Page 21 of Italian Weddings

His expression didn’t change, but Willow had to work to cover the bitterness in her voice.

Not because she was jealous of the other women, but because Francesco had always seemed to have it so easy.

He was so confident, so easy going. Even though he’d had his own demons to fight, he’d just pushed on with his life, working hard, playing harder.

Whereas Willow was a twenty-five-year-old who still couldn’t stand up to her stepmother.

She sighed softly.

“You looked like a deer in the headlights,” he said, glancing down at her and frowning. “I remember thinking you were going to get eaten alive, going to bars like that, meeting people like me.”

Her throat seemed to thicken, making it harder to swallow. “And yet, I survived.”

“Yes,” he nodded, but his expression was thoughtful. “You seemed lonely.”

“That night?”

He appeared to consider that, then tilted his head in a gesture of agreement. “And probably ever since.”

“I’m not,” she lied.

“I know you have friends,” he murmured, eyes looking into hers with an intensity that seemed to peel back all her layers. “But that’s not the same thing.”

She hated how perceptive he was. She tried to pull a face, to make it seem like he was over-analysing things.

“I thought that was the purpose of friends.”

His eyes flicked back to the view, and for some reason, she glanced down at his bare feet and felt her insides turn to mush. Her heart basically grabbed a placard in protest.

“You never seemed lonely here.”

The blood in her veins seemed to develop a power all of its own. “In Italy?”

“At the villa.”

“Well, there are a million of you. Even more now,” she pointed out, because the family was undergoing a rapid expansion, with the addition of spouses and children.

“Yes,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “Did you ever think about leaving London?”

She bit into her lower lip. “And go where?”

“Anywhere. You have a trust fund at your disposal, right?”

Something about the way he said that turned her gushing veins to ice. She fidgeted with her fingers, hating the thought of him reducing her to the sum of her parts. To someone who’d been born into wealth and would just take advantage of it.

“I have a job, you know.”

“But that’s something you could put on hold, right?”

But there, predictably, at the back of her mind, was the fear.

The lurking sense of danger, that always stirred to life to protect her.

Was he asking these questions because he wanted her to leave London?

Because, the complications of what they’d done would be easier to manage if she just wasn’t around.

“I have no plans to leave London, Francesco,” she said, her voice wooden. “It’s my home.”

“And are you happy there?”

“Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“Or is it Tom that keeps you anchored to the UK? Because you talk about your friends without so much as mentioning the man you’re apparently in love with, and planning to spend the rest of your life with.”

Her lips parted on a rushed breath. Damn it.

She’d forgotten all about Tom. Then again, she’d already told him that there was no future for them.

Of course, he’d taken it well—just another sign that he hadn’t been anywhere nearly as invested as she was.

That yet again she’d let herself hope and want for something she’d never get.

“Tom isn’t why I’m staying in London.”

“No? Because that would make sense, given how you feel about him.”

“How I feel about him is irrelevant.” She hesitated, though she couldn’t say why. “It’s over. Once and for all.”

Francesco turned his whole body to face Willow then, his eyes raking her face, not saying anything, though, so she felt a rush of impatience and pain, threading through her.

“You just had dinner with him,” Francesco finally said.

“Yes, and after dinner, we agreed that would be the last time.”

“You agreed ?” he repeated, incredulously.

“It wasn’t right, for either of us. I think it was just wishful thinking that had me clinging to the idea of him, for so long.”

“But you’re—he’s the entire reason we’re doing this. The reason you wanted to avoid being set up on dates by your stepmother.”

“I want to avoid being set up on dates by my stepmother for a thousand reasons,” she muttered.

“Right.” His brow furrowed. “Are you okay?”

“Surprisingly, yes. I think I was more invested in what he represented, than him.”

“What did he represent?”

But that was a secret she didn’t intend to share. Certainly not with Francesco, who already saw and understood too much.

“Something different,” she said, after a beat. “A break from people like my parents, my sisters.”

“People like me?”

“You’re different too,” she said, thoughtfully. “For one thing, you’re not British.”

“That’s true,” he agreed, and her heart lifted at the small smile playing about his lips.

“And you’re not superficial. Fancy. Part of some old lineage that has to be carried on.” She lifted one shoulder. “I mean, I know you’re incredibly wealthy, and your family is really powerful or whatever, but…you’re a normal person.”

He laughed. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”

“Probably a little bit of both,” she admitted. “I mean, I guess you’re not actually that normal. Lots of people would probably find you all kinds of intimidating.”

“But you’re not one of them.”

She glanced up at him, pulling her lower lip between her teeth, and shaking her head. Wondering why that was the case. She’d never felt intimidated by Francesco, or anyone in his family. If anything, she’d felt like they were somehow familiar to her, even from that first meeting.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said, shaking his head a little, his hands hooking to her hips.

“You’re not going to,” she promised. “Neither of us will.”

And as he kissed her, she just hoped and prayed that she was right.