Page 73 of My Fake Italian Marriage

“You like it?” Gio glowed with pride. “It is one of my own.”

Stefania and her mother served a light lunch of salads, local cheeses, pickled olives, cold cuts, and fresh, home-bakedpane Toscano. The teenagers joined them, their boisterous bickering so reminiscent of Cleo’s own teen years that she merely smiled when Stefania apologised for their noise.

The conversation around the table was light and inconsequential, a mix of Italian and English, for their visitor’s sake.

“You are from England?” Chiara asked, turning curious, bright eyes on Cleo.

Cleo nodded. “From London.”

“I want to live in London one day.”

Cleo laughed. “I can’t imagine why” – she spread her hands to indicate the view of blue sky and vineyard – “when you already live in paradise.”

Chiara shook her head, dismissing the idea with all the confidence of a teenager. “I went on a school trip to London and it was such a busy, exciting place. Here, it is so boring.”

Cleo laughed again. The one thing she hadn’t been since the day her plane touched down in Florence was bored, unlike London where every day had begun to feel much like the next.

By the time the meal was finished, Cleo’s anger with Luca had dissipated. It was hard to stay mad in the face of so much obvious love and affection.

The children excused themselves, leaving the adults alone on the terrace.

“So what has brought you to Tuscany?” Gio asked, leaning back in his chair. His tone was friendly, but his gaze was direct and piercing, not unlike his father’s.

She cast a quick questioning glance at Luca, wondering how much his brother knew about the situation at the Fioravanti vineyard.

Luca answered for her. “You know that Babbo sold a share of the vineyard to a London investment bank?” When both Stefania and Gio nodded, he continued, “Cleo works for that bank.”

Gio whistled. “Thisis the bean counter you took to the Lario show? You neglected to mention your banker is a pretty young woman!”

Luca nodded, expression still serious. “Cleo has been running the vineyard since Babbo’s stroke.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. Why was he downplaying the part he’d played? “Wehave been running the vineyard together,” she corrected.

Gio’s eyebrows quirked upward. Then he frowned. “Mamma told me Babbo is making a good recovery. If Cleo is still here, does that mean he is not yet well enough to return to work?”

“How much did she tell you?”

“Not much. Last time we spoke she was interrupted, so we didn’t talk for long.”

Luca was slow to answer. “Yes, Babbo is recovering well. He’s stronger and no longer so weak in his right side.” He cast a quick glance at Cleo. “But he is not yet able to return to work, and the bank insists that he have help.”

He left it at that, and when Cleo raised a questioning eyebrow in his direction, he merely shook his head.Later, his look said.

“So you are only here in Italy for work? You aren’t heretogether?” Stefania looked dismayed. “But we’ve put you both in the guest room!” She thought quickly. “If the boys share tonight, then Luca can take one of their rooms.”

Cleo couldn’t remember ever seeing Luca blush, but he did now. “We share a room,” he said simply.

They all knew that what he meant was, “We share a bed.”

She didn’t much like the knowing smirk on Gio’s face, as if Luca was living up – or perhaps down – to expectations.

ChapterThirty

Non tutte le ciambelle riescono col buco.

(Not all doughnuts come out with a hole.)

After lunch, Gio gave them a tour of the vineyard, driving them around the farm in his SUV, and explaining to Cleo the benefits of the north-east exposure of the vines, and the sandy loam of the soil. “This is very different terroir from Montalcino, which is much more rocky and varied.”

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