Page 39 of My Fake Italian Marriage

Graziano kissed Cleo on both cheeks, then they headed to the car. The day stretched ahead of them, a six-hour drive, more if they stopped for lunch, with her maddening, arousing scent all around him, her body so close but out of bounds. He sighed and slid behind the wheel, then turned to her with the flirtiest grin he could muster. “Well, Mrs. Fioravanti, I suppose it’s time for us to get an annulment.”

She laughed. “Our marriage had some good moments, but I have to admit it’ll be a relief to go back to the way we were.”

He wasn’t sure if that was possible, but at least the drive was not the torture he expected. They listened to music, and talked, never at a loss for topics to discuss, and it was certainly refreshing to meet a woman whose eyes didn’t glaze when he mentioned football. He let her drive the Ferrari again for a stretch, loving the excitement in her eyes when she let the car fly on the Autostrada.

They broke their journey in Florence, parking near the Palazzo Vecchio, the iconic medieval town hall. As it was still early for lunch, Luca gave Cleo a quick tour of the Palazzo, leading her through the grand halls to admire the panelled ceilings, frescoed walls and imposing sculptures. They slipped into the back of the Sala Rossa, a sumptuously adorned room with red drapes, walls covered in red silk, enormous gilt-framed mirrors, and eighteenth-century tapestries, where a civil wedding ceremony was taking place.

“Wow,” Cleo whispered. “This certainly beats an English town hall wedding hands down.”

Luca nodded. “The Sala Rossa is so popular that bookings must be made months in advance. That man,” he pointed to the sash-clad officiant, “is the mayor of Florence. Either he or his deputies conduct the ceremonies.”

The bridal couple signed the register and the ceremony ended amid applause and tears, and as the radiant bride and groom posed for photographs, the mayor headed in their direction.

“You are the last person I ever expected to see here,” he said, shaking Luca’s hand. “Am I to have the pleasure of seeing you marry?”

Luca laughed. “Only in your dreams.” At Cleo’s confused expression, he switched to English. “This is Cleo, who is visiting from England. I am giving her a tour of the palazzo.”

“Welcome to our beautiful city.” The mayor shook Cleo’s hand, then clapped Luca on the back, switching back to Italian. “I believe in dreams. One day, my friend, when you find the woman you love more than any other, I hope you will give me the honour of being the one to marry you.”

Luca shook his head as the mayor returned to his desk to begin the next ceremony.

“What was that about?” Cleo asked.

“We used to work together when I lived here in Florence.”

Her eyes narrowed in disbelief, but he merely smiled. He took her hand and led her out into the bright sunshine of the Piazza della Signoria, where tourists crowded around the copy of Michelangelo’s David. “Where to now? What parts of the city have you already seen?”

She reeled off the names of the city’s most touristy attractions, all on the northern side of the Arno.

“Then I shall take you south.”

They crossed the river, and he took her to a pizzeria in Santo Spirito, where they ate oven-fired pizzas dripping with fruity tomato sauce, molten mozzarella and arugula, which they washed down with beer. After the meal, he offered to do what he did best and play tour guide for the afternoon.

Cleo agreed, so he texted his parents to let them know they would arrive later than planned and took her for a stroll through the streets of Santo Spirito, to Brunelleschi’s Basilica, an ornate, light-filled interior hidden behind an austere façade, then through the Boboli Gardens to view the Fountain of Neptune and the splendid Buontalenti grotto with its stalactites and statues.

But he was distracted, not on his usual game. It was the most natural thing in the world to want to reach for Cleo’s hand, to touch her, and it took all his concentration to keep his hands to himself. It was something of a novelty to keep his distance from a woman who so clearly felt the same pull of attraction. But then he thought of the mayor offering to marry him one day, and shuddered.

They bought peach-flavoured granitas, the coarse-textured semi-frozen treat refreshing in the heat of the day, and wandered across the reconstructed Renaissance Ponte Santa Trìnita, to admire the view of the more famous Ponte Vecchio.

With a satisfied sigh, Luca leaned against the bridge’s stone ramparts and took in the city that had been his home for several years. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the skyline, over the proud domes and bell towers rising above the broad sweep of the Arno. At any time of day, Florence had a big city energy, an arrogance to it, especially now as the workers hustled home across the bridges, dodging the ambling tourists. But unlike other cities, that tough edge was softened by the beauty of its art and architecture, and by the sense of timelessness that permeated the city.

Cleo glanced sideways at him. “You love it here, don’t you?”

He nodded, sucking the last of the granitas off the disposable bamboo spoon. “It was an exciting place to live when I was young, full of clubs and bars and music, but with an intimacy that Rome lacks.”

She eyed him speculatively. “You look as if you belong here more than you do in Montalcino. No offence, but you Fioravantis seem more like big city, high society types than farmers.”

“My mother’s family lives here, and many years ago, before my father was born, the Fioravantis had a villa here too, in the hills south of the city. The house in Montalcino was the family’s holiday home.”

Her eyes widened and he was attuned enough now to her expressions to read the thought that flashed through her head: if the villa at the vineyard was just a holiday home, how grand had this one been? He nodded, answering her unasked question. “Yes, very grand.”

“What happened to it?”

“It’s a luxury hotel now.” He took the empty paper cup from her to throw it in a nearby rubbish bin. “And no, we weren’t forced to give it up. My grandfather chose to move permanently to Montalcino because, like me, he preferred a simpler, less pretentious life.”

His father hadn’t understood, though. He’d seen the vineyard as his duty rather than a choice, and he’d believed that Luca had settled for a small-town practice, with no bigger challenge than drafting contracts and negotiating real estate transfers, out of laziness and lack of ambition. Luca had tried to explain that he enjoyed being his own boss, that the job enabled him to enjoy a life beyond work, that there was more to life than working long, stressful hours stuck behind a desk to meet someone else’s impossibly high target for billable hours. Babbo had patted his head as if indulging a spoiled child.

The sceptical look in Cleo’s eyes made him feel the same as that pat on the head. He squared his shoulders in defiance. “Yes, I like the good things in life, but you should know by now that I am nothing like your ex.”

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