Page 25 of Italian Weddings

Except, he’d been making actual progress in the whole forgetting Willow stakes.

He’d even been out at one of his usual bars, the night she’d called.

Okay, he hadn’t actually spoken to another woman—hadn’t really been interested in that—but it was a step forward to get back into his usual rhythms. Proof that he hadn’t been as unravelled by their time together as he’d started to fear.

And he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that seeing her name come up on his screen hadn’t super charged his whole body like some kind of dump of electricity.

Now, he just had to wait, another six days, and he’d see her again, for one last fake-date night. He refused to acknowledge just how much he didn’t want to wait…

They’d agreed to meet in the little underground bar just off Oxford Street at six, and Willow had deliberately faffed about, meaning it was a quarter past when she strode in wearing a thick woollen coat over the top of her slinky dress and heels.

She saw them the second she entered the bar, despite how busy it was, and stopped walking altogether, taking a second just to stare at Francesco, as if by looking at him she could steel herself to get through this.

But the truth was, just seeing him again sent her whole body into a state of turmoil; she could hardly move, much less trust herself to speak.

They should have met up before this. They should have spent some time together, to get beyond any butterflies and awkwardness.

Except, those would all be on Willow’s side.

She was the one with the butterflies, who felt awkward.

Who realized, and accepted, that she was fully and completely in love with this man, who’d never love her back. Who wanted to be her friend, full stop.

She moved slightly, and whether it was that movement or simply a coincidence, but Francesco glanced across the bar at that moment, towards the door, and his eyes glanced across her, at first, before tearing back, like they were pulled by a magnetic force.

They stared at each other for what felt like a very long time to Willow, before he stood and started to move towards her, and the heart that had been in her throat skidded back into her chest but pounded with such urgency she wondered if it was actually dangerous.

He cut through the crowd with ease, coming to stand toe to toe with her, his eyes probing hers for a beat before he dropped his head and brushed his lips over hers, so Willow’s pulse began to rival her heart, in terms of sound.

“Sorry I’m late,” she murmured, because she felt like she needed to say something.

“No big deal. You ready?”

No. She wasn’t. And at the same time, there was nowhere else she wanted to be.

It made everything more complicated by a mile, but the thought of another hour with Francesco was suddenly like a gift.

She knew she’d take these breadcrumbs and then, in a few days’ time, they could end it, as they’d agreed.

He reached down and laced their fingers together; she didn’t want to think about how perfect that felt.

As they approached the booth, Rocco stood, followed by Maddie.

“So good to see you again,” Maddie grinned in her broad New York accent.

“How were the flowers?” Willow asked, sliding in across from Maddie.

What followed was a good ten-minute exultation of British horticulture, then some utterly adoring comments from Rocco, and when Maddie excused herself to go to the bathroom, Rocco confided in them that he was looking at buying a nursery in the Cotswolds for Maddie to manage.

“She just loves this stuff. And she’s so good at it,” he continued.

Willow grinned and nodded, and sipped the dry French white wine, but inside, a spark had been ignited that wouldn’t die down, no matter how much she tried to subdue it.

She was angry.

Angry to see Rocco, who’d had the same childhood, the same upbringing as Francesco, who presumably had all the same reasons to be skeptical of love and damaged by trauma, in total a freefall of love and not caring one single bit.

Here was Rocco, opening himself up to this woman like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because they were soul mates. Because he’d found his other half, and not committing to her hadn’t been an option.

And maybe it would be the same for Francesco one day.

Maybe one day, he’d meet the woman that made him throw caution to the wind and fall headlong into love.

It just wasn’t going to be Willow. She wasn’t enough.

He might think her ‘special’, but that didn’t mean special enough for him.

He might think she deserved better, but that didn’t mean he would be the one to give her what she deserved.

The thoughts kept swirling through Willow’s brain, so when Maddie floated the idea of cancelling their dinner reservation and just grabbing some bar snacks, if it meant Willow could stay with them a while longer, she felt like she was being suffocated. She had to get out of there.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, shaking her head. “I really can’t stay.”

Maddie looked a little surprised and beside her, Willow felt Francesco stiffen. “I’ve got a huge week,” she repeated the same lie she’d given Francesco. “I have to get home and catch up on social media stuff.”

“Oh, that’s such a shame,” Maddie cooed, and Willow tried not to focus on how much she liked the other woman.

How much, in other circumstances, she might have just settled back into the booth seat and let herself lap up this sense of belonging.

Of being wanted. Of having other people actually talk about changing their plans so she could spend more time with them.

“Another time,” Willow said, blithely, her glance incorporating Rocco, before she steeled herself to turn to Francesco. “I’d better get going.”

“I’ll come with you,” he offered, contrary to their agreement.

“No, that’s not necessary,” she responded, a little too sharply. She softened it with an over-bright smile. “Catch up with your family.”

His expression was droll. “You say that like we don’t ever see each other.”

“It’s fine,” she said, tone insistent. “I just have to work—there’s no sense ruining your night for that. Have a good time.”

Except, he was on the edge of the booth, meaning without his moving, she remained effectively trapped, and for a long beat of time, Willow wondered if he wasn’t going to move.

But then, slowly, he unfurled his large body, and stood, his tongue briefly pressing the inside of his cheek, as though he was trying to hold back some words.

“I’ll just see Willow into a cab. Excuse me,” he said, without taking his eyes off Willow.

And his expression was, suddenly, thunderous.

In a way that sent shivers down Willow’s spine, and which she couldn’t understand.

His hand on the small of her back as they left the bar was firm. As they stepped outside, she pulled her coat on, taking a moment, only to find Francesco was staring at her with that same, angry look, and a sense that he was holding back from saying whatever was bothering him.

“Okay,” she said, not sure she wanted to press into whatever bruise it was. “Have a nice night.”

“Have a nice night?” he repeated, clearly incredulous. “That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not doing your bit.”

“What?”

“We had a deal.”

She blinked at him, not understanding.

“You’re meant to be convincing them we’re in love.”

Her jaw parted.

“No, I’m playing your girlfriend. No one said anything about love.”

His eyes shifted away, like he was pushing down on some dark emotion, controlling his inner-most thoughts before he looked at her again, nostrils flaring in the same display of control.

“Would it have killed you to stay another half hour?”

Yes. “I would have thought you’d be glad I’m leaving. It gets you off the hook way sooner.”

“Off the hook?”

“From spending a night with me.”

His jaw tightened, like he was grinding his teeth. “I have no issue spending the night with you.”

Willow’s stomach rolled, because that was the last thing she wanted to hear. Talk about damning with faint praise. But what had she expected? A declaration of love?

Yes. At least, that’s what she’d desperately wanted.

“And we had a deal. This is what we do. I played the part for your family?—,”

“And I played the part for yours, in Italy. We’re even.”

“So that’s what this is? You think I’m asking too much of you?”

“Why are you so mad at me?”

“Because you’re acting like I’m the last person you want to be around. You’re acting like this is torture?—,”

It is. The words were on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to hurl them at him, along with the reason why it was torture. She wanted to admit how much he’d come to mean to her. How much she’d come to love him. To need him.

But it would be the death knell to their friendship, and she couldn’t handle that.

She shook her head quickly, to dispel those thoughts and words. “I’m just tired,” she said. “And I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Yeah, well, suddenly, I want to fight with you,” he snapped, and her heart zinged.

His emotions were unlike anything she’d ever seen from him.

Francesco was always in control, always almost unemotional, except for that week, when his father had died, and he’d showed her that his world had fallen apart.

“Why?” she asked, staring up at him, frowning in confusion. “We don’t fight.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” he said, but instead of fighting, he pulled her into his arms and held her there, just staring down at her.

“Fucking hell, Willow, what are you doing to me?” and before she could realise his intention, he was kissing her.

Not in a chaste way of greeting, either, but with his whole body, his whole mouth, all of himself, kissing her until she could hardly breathe, and her eyes filled with stars, and the world seemed to be spinning way too fast. Her only option was to cling to him, first to the lapels of his shirt and then, by wrapping her hands around his neck, holding him for dear life.

When he broke the kiss and stared down at her, she had no way of knowing what he was feeling. “This has to end,” he muttered. “You’re right. Leaving is the only way.”

And with no time to even process his words, much less respond, his hand had lifted, and one of London’s famous black cabs swooped in behind them. Francesco reached up and unfastened her hands, keeping them held in his.

“Let’s take some time, before we see each other again. This…doesn’t work.”

Her stomach seemed to roll and clench. She looked away quickly, her pulse washing in her ears, blotting out any other sound.

Then, Francesco was moving to the cab and opening the rear door.

Before Willow could slink into the backseat, he’d thrown a fifty pound note on the front passenger seat.

“The ride’s on me. See the lady gets home safely. ”

“Yes, sir,” the cabbie nodded, before pulling into traffic, leaving Willow in the back seat, totally at sixes and sevens, and devastated in a way she’d never in her life known before.