heavily, her eyes were glazed. “Wow,” she managed.

Wow indeed. “Now why didn’t we do that sooner?” He stroked her hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ears, before cradling her head and leaning in for another, longer kiss.

None of the reasons he’d stopped himself from kissing her before now seemed worth denying themselves this pleasure. Her kiss filled the emptiness inside him, that void he’d been carrying ever since he could remember. It was like a river bursting its banks, flooding his senses.

“Go get a room,” someone said, laughing, and Luca pulled reluctantly away from Cleo to frown at Federico.

“You are lucky you scored the winning goal today, or I’d kick your ass for interrupting.” He spoke in Italian, but from Cleo’s suppressed laugh she understood his meaning well enough.

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