Page 8 of Italian Weddings

L UNCH WAS NOT MUCH better than last night’s dinner had been.

A stifling affair and a meal that was unapologetically rich and stodgy, with conversation that was directed by Meredith, interjected occasionally by Baxter, when he wasn’t glancing at the broadsheet newspaper to his right.

The twins were silent, though Francesco suspected that was because one of them had a phone beneath the table and they were scrolling it with the volume down, somehow managing to avoid Meredith’s notice.

He suspected Willow would not have been so lucky, if she were to try the same.

“Now, we have guests arriving from five,” Meredith was saying. “Most are staying for the two nights. Would you care to see the guest list, Francesco? There might be some names on it you’re familiar with. Such a shame your family wasn’t able to make it.”

“Yes,” he agreed with a nod. “But I do not need to see the list.”

Meredith’s lips puckered a little and beside him, he was sure he felt Willow’s body shift ever so slightly, as though she were suppressing a laugh.

“The caterers will be setting up the ballroom—unfortunately, the marquee won’t work in this weather.

Not for this evening, at least, though perhaps by tomorrow,” she murmured, glancing to the windows which showed a view of the softly falling rain and thunderously grey clouds.

“But no matter, we always knew the weather would be risky at this time of year.” She threw a glance at Baxter that was almost accusatory, for having had the audacity to be born at the tail-end of winter.

“It will be lovely, Meredith,” Willow said, her tone genuinely kind. A kindness that Francesco wasn’t sure the other woman deserved at all.

“Hmmm,” Meredith said, reaching for her wine and taking a sip.

“Can we be excused?” Aria asked, looking at her mother.

“May we be excused,” Meredith repeated through gritted teeth. “And why?”

“We have hair appointments,” Kathryn replied.

“Ah, of course,” Meredith’s demeanor shifted completely to one of approval. She turned quickly though, rounding on Willow. “I presume you have someone arranged to take care of this?” she gestured towards Willow’s silky dark hair, tucked back neatly again into a low bun.

“I’ll do it myself,” Willow responded.

Meredith shook her head. “No, that won’t do. Go with the girls.”

“Really, that’s not necessary,” Willow smiled as she said it, to soften the words.

“I beg to differ.” Meredith’s lips compressed into a line of disapproval. “Francesco, take her to town, won’t you? Half of London is coming tonight—you have to look just right, Willow. You know that.”

Willow’s head dropped, her gaze landing on her knees, and something fired inside of him—a protective anger—that made him grind his teeth. He wondered why Willow didn’t remind this woman what she did for a living? The fact that her services were in high demand.

“Willow always looks just right,” Francesco heard himself say, tone banal. “But a trip to town sounds fun. Why don’t we go and play tourist?”

Meredith’s lips parted and Willow’s eyes glanced towards his.

“I meant—,” Meredith interjected.

“Oh, yes,” Willow spoke at the same time, perhaps not hearing Meredith because she went right over the top of her. “There’s a church there you’d love to see.”

“It is hardly the right weather to go galivanting around the countryside. I only meant that you should go the salon and get something done with your hair.”

“Merry,” Baxter’s voice cut across the table. “Let the young people do what they will.”

Meredith’s face pinched. At forty one years of age, she had every reason to still consider herself a young person.

With that, Willow was scraping back her chair and turning to Francesco, her eyes glittering. “Come on,” she held out her hand, in a gesture of trust and solidarity. “Let’s go.”

The rain didn’t ease up as his SUV drove through the gentle undulations of the Cotswolds, neatly cutting through narrow lanes lined with medieval stone houses and finally parking in a town square. They sat there in silence for a few moments, before Willow turned to Francesco.

“Would you like to see the church?”

He arched a thick dark brow, then looked around the square.

“Let’s go for a drink,” he said, nodding towards a pub that was almost impossibly cosy, glowing a warm, golden colour from within, the planter boxes overflowing with brightly coloured flowers, the signage boasted, ‘best pie and gravy in the area’.

Willow nodded once.

“Wait there.”

Francesco stepped out of the car, and her eyes lingered a little on his strong legs in the few seconds she had a glimpse of them, before he closed the door and she heard the boot pop.

A moment later, he was at her door, opening it, umbrella held aloft.

She half-smiled at the chivalrous gesture—though of course, Francesco had had a lot of practice honing his shtick as the perfect boyfriend.

Then again, it wasn’t like he carried the act on beyond a few nights, right? So far as she knew, he’d never dated anyone seriously.

Halfway out of the car, she stilled, as that thought lodged in her brain with a big, bright question mark over it.

Francesco had never had a serious girlfriend.

She glanced across at him, confusion swamping her.

Because why would this man not have properly dated anyone?

Beyond a succession of two or three night stands…

But then, he put his hand on the small of her back, guiding her away from the car, and her insides lurched in recognition of the touch, so she had to focus on just putting one foot in front of the other and reminding herself that Francesco was a friend. Tom was the man she wanted to be with.

Inside, the pub was every bit as rustic and charming as outside had promised.

Huge pine-scented garlands were strung across the door frames, beautiful artwork adorned the walls, large floral arrangements stood on tabletops, and there was a pleasing hum of chatter and laughter that promised anonymity.

Willow wiped a hand over the front of her outfit, to remove any creases, an action she did out of habit, rather than necessity.

Though even here, there was a risk of some tabloid photographer snapping an image—double the risk, when she was with a billionaire bachelor like Francesco.

At the bar, Francesco asked, “What would you like?”

She slid her gaze across the various taps promising locally made ciders and ales, then to the fridge, well stocked with wines and champagnes, and finally to the brass backed coffee machine at the end of the counter.

“Actually, I could murder a coffee.”

Francesco nodded, turning to the young woman behind the counter, who was busy looking at Francesco as though if she stared hard enough, he might lean forward and plant a kiss on her lips.

Willow could well understand. Francesco had that effect on pretty much everyone he met.

It wasn’t his fault. But between his height, breadth, strength, that chiseled face, caramel skin, and dark eyes that were rimmed in thick, black lashes, he was more fantasy creation than human.

“Two coffees, thanks.”

“Sure,” the woman nodded. “What kind of coffee?”

Francesco threw Willow a half-smile. “Are you persisting with that oat substance?”

Willow raised her brows, ignoring the fluttering in her chest because he remembered her milk choice from a couple of years back, when they’d caught up for coffee.

“If you have it,” she said to the woman, who gave a decidedly less warm look in Willow’s direction.

“Aye, we do. Oat milk for you,” her gaze slid back to Francesco. “And for you?”

Willow could practically feel the breeze from the other woman’s fluttering lashes.

“Just an espresso.”

Willow bit back a smile. She certainly remembered that about Francesco. Even in the mornings, he had his coffee short and black. She’d fixed it for him, after his father’s death, on the nights she’d stayed over, sleeping on his couch so she could be there if he needed her.

Francesco put his hand against her lower back once more, and Willow tried not to think about what a perfect groove it was for his hand to touch, because that kind of thought was the exact opposite of what a friend would contemplate.

They chose a table built into the bay window at the front of the pub. It was a small enough table that their knees brushed, but Willow didn’t suggest they find somewhere bigger. Neither did Francesco.

“Do you need me to fix your hair, while we are here?” he offered, grinning in a way that was objectively sexy.

Willow smiled back. “You think you could manage a nice up-do?”

“I’ve seen Sofia do her hair often enough,” he said, referring to the woman who’d been raised as one of the Santoros, and very recently become engaged to King Ares of Moricosia. “I think I can manage.”

She laughed then. “That’s just so like you. Confident to a fault.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s a you thing.”

He shrugged. “How hard can it be?”

“To impress my stepmother?” she replied archly.

He grunted.

Willow turned, looking towards the view of the square they had through the window. The rain had eased, but it was still grey and gloomy.

“She’s harder on you than she is on the twins.”

Something familiar rolled through Willow’s gut. A cement boulder of remembered pain, the force of which had compelled her to grow a sort of armour out of nothing. “Yes.”

“That is to say, she’s not exactly pleasant to them, either. But with you, she is particularly…”

“She expects a lot,” Willow remarked, her voice flattened of emotions. Which was not the same as not feeling them. “And I suppose she’s never been able to shake the sense that she has a lot to prove.”

He sat silently, waiting for her to continue.