Page 1 of Better Than Gelato (Ciao Bella #1)

Chapter One

I ’m not scared. I’m not even nervous or uneasy.

The man next to me is terrified. His huge dark hand squeezes the armrest so tight I see the sharp peaks of each knuckle.

He tightens the seat belt another millimeter, the blue vinyl fabric straining against his bulk.

I’ve never seen a man big enough to wrestle grizzly bears look like he wants to curl into a ball and suck his thumb.

A flight attendant walks down the narrow aisle and gives him a reassuring smile.

He turns away from her toward the small oval window.

As he shifts, the sleeve of his T-shirt comes up, revealing a tattoo across his large right biceps.

It says FEARLESS in bold, jagged letters.

I look at the hunch of his massive shoulders, and the irony is too much for me.

I try to smother a giggle, but I’m unsuccessful.

“Something funny?” he asks in a low voice.

“Absolutely not,” I say. It comes out with a British accent, which is unfortunate because I’m not British. I sometimes accidentally switch into accents when I’m nervous.

His eyes bore into me, and the muscles in his jaw tighten. I clear my throat and continue in my regular California accent.

“Okay, maybe a little funny. Big tough guy, scared of flying, ironic tattoo…”

He does not look amused.

“It’s definitely less funny now that you’re looking at me like you wish me bodily harm.” I discreetly look for a flight attendant. Maybe it’s not too late to change seats.

“You can stop shaking, Blondie. I’m not going to break your arm.”

I’m not really shaking, just tapping my feet on the worn blue carpet.

“But if I feel my Big Mac coming up,” he continues, “I’m not grabbing that motion sickness bag. It’s going right on your shoes.”

I can tell from the slant of his eyes he’s not joking. “Did you just threaten to vomit on a total stranger?” I ask.

“Did you just make a grown man feel like a sissy-baby-chicken-head?” he snaps back.

“Sissy baby what?” What is this guy talking about?

“According to my kids, that’s the worst thing you can be called,” he replies.

My eyebrows shoot up. “You have kids?”

“Yep. Two of ’em. But I tell you what, I got that Fearless tattoo before they came along. Being a dad brings a whole new kinda fear into your life.”

“How old are they?” I ask.

“My boy Samuel is nine and my little girl Tanya is six.”

“That’s like my girl!”

He gives me a once-over. “How old are you? There’s no way you got a six-year-old daughter.”

“Well, no.” My cheeks heat up. “I’m twenty. But I’m a nanny. I mean I’m going to be. And the little girl is six.”

“A nanny huh? Do you have any younger brothers or sisters?” he asks.

“No,” I shake my head. “All older.”

“Ever spent much time with a six-year-old girl?” he prods.

“No,” I repeat, irritation creeping into my voice. “There were surprisingly few six-year-olds living in my college dorm.”

“Well, good luck,” he says with a smirk.

The plane starts shaking as we accelerate down the runway and my seatmate mutters under his breath.

I can’t tell if he’s praying or swearing.

He has the same look my best friend Maggie had when I convinced her to go on the Zipper at the county fair.

I had to sing the Star-Spangled Banner at the top of my lungs to keep her from puking. We were twelve.

I’m not going to sing for this guy, but I could try to take his mind off things. I do love the shoes I’m wearing.

“So, why are you going to Milan?” I ask. The plane picks up speed.

“Work.” He looks down at the runway flying past.

“What do you do?”

“Business consulting.” He takes a couple of fast breaths.

“I’m a business major myself!” I say. “I was supposed to take a bunch of obscenely dull classes this semester but fate has intervened. An opportunity fell right into my lap. Like it was meant to be, you know?”

I look at his blank face. He doesn’t know. I continue undeterred.

“I heard about this nanny gig from my Italian professor. I called the family that very day, and they hired me and bought me a ticket to Milan.”

I’m waiting for him to cheer at my good luck, but he doesn’t. He just stares at the back of the seat in front of him as sweat trickles down his temple.

“So now, instead of dying a slow death from human resources management, I’m going to wander down cobblestone streets taking pictures and eating gelato.”

The plane has leveled off now and the shaking is mostly over. He turns to look at me.

“If you hate business classes, why are you majoring in business?” His face is still flushed, but his breathing sounds better.

“Doesn’t matter,” I reply. “The point is, I’ve miraculously escaped all of that for a year.”

He tips his head to the side. “And what about when the year’s over?”

“Then I slog through two more years and graduate.”

“And then?” he presses.

“Then I move back to my suffocatingly small hometown and run the family dry cleaning business.” The thought is so depressing my toes curl up, but I try not to let it show.

“And who came up with this plan?”

“My dad.”

His lips dip into a frown. “I see. And do you always let other people make your choices for you?”

This guy sounds less like a business consultant and more like a therapist.

“It’s not like that.” I reply automatically.

“If you say so,” he says, with an annoying shrug.

This conversation is the worst. I should have just let him puke on me.

I spend the flight reassuring myself that my seatmate doesn’t know what he’s talking about. After all, I made this decision, didn’t I? And sure, I’ve never worked with kids, or been to Italy, or even left the US. But I have a feeling, deep in my bones, that I’m meant to do this.

After what feels like days, the flight attendant tells us to prepare for landing.

Even over the scratchy intercom, the Italian sounds incredible.

I hang on every vowel, get lost in the up and down cadence.

I know she’s telling me to fasten my seatbelt and put my tray up, but it sounds like she’s telling me to embrace life and live to the fullest. And also that she likes my hair.

When our plane lands, I walk down the narrow hallway and out into the main airport. I’m in Italy. Actual Italy. I close my eyes and soak up this feeling-this certainty that the best year of my life has officially started.

I follow the crowd of travelers and make my way to baggage claim.

I’m trying to walk normally, like my carry-on isn’t that heavy, but the truth is, it is that heavy.

My hands are sweaty, and I’m trying to make them not be sweaty, but that’s not a thing I know how to do.

I arrive at the baggage carousel and feel a moment of panic. How will I find my new boss?

I look frantically from unfamiliar face to unfamiliar face, feeling more anxious by the second. Then I see a man holding a sign that says Juliet Evans. He has wildly curly black hair and a full face. Next to him is a woman and a little girl. The three of them look just like the photo Marco sent me.

Relief washes over me and my whole body tingles with excitement. I walk over, grinning like an idiot and say, “This is me.”

“Julietta! So happy to meet you! I am Marco Rossi.” He’s speaking faster than my Italian teacher, and it takes my brain an extra moment to match his words to their English counterparts.

“This is Sofia, my wife,” he says motioning to a slender woman with glowing olive skin and glossy dark hair.

I wonder what miracle products she uses to make her hair shine that way.

She kisses my cheeks and says, “ Benvenuta .” I’m at least four inches taller than her and she has to stand on her tiptoes to reach my cheeks.

“ Grazie ,” I say back. I probably sound like a five-year-old, but I’m so excited to speak to real Italians, I don’t care.

“This is Isabella, our little tesoro ,” Marco continues. Isabella is skinny with straight brown hair that falls past her shoulders. She’s missing a front tooth, but I’ve heard that’s normal for kids her age.

She slips her hand into mine and asks, “Are you a Barbie?”

I have neither the bust nor the accessories of Barbie, but I guess being tall, blonde, and skinny is enough to get lumped into that category.

I shrug and say, “Sort of.” She holds my hand as we wait for my suitcases.

At one point, she drops my hand, wipes the sweat onto her pants and grabs my hand again.

I send a heartfelt plea to my nervous system to take the sweating down a notch.

We step outside the airport, and I let the sights and sounds and smells of Italy wash over me. At this moment that’s a bunch of leering cab drivers, honking horns, and the scent of cigarettes and car exhaust. Still, it feels magical.

September in Milan is chillier than September in California, and I wish I’d grabbed my jacket from my suitcase. Marco leads us to the car, which looks like a child’s toy. The fact that we all manage to fit inside of it seems to bend the laws of physics.

Marco simultaneously carries on a conversation with me, while conversing with the other drivers through his open window. His conversation with me contains fewer swear words.

“This is Isa’s first year of full-day school,” he says. “You’ll be dropping her off at 8:00 a.m. and picking her up at 4:00 p.m. Sofia will go with you tomorrow to show you.”

I nod and look out the window at the city of Milan. Beautiful old buildings, cobblestone streets, Italians nonchalantly going about their amazing Italian lives. I can’t stop smiling.

Oh no, has my smiling crossed the line from friendly to manic ?

It’s happened before. I do my best to smile like a normal person who is pleasant and happy, instead of a lunatic who’s broken free of the asylum.

“She looks tougher than the last girl,” Isa says.

Sofia gives Isa a warning look, but Isa turns to me and says, “The last nanny quit.”

Oh . I try to hide my surprise, but I have a terrible poker face. Sofia flushes in embarrassment and Isa giggles in delight.