Page 89 of My Fake Italian Marriage

Who was this man sitting in front of him? Luca cocked an eyebrow at his father, waiting for the expected disclaimers, the sting in the tail, and Babbo’s expression turned contrite. He rose and crossed to where Luca sat, laying a hand on his shoulder. “There have been times in your lives where I believed you and your brother were making the wrong decisions, and I believed I knew better. I made some mistakes, but I look at both my sons now and I am proud of the men you’ve become. I am proud of you.”

Luca blinked against the sudden burn in his eyes. Babbo squeezed his shoulder, then stepped away, and Luca rose from his seat. “Now, if we’re done here, I need to get to London.”

If his father could change his mind and admit to his mistakes, so could he. If Cleo still chose not to return, if she did not feel for him as he felt for her, then he would have to live with that, but first there were things he needed to tell her, things he should have said last night in the rose garden, if he hadn’t been behaving like a typically stubborn Fioravanti set on doing things his own way.

His wallet was back at the villa, too, so he rooted in his desk for his business credit card, but Babbo laid a hand on his arm to stop him. “There are no more flights from Florence to London today, so we booked you onto the first flight in the morning.”

Luca paused. “We?” He couldn’t imagine his mother going online to make a reservation; she’d barely got the hang of texting.

“Me and Gio. He emailed you the ticket.” Then his father smiled, his gaze moving over Luca’s creased attire. “I didn’t think I would ever need to giveyouadvice on how to seduce a woman, but you might also consider a change of clothes if you want to make a good impression.”

* * *

The train journey from Gatwick to London reminded Luca how much he disliked big cities. The view out the smeared window was grey and depressing and, even on a Sunday morning, Victoria station bustled with anxious people. The noise was incessant; traffic, voices, a crying baby, announcements over the PA system that no-one paid any attention to… He would have preferred a taxi to public transport, but he could imagine what Cleo would say about spending Fioravanti money on a luxury like that. Despite himself, he grinned.

Though the day was unseasonably chilly, at least it wasn’t raining, so he chose to walk to the nearest Central Line station instead of being trapped underground any longer than necessary. The buildings loomed over him, and the clouds hung oppressively low overhead. As a young man, he’d found the energy and vibrancy of this city stimulating, but clearly he was getting old; the easy-going pace of Florence, its mellow light and beauty, held far more appeal now.

When he emerged out of the underground station in the eastern suburb of Wanstead, the sun had started to peek through the heavy cloud cover and the light was brighter, picking out the greenery on the trees, the red brick of the pub across the road, so that the world no longer seemed grey, filling him with renewed hope. He pulled his phone from his pocket to look at the directions Sarah had sent. The walk to the crescent where Cleo lived took a brisk fifteen minutes, most of which he spent composing what he would say when she opened the door.

But the person who opened the door when he rang the doorbell wasn’t Cleo. It was a man dressed in nothing but low-slung jeans, with a flop of fair hair and dark-rimmed glasses. Cleo had never mentioned a male housemate. “Can I help you?” the man asked, pushing his glasses higher up his nose as he looked at Luca.

“Is Cleo here?” Luca had to clear his throat. “I am Luca Fioravanti.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Come on in. I’m Kevin Hartfield.”

Cleo’sboss?What was he doing half-naked in her home on a Sunday morning? Luca swallowed the sudden taste of bile in his mouth. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come… It would have been better not to know.

“Who is it?” A petite woman with strawberry-blonde hair and big brown eyes, dressed in shorts and a tank top, appeared in the doorway beside Kevin, wrapping a possessive arm around his waist, and Luca released a relieved breath as the grey receded from the edges of his vision.

“Luca, from the vineyard in Tuscany,” Kevin replied.

The woman’s eyes widened even more than Kevin’s had. “The demi-god?” Then she blushed, a bright crimson that made even her vibrant hair look dull.

Despite the knot in his stomach, Luca grinned. Whose description had that been, Sarah’s or Cleo’s?

She rallied, offering a polite hand to shake. “I’m Moira. Cleo went for a run, but she should be back soon. Can we offer you coffee while you wait?” She stepped back into the hall, waving him in.

Luca followed them inside and down a passage to the cosy kitchen at the rear of the house, overlooking a neat rectangle of lawn.

“We’re making waffles for brunch,” Moira said. “Would you like some?”

Luca shook his head. He was too anxious to eat, despite the fact that he’d eaten nothing since the lonely dinner for one he’d had standing at his kitchen counter the night before. He usually enjoyed his solitude, and loved cooking, even if it was only for himself, but last night his apartment had felt too empty and there’d been no joy in eating alone.

He perched on a bar stool beside the counter and watched as Moira and Kevin moved around one another in the dance that came from familiarity. The same way that he and Cleo moved together. His throat closed. What would he do if she said no to his proposition?

ChapterThirty-Eight

Chi nulla ardisce, nulla fa.

(Whoever dares nothing achieves nothing.)

Cleo slowed to a jog and looked at her pedometer. Wow. Her time had improved while she’d been away, no doubt because Wanstead Park was much flatter and less demanding than the hills around Montalcino. She would have enjoyed the run, the crisp, cool morning air and the spring-green landscape bursting into life, if it weren’t for the fact that the same thoughts had kept churning around and around in her head the entire time, her anger and frustration forming a drumbeat along with the rhythm of her feet on the muddy paths.

She wiped her shoes on the front doormat, unhooked her earbuds, and stepped through the door into the hallway, following the voices – and the tempting smell of waffles – to the kitchen.

Moira turned from the stove. “You have a visitor.”

Cleo followed her friend’s gaze, her heart leaping into her throat. She blinked, as if maybe the vision of Luca in their kitchen was nothing more than a mirage. But no, he was still there, rising from the bar stool.

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