Page 17 of Italian Weddings

“Let’s get hammered,” he said, adding another measure of scotch to Raf’s glass.

“Fucking yes,” was all Raf said, before scrunching his eyes closed and letting out a shuddered breath.

And for the rest of the night, that was all Francesco thought of, all he focused on, until several hours later, when they were back in his penthouse hotel room, Raf passed out in the spare room.

Alone with his own thoughts, Francesco felt the shifting of the wind, the way they moved away from his brother and Marcia, and towards Willow instead.

He fell into his own bed and stared at the ceiling, wishing he could get her out of his mind—or that he could be buried inside of her. Either or.

The second Willow saw his name on her screen, her heart went into crazy overdrive, her insides clenching with remembered desire and need.

She shoved her phone back in her bag and leaned forward, focusing all her attention on Tom.

He was telling her about his latest client, and the number of times they’d changed their minds on the paint colours—even when he’d almost finished the job—and Willow was smiling, and nodding, her features carefully arranged to show an interest she definitely didn’t feel.

Seeing Tom this week was intentional.

Necessary.

Important.

For days, she’d been distracted by the weekend with Francesco. What had happened with them was far from straight forward. She wanted it to be. She wanted to just be able to accept that they were friends who’d slept together, but the flipside to that was a yawning chasm of uncertainty.

Because going to Italy with him was suddenly the thing she wanted most in the world, and it shouldn’t have been.

There was Tom to consider. Tom to think about. Tom to crave. Who was supposed to be her future, her whole life. Tom who’d always made her feel at peace and calm.

Except tonight, it hadn’t.

Tonight, he’d arrived at the restaurant late and disheveled, and she’d been annoyed.

Annoyed that he hadn’t been able to make it on time, when they hadn’t seen each other for months.

Annoyed that his shirt was untucked on one side and he had some kind of oil stain on his collar.

Annoyed that he didn’t ask her a damned thing about her life, but rather launched into a breakdown of his, from what he’d eaten for breakfast that morning to an annoying call he’d received from a telemarketer that afternoon.

Had it always been like this?

Had she really thought this was how she wanted to spend the rest of her life?

The disloyal thought caught her truly unawares. She sat up straighter, reaching for her champagne, letting the liquid fizz and bubble all the way down, then taking another sip, and another, until her glass was drained.

Even then, Tom didn’t break his monologuing stride. Had he even noticed she’d pulled her phone from her bag? That she’d skolled her drink? Was he even noticing her?

Suddenly, she was irritated. Not just with him, but herself, too.

With the amount of time she’d spent getting ready, looking forward to this.

Annoyed with all the hopes she’d invested, that he would be everything she wanted.

That she’d see him and it would all lock back into place again.

That she’d find a way to break through his objections and get him to see that their different backgrounds really didn’t matter.

But the more he talked, the less certain she became. A waiter appeared and silently topped up her glass. Tom kept talking.

At her side, she was conscious of the buzzing of her handbag, her phone receiving another call. She sipped some more of her drink, and some more, then stood abruptly.

Finally, Tom broke off. “Willow? Is something the matter?”

“I—have a call. I’m sorry.” She brandished her bag as if he’d asked for evidence, but Tom didn’t need it. He shrugged and pushed his thumb to his mouth, worrying at the edge of his fingernail.

“No problem; take your time. I’ll be here.”

Her stomach lurched, and the uncertainty of her situation, of what she now wanted in life, started to flip and twist inside of her, so she stalked out of the restaurant before taking the call, because she wasn’t sure she could trust herself to keep a hold of her temper.

It wasn’t Francesco’s fault.

On the contrary, he’d done everything she’d asked of him—and then some. He’d been the perfect fake boyfriend, and an exceptional lover. So why was she so annoyed at him? Why was seeing Tom somehow stirring up a hornet’s nest of anger.

She stabbed the phone, took a deep breath, tried to control her rioting feelings.

“Francesco?”

Silence. Her heart twisted.

“Hello?” Impatience curdled the word.

“Willow.” She closed her eyes on a rush of need. His voice was deep and throaty. Familiar but far away, and almost like he’d been drinking. She swallowed past a strange thickness in her throat. A group of people walked by, talking and laughing, but she barely noticed.

“Is this a bad time?”

“Huh?” She opened her eyes, stared straight ahead.

“It sounds busy where you are.”

“Oh. I’m on the street.”

“Just hanging out?”

His light hearted comment angered her further. He was kidding. Like this was all some big joke. Like she was a joke?

“No, actually, I’m out at dinner, but when you wouldn’t stop calling, I came outside to make sure everything is okay. So, is it?”

“I called twice,” he said in response.

“Okay, whatever. But you’re okay?”

“Willow—,” he sighed. “Yes. And no.”

“What does that mean?”

“Willow?” Tom’s voice cut through and she quickly blanked her face, hoping he hadn’t seen the emotion there. Because just hearing from Francesco was making her insides zip and loop in a weird way. “Did you want dessert?”

Nope. He had apparently seen nothing. “I—won’t be long.”

“They’re closing the kitchen, that’s all.”

Already? She blinked down at her watch. It was after ten. “Oh, right. Um, no. Just a coffee.”

“Great. Black?”

Irritation flared inside of her. “No, an oat latte.”

“Great.” His smile was bemused. “Don’t be long.”

It was those three words that sealed the deal for her, cementing what had been building inside of her all night: an acceptance of the final, absolute end of her relationship with Tom.

An understanding that he wasn’t what she thought—what she needed.

What she’d once loved. Except, had she really loved him? Or just the idea of him?

“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

“Yes. I’m here.”

“Okay. It’s just, you were?—,”

“Is that Tom?”

Her heart stammered. It was strange to hear Francesco say the other man’s name—stranger than it had been when they were together. Then, she’d welcomed the mention of Tom. It had been a salient reminder of where her priorities lay. Now? She couldn’t say with clarity. It was all so muddled.

“Yes.”

“You’re out with Tom.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you didn’t see him anymore?”

“I hadn’t seen him in a while, but you’ve always known what he means to me.”

She closed her eyes against the way that felt to say. The fact she knew, even as the words left her lips, that it was a lie.

“Of course.”

She watched as a woman strode across the street, blonde hair tossed over one shoulder. Effortlessly confident and chic.

“Anyway,” she said unevenly. “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

Silence, and then, “This weekend.”

Her heart stammered. “Yeah?”

“Are you coming?”

Her heart pounded. Was she? It was a fair question. It was just, no matter how many times Willow thought about this, she couldn’t come up with a straight answer. He’d left it up to her, and Willow had vacillated a thousand times.

“Would you prefer I didn’t?”

The second she asked the question, she winced.

It was too needy. Too desperate. Suddenly, she was that little girl again, who’d been so desperate for love and approval, she’d sought it out constantly, only to be resolutely ignored by Meredith.

Made to feel that unless she was perfect, she wasn’t worthy of affection.

“Frankly, Willow, right now, it’s the last thing on my mind. Just do what’s best for you.”

Silence fell. A strange, prickly, angry silence.

“Francesco…”

“Go back to Tom, cara . You wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

Tears stung the backs of Willow’s eyes as she made her way into the restaurant, but she refused to let them fall.