Page 23 of Italian Weddings

But then, she remembered who he was, what they were, and why that was completely out of reach—and too dangerous to hope for, and it was like the soft rawness of that hope burst apart with all the force of a thousand metal pots being dropped to the sidewalk.

There might as well have been a jarring, cacophony of sound, for how she startled.

“Anyway,” she sought for a conversation change. “That’s all very deep for this time of day.”

He wasn’t to be put off though. His hand on her knee squeezed, gently drawing her focus back, and he asked, “Do you think you’ll ever stop caring?”

“Probably not.” Across the street, as if the pain of her past had conjured the image, a mother and daughter walked, hand in hand, over the ancient cobblestones.

The daughter was maybe twelve or thirteen, taking her first foray into looking like a ‘grown up’, with a sweet dress and sneakers, her hair styled in curls.

She held a phone in one hand, but she was still young enough to hold her mother’s hand in the other.

As for the mum, she was looking down with such pride and love that something inside of Willow burst. “It’s like there’s this huge hole inside of me, you know?

Like I’ve spent most of my life being aware that I’m not good enough to love, will never be good enough to love.

I don’t think it matters who tells me otherwise, I doubt that hole can ever be filled. ”

“Willow—,” his voice was raw. Sympathetic. She walled off her heart, instinctively shying away from the idea of letting Francesco make her feel better.

“It’s okay,” she said, smiling weakly. “I’m not asking for you to make it better. I’m just being honest.”

At first, he seemed to fight against that, like he wanted to argue with her, but then, he nodded and reached for his own drink.

“I know a little about grief,” he said, after a long enough pause that she thought maybe he was going to let it go.

She glanced across at him slowly, a feeling in the pit of her stomach that he was talking almost against his will. Certainly, without forethought or planning. “When my mother died, we were just boys. But it changed our entire world.”

Guilt flashed inside Willow. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been going on about my childhood like I’m the only person who’s ever known loss…”

He reached out, putting his hand on hers, eyes stern. “ Never apologise for being honest with me,” he contradicted. “I appreciate you opening up.”

Something washed over her—a feeling that was almost too consuming to bear. She nodded a little unevenly. “You were saying?” she prompted, eyes on his face.

He hesitated again, and she cursed herself for interrupting him. “I know what it’s like, to lose something precious. Our mother was a wonderful woman, but more than that, she made our father whole. She completed him. After she died, he was completely torn apart.”

Anguish contorted Willow’s features. “That’s so sad.”

Francesco’s lips compressed.

“Is that what happened with your father?”

“What happened?”

“You’ve intimated you weren’t close. Is it because…”

His eyes lanced her. “Yes.”

She felt like the admission was hard fought, but then, he let out a sharp breath.

“My father was like a different man, afterwards. Angry, resentful. He started to drink heavily. To date indiscriminately. Our home life went from run of the mill, and happy, to the kind of instability I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

It had the silver lining of making my brothers and me grow closer, but we all shied away from him. ”

“Was he violent?”

“No,” Francesco denied, immediately. “He had a quick temper, but he was never physical with us.”

“Emotional instability is still hard to live with,” Willow said, glancing down at her hands.

“Meredith?”

She looked up at him again swiftly, cursing his intuition.

“I wouldn’t say she was unstable,” she said, haltingly.

“But I always knew her love—such as it was—to be conditional. If I wanted her affection, I had to do, or be, x-y-z. Even my career—working as a stylist—is something she arranged, something she approved of. But it turns out, I’m actually really good at it.

” Her cheeks flushed at the admission. “I have more clients than I can handle. I get incredible reviews. I thought—I always thought she’d see that and feel…

” her voice tapered off as she realized how silly those hopes had been.

He cursed under his breath. “You deserved so much better. You do deserve so much better, now.”

“I could say the same to you.” Their eyes met and held, and Willow had the strangest feeling, like she was being sun warmed from the inside out.

“I’m serious, Willow. Tom wasn’t right for you; but someone will be. Someone, one day, will make you understand how special you are.”

She knew she shouldn’t say it, and yet Willow heard her voice emerge, soft and uncertain, looking for something from Francesco that she’d been craving her whole life. “You think I’m special?”

His features tightened; his face almost seemed to be warning her. Finally, he said, “Are you fishing for compliments, cara? ”

She flushed to the roots of her hair and glanced down quickly, but a second later, his thumb was pressing to her chin, tilting her face towards his. “Yes.” His voice was deep and gravelled. “I think you’re very special.”

The warmth inside Willow burst into something else.

She reached for her drink with fingers that were trembling, unsure what to say next.

Because for all he’d said something lovely and complimentary, there was also a darkness inside Willow, at the realization that he was telling her she would be made whole by someone else. That it wouldn’t be him.

She smothered a gasp as comprehension dawned on her.

This was a fake relationship, but to Willow, somehow, it had started to feel very, very real.

Real in a way where she didn’t want it to end.

Real—which explained why she’d agreed to come to Italy.

She could have stuck to her guns and told his aunt and uncle that she was too busy, but she’d allowed them to push her into this.

She could have made an excuse to get out of it, but she hadn’t, because she’d wanted this.

Him. More time together. And the thought of going back to London and just being friends was almost impossible to bear.

“Francesco—,” she put her glass down quickly, her heart slamming into her ribs. Don’t do it, her brain warned. “What happens next?”

“Next?”

“With us.”

A downward quirk of his lips showed either that he wasn’t expecting the question, or didn’t appreciate it. “When?”

“When we get home. To London.”

His eyes roamed her face, whether out of habit, or to buy for time, and Willow waited, with breath held.

“We get on with our lives,” he said, simply.

Like it was a total no-brainer, except for Willow, that was no longer the case.

Yet his response, so casually and confidently delivered, robbed her of any confidence to pursue this further.

She’d spent a lifetime wanting more than she could get, more than the people in her life were willing to give her; she wouldn’t let that be the case with Francesco.

At least, she wouldn’t let him realise it was.

Her question became a beating drum in his voice, her words, so hesitantly—and hopefully—voiced, sent shockwaves of emotion through him.

Dark, angry emotions. Feelings that had made him want to say something dark and angry, to curse and stalk off, because she was asking for too much.

She was wanting more than they’d agreed!

And yet, knowing Willow as he did—especially now—he saw what courage that had taken.

Which didn’t make it any less catastrophic. Because Willow was, first and foremost, a loyal friend, and he owed it to her to protect her from this. From the emotional fallout of their fake relationship—from being hurt by him.

Which was why, even when he’d been so tempted to suggest they could keep their casual relationship on the go, back in London, he knew that would be a total disaster, in the long run.

Willow wasn’t someone he could just sleep with and then move on from.

And she definitely wasn’t made for casual relationships.

This was a girl who deserved to be worshipped and loved, and who wanted that, with all her heart.

Francesco couldn’t be that for her, so it would be selfish to tie her up, possibly risk her wanting more from him, just because he liked what they’d established here.

All he could hope was that they’d make it through the weekend, unscathed.

Because one thing was for sure: while he knew he’d never be able to offer Willow the kind of relationship she wanted, he valued their friendship almost more than anything else in his life. He would never do anything to jeopardise it, which meant this had to end, as soon as possible.