Page 86 of My Fake Italian Marriage

Which proved that he wasn’t the right man for her, because the right man would stand up and fight for her. She’d watched enough romcoms to know that the right man wouldn’t let her leave without trying to stop her.

While Sarah rolled her wheelie suitcase down to the waiting car, Cleo paused to take in the sunlit living room where she and Luca had made so many happy memories. He’d knelt on that rug to give her his great-grandmother’s ring. On that sofa, they’d made out for the first time. On that dining table…

She left the ring and the front door key on the kitchen counter, then let herself out, pulling the door shut behind her with a resoundingly final thud.

During the long drive to the airport in Florence, she told Sarah about the offer she’d made to Giovanni. Her friend’s eyes widened. “There’s no way Kevin agreed to that!”

“He doesn’t know and doesn’t need to, because I have a plan.”

Her plan involved selling the house in London to buy back that five per cent share for the Fioravantis, and, even with her imminent promotion, she would probably have to ask her family for help too. But it would be worth it. Luca might not be ready to stop believing in the curse, but she could at least ensure that he stopped limiting himself in other ways.Ifhe was brave enough to step out of his comfort zone, andifGiovanni could finally get over his stubborn pride long enough to give Luca a chance to prove himself.

It was more than Luca deserved, her head argued, but her stupid heart was the one calling the shots. Even if he wasn’t her Mr. Right, she wanted him to be happy.

They idled for a moment in the airport drop-off, and Sarah turned to her, laying a hand on her arm. “I am so, so sorry.”

“For what?”

“You’re in love with Luca, aren’t you?”

She could deny it, probablyshoulddeny it, but after so little sleep she was too tired to maintain the pretence a moment longer. And Sarah wouldn’t believe it, anyway. No one made wildly impractical business decisions and put their jobs on the line for sex, no matter how phenomenal that sex was. She nodded.

Sarah shook her head. “I knew he was falling for you, and I thought he deserved to finally experience what it feels like to fall in love, but I didn’t thinkyouwere falling for him. I’d never have encouraged you if I thought there was a chance he would break your heart.”

Cleo bit her lip. She’d been a bad, bad friend. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you and told you I didn’t have feelings for him.” She brightened. “On the plus side, you get to say ‘I told you so’”. You called it when you said I always choose emotionally unavailable men. I promise I’m going to work on that.”

She wrangled her suitcase, and the one Sarah had loaned her for her new clothes, out of the back of the truck and, after a tight hug from Sarah, headed into the terminal.

All through the process of check-in and boarding, she moved on auto-pilot, head high, smile in place. It was only later, crammed into her cattle-class seat – if this had been a proper business trip, she could have used her expense account for an upgrade – that she could no longer hold back the storm of emotion that had been growing and growing inside her.

He hadn’t tried to stop her leaving, hadn’t even called. If she’d ever needed proof that his feelings did not match hers, that was it.

A tear leaked out her eye, caught and pooled on the rim of her glasses. She brushed it away impatiently, and cleaned the reminder from her glasses. That was the last tear she would shed for Luca Fioravanti.

ChapterThirty-Six

La lingua batte dove il dente duole.

(The tongue hits where the tooth aches.)

One direct flight, one overland train and two underground trains later, Cleo still hadn’t reached home, although she was ready to crawl into bed and pull the duvet over her head. She opened her ride-hailing app to summon a car for the final stretch of her journey, sagging into the back seat as the last of her energy drained. The clouded sky hung ominously low and heavy above, reflecting her mood.

Her phone and smartwatch were still set to Italian time, and it was well past noon. There were no texts or missed calls, so she wouldn’t have to sell her house after all, and Luca would get his wish: Gio would return home.

The car turned into the crescent, and her spirits lifted at the familiar sight of the row of terraced houses, the street lined with cherry trees. The first time Sarah had brought her to view this house, it had been spring with the trees full of pink blossoms. Now, they were fading, past their best. She’d missed this year’s display.

The driver unloaded her cases onto the pavement as she looked up at the modest two storey, with its red-brick façade and bay windows. This house hadn’t been her dream, but Sarah’s. Though her parents hadn’t owned their own home until their late fifties, she’d never been hungry to get onto the property ladder as Sarah had. She’d been perfectly content to rent, and only bought this house from Sarah when her friend moved permanently to Tuscany to run Castel Sant’Angelo with Tommaso. But in the years she’d lived here, it had become home, and she would’ve felt a pang at parting with it. But it was still nothing more than a house. Home wasn’t bricks and mortar or a name on a mortgage; it was the people you shared it with.

A car was parked on the paved apron in front of the house.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Cleo groaned as she edged her suitcases around the car to the front door. She should’ve seen this coming, but she’d been so wrapped up in her own problems she hadn’t thought of Moira and her secret lover in days. Now, she wasn’t going to be able to avoid it.

The door to the enclosed porch was unlocked, and the latch on the inner door wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the telly in the living room, so she announced her arrival by banging her suitcases down in the front hall. “Moira?”

“Shit!” The masculine voice was quickly smothered.

The door to the living room stood ajar, just wide enough to reveal two bodies cuddled on the sofa in a nest of pillows and blankets. Averting her eyes, Cleo headed down the passage into the kitchen to fill the kettle. “Would either of you like tea? Or coffee?” she called.

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