Page 17

Without opening my eyes I quickly assess the state of my hangover. Not too bad at all considering I drank more than a bottle of prosecco all by myself. I’m a bit woozy, but there is no thumping headache and I don’t need to purge the contents of my stomach.Excellent.

I roll over and nudge Massimo’s bum with my foot.

“Piss off, Ches,” he grumbles. He is not a morning person. He also maintains that he is still a ‘growing boy’ so needs lots of sleep.

“You know, I think that swim last night was a good idea. We’ve discovered the key to preventing bad hangovers!” I walk both of my feet up his bare back knowing it is winding him up.

“Seriously, Francesca, I’m tired. Go annoy someone else.”

The bed creaks as if it too is protesting at my early wake-up and I roll and clamour over Massimo to climb off. “Fine. Catch ya later, grouch.”

A lone survivor of the night before, I set out through the quiet house in search of coffee and food. Plodding downstairs to the kitchen, I catch my reflection in the heavy gold-bevelled mirror lining one side of the staircase. Massimo’s t-shirt and rugby shorts are huge on me and my hair is in a messy bun atop my head, but at least I had the presence of mind to clean the makeup off my face before going to bed last night.

“Oh. Morning,” I mumble to Giovanna as I join her in the kitchen. She looks like she has just come home from the gym in her lycra leggings and fitted singlet. Her olive skin is shiny with sweat and her hair pulled back in a little ponytail revealing she still has the shaved undercut on the back of her head that I remember.

Drinking from her water bottle greedily, she raises both eyebrows by way of greeting.

“Good workout?” I ask in my best barely-interested, totally casual voice.

“Yeah.” She always was a woman of few words, so I don’t push the conversation any further. If she wants to talk to me she will. I just need to resist the neediness I feel around her. The desperation to capture her attention somehow.

I busy myself with making a cup of coffee. The giant espresso machine looks far too complicated so I just do a plunger. I’m not precious about coffee like some Italians; I couldn’t be after living in England for so long.

“Enough for two?” Giovanna looks over my shoulder.

“Sure. Black?”

“Yes, please.”

Well, she’s talking to me at least. It is pathetic how happy that makes me. Just having her attention for a second gets my heart racing.

“I’m making eggs on toast. Want some?” She offers gruffly.

“Oh, yes, thank you.” I bite my lip to stop a goofy grin from spreading across my face.

Sipping the murky coffee that I should probably have left steeping for a lot longer, I sit at the bench so I can watch her cooking. I’m itching to fill the silence, but I don’t. Instead, my eyes catalogue every inch of her body.

She might not be as muscly as she used to be, but Giovanna is still ripped. Her exposed shoulders and arms are defined as if cut out of marble and I want to cling to them like a spider monkey.

An unshakeable desire for this woman has plagued me since puberty and yet if I were to get what I want - her - I would have no idea what to do.

I know how to make a man feel good. Getting them off is easy. As is making myself come. My own body is no mystery to me, but I’m ignorant of the ins and outs of fucking a woman.

Giovanna catches me perving on her and the side of her mouth curls up in amusement. “You alright there, darlin’?”

Warmth rockets up my neck and I blush so hard my face must practically glow, but I don’t drop eye contact with her. “Just…looking,” I admit.

The tension in the room is palpable and my body reacts with warmth pooling in my lower tummy. The term of endearment she uses for me is enough to send me giddy

“You like what you see?” she murmurs just loud enough for me to hear and my heart takes off racing even faster. It is a cheeky retort tossed over her shoulder as she stands over the stove, but to me, it feels groundbreaking.

“I do.”Play it cool, Francesca. Play it bloody cool.

Again her lip curls and a dimple appears on the other side of her face. I almost groan at how sexy it looks, but in a split second, she makes her expression neutral again and appears to give herself a shake.

“You’re marrying Elio,” she states roughly, sliding my breakfast in front of me.

“So I’m told. Wouldn’t be my choice.”