Page 130 of Nine Months to Love

“I was going to say ‘incredible.’”

The driver opens her door and she steps out, tilting her head back to take in the sprawling stone structure. Ivy climbs the walls and terra-cotta roof tiles glow orange in the late afternoon Tuscan sun. The gardens stretch out on either side, row after row of cypress and olive trees that were already ancient when my great-grandfather was born.

“I’ve never been to Italy before,” she says.

“Just one of many firsts I plan to give you,” I say with a wink.

Truth is, I want to give her everything. If I could, I’d lay the whole goddamn world at her feet and watch her face light up like this every day for the rest of our lives. It’s a sickness. An obsession. The kind of weakness that gets men like me killed.

I no longer give a fuck.

The staff greets us at the entrance. Mariolina, the housekeeper, is a round woman with happy eyes and laugh lines that suggest she’s spent far more time smiling than frowning—a concept so foreign to me it might as well be fucking witchcraft. She speaks very little English but her hands paint pictures her words can’t quite capture.

Giancarlo, the chef, is tall and lean with a silver mustache and an apron already tied around his waist. He gives Olivia a kiss on the cheek that lasts a little too long for my liking, and I growl low in my chest until they separate.

Christ, I need help.

They show us through the villa. It’s cool, even in the summer heat. The master bedroom overlooks the hills of Tuscany, vineyards rolling out like a patchwork quilt. It’s almost beautiful enough to make a sinner like me start believing in a higher power.

Olivia walks to the window and presses her palms against the glass.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.

I come up behind her and wrap my arms around her waist. My hands rest on her stomach, the growing swell there. In a few months, she’ll be huge with my child. The thought does something primal to me that I don’t have words for.

“I wanted you to have this,” I explain as I kiss the top of her head. “A break from everything.”

We stand there until the sun starts to dip and ribbons of gold and rose and violet drip down the sky like it’s melting. Then Giancarlo knocks softly and announces dinner will be ready in an hour.

We shower—separately, because if we’d showered together we’d never make it to dinner—and change. Olivia emerges from the bathroom in a white dress that makes her skin glow. The fabric clings to her breasts, skims her hips, and ends just above her knees.

Simple. And simply devastating.

I keep it simple with linen pants and a shirt I don’t bother buttoning all the way. The Tuscan heat is oppressive even as evening approaches, and when Olivia’s eyes darken as she sees my chest, I know I made the right choice.

The veranda is set up beautifully, with candles flickering on a table set up next to the pool. I make a mental note to get Olivia in that water before the night is over.

Preferably naked.

Definitelynaked.

Giancarlo serves us himself, one dish after another. Fresh pasta with lemon and herbs. Grilled branzino that flakes apart at the touch of a fork. Tomatoes that taste like they were picked this morning, probably because, as Giancarlo informs us, that’s exactly when they were picked. The focaccia is so good I eat three pieces before Olivia gives me a look.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re going to spoil your dinner.”

“Thisismy dinner.”

“Okay, fine, what about your abs?”

I touch her knee under the table. “We’ll do some working out later to make up for it.”

She laughs and steals a piece from my plate.

We eat slowly, like we have all the time in the world. Maybe we do. Maybe this week exists outside of time, suspended in amber like those insects you see in museums.

When we finish, Giancarlo brings out tiramisu and espresso. Olivia takes one bite and closes her eyes. “Oh my God.”