Page 65 of My Fake Italian Marriage

He strode across the room to brush a kiss against her cheek.

She laughed. “What’s that for? There’s no one around to impress with your ‘husbandly devotion’.”

“The only person I want to impress is you.”

She turned away, back to her computer screen. “The weekly payroll is captured, and I’ve ordered the replacement parts for the irrigation system. Silvio can collect them tomorrow.” Her expression clouded. “But we need to talk about the guest list for your parents’ party.”

He slid into the armchair across the desk from her, casually stretching out his legs. “What about the guest list?”

“Threehundredpeople?”

“We have a big family, and then there are neighbours and friends.”

She shook her head. “We’re supposed to be reducing costs, not plunging the vineyard into insolvency. Since the cost of food, drinks and wait staff is being covered by the estate, we simply cannot afford such a big event.”

He sighed. “How manycanwe afford?”

Her eyes took on the unfocused look that suggested she was running calculations in her head. “Hundred and fifty, at the most. Less would be even better. Do you want me to break the news to your parents?”

He squared his shoulders. “No, I’ll do it.”

The beaming smile she rewarded him with made him feel ten feet tall. As if she was proud of him, though he had no idea what he’d done to earn that look.

He glanced down at his faded jeans and dirty work boots. “But I’d better change before I go to the villa. My mother won’t be happy if I come into her salon dressed like a farm labourer and leave dried mud on the antique rugs.”

Twenty minutes later, emboldened by Cleo’s look of admiration, he headed to the villa to find his father. Babbo would be much easier to appeal to than his mother, and together they’d hopefully be able to soothe Mamma’s ruffled feathers.

* * *

When Luca returned to their office much later that afternoon, Cleo was in the same place behind her laptop. He sank into the chair behind his desk. “We agreed a maximum of one hundred and twenty guests, but I had to promise my mother I’d name my firstborn child after her father.”

“What was his name?”

“Ercole.”

“Doesn’t that mean Hercules?” When he nodded, Cleo laughed. “I sincerely hope your firstborn child isn’t a girl.”

“Since I don’t expect to have any children, I figured it was a safe promise to make.”

She leaned her elbows on her desk, cupping her chin in her hand. “You don’t want children?”

He rocked back on his chair, balancing it on two legs. “I like kids, but to have my own, I should ideally first have a wife. Do you want children?”

“To have children, I should ideally first have a husband.” She smiled. “I’d like to have a family, but not so much that I want to do it alone. If it happens, it happens, and if it doesn’t…” She shrugged.

“If it doesn’t, you keep focusing on your career? Is that enough?” He looked out the window, across the valley to the hilltop town of Castelnuovo dell’Abate rising above the vineyards, its grey walls turning to umber in the afternoon light. Should he tell her that he’d considered her suggestion? That, after he’d spoken with his parents, he’d gone to look at a piece of land? It wasn’t much, just three hectares and a ruined building, and the vines, old and neglected, would need to be replaced, but it could be a start toward pursuing that long-ago dream.

He blinked and dropped his chair back to the ground. Not yet. Until the future of the Fioravanti vineyard was secured, that was better kept to himself. In a couple of days, they’d be in Chiusi, and everything would be resolved. Then, he would tell her.

“Are you done with work for the day?” He pushed away from his desk, despite the fact that he’d barely even opened his emails.

Cleo glanced at the wall clock. “You don’t have football practice today, and it’s still too early for dinner.”

He grinned. “Exactly. I have no football practice today. Which means I can take you home and get you naked.”

He loved the blush that tinged her cheeks, the way her eyes darkened and her breath spiked. Maybe they wouldn’t even make it as far as the bed. The sofa would do just fine, or the dining table, or the kitchen counter…

He stood and held out his hand to her, and when he spoke, his voice was gruff. “Voglio fare l’amore con te.The work can wait.”

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