Page 60 of My Fake Italian Marriage

It was simple. She would not let herself fall in love with him.

The bells of Montalcino’s many churches began to chime, calling the devoted to morning mass, and she groaned. “It’s Sunday.” Which meant they’d be expected at the villa for lunch with his parents. No spending an indulgent day naked in bed after all.

“We can stay here, if you want,” he offered, running a hand over her exposed breast, but she shook her head.

“No, we can’t.” Luca might not have noticed all the shop displays in town this past week, but she had. “It’s Mother’s Day. We have to go.”

* * *

Luca had always enjoyed Sunday lunch with his parents. Throughout his childhood, Sundays had been their quality time together as a family, a reminder that this was where he belonged, here were his roots. No matter what happened the rest of the week, the disappointments and stresses were set aside as they bonded over the rituals of food, wine and football.

But today, the meal dragged on interminably. A summer soup followed by pappardelle pasta with zucchini and bell peppers, and exactly the right amount of chilli spice, then the main course of roast pork and vegetables, all accompanied by a demijohn of Rosso di Montalcino from one of their neighbours. As pleasurable as it was to witness Cleo’s enjoyment of the meal, he couldn’t wait for it to be over, couldn’t wait to get her alone and to himself again. She, on the other hand, seemed in no hurry. She sat across the table, bright and bubbly as ever, charming his father with amusing recollections of her childhood on an African wine farm, and swapping stories about the funniest ways to deter boar and baboons from destroying the crops, as if nothing had changed between them.

But something had changed, though he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He’d woken this morning with Cleo in his arms—for the second time—and hadn’t wanted to leave that bed. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t woken beside a woman before, but he couldn’t ever remember feeling that he wanted to stay, that he didn’t want the moment to end. Maybe it was age creeping up on him, that fear of growing old alone.

“You are quiet today,” his mother observed, keeping her voice low.

“I’m just tired. We didn’t get much sleep last night.”

She smirked, and he squirmed like a naughty schoolboy caught in a transgression. He glanced at Cleo, at the same moment she glanced his way, and their gazes caught. Her cheeks turned pink, and she dropped her gaze. Was she remembering, as he was, their naked limbs entwined, his mouth on her, his hands on her? His body pulled tight with desire.

He swallowed and turned back to his mother. “I have a gift for you.”

She glowed with pleasure as she unwrapped the silk scarf and perfume, and they shared a knowing smile. Every year, Gio sent a bottle of her favourite perfume for Mother’s Day, and every year Luca wrapped it with his own gift.

She patted his hand. “The best gift you have given me is to see you happy.” She blinked away the mistiness in her eyes and turned to her husband. “We should throw a party for our anniversary.”

“That’s less than two weeks away,” Luca pointed out.

She nodded. “I’ve arranged parties in less time than that.”

Luca shook his head, smiling ruefully. Mamma and her parties. But maybe a big celebration surrounded by family and friends would ease the sting when he and Cleo staged their “break up”. His parents wouldn’t be any less disappointed in him, but at least he could give them their special day before he broke their hearts.

When his father suggested they end the meal with dessert and espressos in the den, Luca groaned, not quietly enough to avoid his mother’s ears. Sending Luca another knowing smirk, she rose and held out her hand to her husband. “Let’s have dessert later. The garden is looking lovely today after the rain. Will you walk with me, Giovanni?” She turned to Luca. “You can amuse yourselves while we walk in the gardens?”

Babbo rose, and they strolled away, arm in arm, to the stone stairs leading to the rose garden, his father walking slowly, but stronger and straighter than he had in weeks.

“Your father looks so much better,” Cleo said, her brown eyes soft and shiny as she turned back to him.

He nodded, then he grinned. “Can I show you my old bedroom?”

Her eyes twinkled. “Is that a not-so-subtle way to get me back into bed?”

“Of course.”

* * *

He’d never had a woman in this bed before. His childhood bedroom had been redecorated years ago, the twin beds replaced by a double bed, the pale blue walls of his youth painted now a neutral white, the football-themed bedding and curtains replaced by a more adult shade of navy, but it was still his old room, filled with memories. The shelves were filled with his old football medals, treasured childhood books, souvenirs from places he’d visited. And now he had a new memory to treasure: Cleo’s hair fanned across his chest, her naked breasts rising and falling as she slowly recovered her breath.

She lifted herself up on her elbows, her body stretched out over his, and he brushed the hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ears. Her big brown eyes were still hazy with desire. He loved the way her gaze softened when she wasn’t wearing her glasses or contact lenses, making her look more relaxed and less like the cool and collected business woman he’d first met. He preferred her like this—mussed and passionate. This was the real Cleo.

She reached out for her glasses on the bedside table, pulled his shirt over her head, and slid out of the bed, padding barefoot across the tiled floor to the French doors that opened onto the loggia that ran the length of this side of the house. Unlatching the door, she stepped out, leaning on the stone balustrade to look over the wooded slope at the rear of the house. He lay back, cradling his head on his arms, his body sated and relaxed.

The breeze played with her hair, and he smiled, admiring her strong, lean runner’s legs and shapely curves. She leaned forward, resting her arms on the balustrade, and his shirt rode up until it barely covered her ass.

Warmth filled his chest, something more than mere physical satisfaction, something more than he’d experienced with any woman before.

It couldn’t be love. This wasn’t the crazy rush of butterflies Gio had said he felt when he fell in love with Stefania, or which Babbo once told him he’d felt when he met their mother. Luca had never experienced that assault of wild, overwhelming emotion, and he was certainly too old to experience it now. No, this wasn’t a rush of youthful infatuation, but a gentler feeling, steadier, a feeling of being anchored—not like being tied down, but as if he would be held safe, no matter what storms rocked him.

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