Page 12 of The Road to You

LENA

M ichele stubbornly refuses to let me drive all the way to our next stop. We booked an old stone-walled house nestled in the rolling hills of Tuscany. We made one quick stop to pick up groceries and a couple of swimsuits, but other than that, it’s been a straight shot here.

We don’t have a time limit on this place, so we are staying as long as it takes until I’m sure he is fine. And I don’t care how much he protests, he needs rest, and I can be more stubborn than him if I have to be.

The other night, when he woke up gasping through clenched teeth, his entire body seized by pain, I realized just how bad his injury really is. I’d seen the scar, but I hadn’t known the extent of his injury, not truly. Now, I do.

And I also know that this tiny, vintage car he insists on driving isn’t doing him any favors. Don’t get me wrong, I love it, it’s the quintessential Italian dream. But for him, being crammed in this thing for hours must be a nightmare.

Now, though, he looks completely at peace. He woke up with a smile on his face that matched mine, but I don’t know if it’s because we cuddled all night or if his leg is not bothering him as much.

Thinking about last night takes me back to the feeling of his skin against mine and our arms wrapped around each other.

I wasn’t thinking too much about the implications, just that it might be a good way to relax him, but the more we stayed like that, the more the thought of how right it felt kept nagging me.

Because his body tangled with mine was absolute perfection, and I shouldn’t think about him like that , considering I still have someone at home I need to talk to.

Because yes, Preston still refuses to take my calls. Prick.

I sway gently in the hammock, hidden beneath the shade of a tree, watching Michele as he sprawls out on a towel under the sun. His sunglasses shield his eyes, but the satisfied curve of his lips tells me he’s exactly where he wants to be.

I shouldn’t be staring, but I can’t help it. Not in view of such perfection.

He looks like he was carved from marble.

Long, lean muscles sculpted by years of training, not just gym workouts, he is not the bulky type.

I don’t know what kind of athlete he is, but his body tells a story of long hours of practicing and honing his skills to reach higher and higher peaks.

I mean, if it’s his job, he must be good at it, or else he wouldn’t be making money at it.

The dips and ridges of his stomach, the firm lines of his arms, the way the tendons flex subtly under his tanned skin, every inch of him screams something greater than simple aesthetics.

A dusting of dark hair covers his chest, just enough to make him look rugged.

Untamed. Dangerous in a way that makes my stomach flip.

I swallow hard and force my eyes back to my e-reader, but the words blur together.

My skin feels too warm, even in the shade.

And my lower belly buzzes with a building need to approach him and straddle his hips. I should really focus on my book.

A lazy ripple breaks the surface of the water beside him as he trails his fingers through it.

The pool—it’s not really a pool, more like an old stone basin once used for washing clothes—gleams under the sunlight, its surface disturbed only by the trickle of water spilling from a rusted iron pipe.

I would like to be that water, grazed by his strong fingers making my skin ripple in pleasure.

I let out a slow breath. This is fine. Totally fine. I can keep my attraction under control. It’s not like he can see me staring. I’m feet away, and my sunglasses are foolproof.

“I see you checking me out,” Michele says, his voice laced with amusement.

Shit. Not as subtle as you thought, eh, Lena?

“I am not,” I lie instantly, flipping a page on my e-reader as if I’ve been enthralled by it this whole time. “I was looking at the water.” The excuse sounds lame even to my ears.

I don’t know if it’s the night spent tangled together, or the hot temperature of the Italian summer cooking my brain, but it seems I can’t keep my thoughts strictly platonic when it comes to Michele.

He has a glorious body, he is funny, and certainly knows how to flirt, but it’s not like I haven’t known men like him before. Get a grip, Lena!

He smirks, rolling onto his stomach and propping himself up on one elbow. “Sure.”

I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see them behind my shades. Or at least I think he can’t, considering he caught me checking him out.

The silence between us stretches for a moment until his smirk deepens, he stands and dusts off his hands, then starts walking toward me with a little too much casual ease.

He moves slowly and deliberately, like an animal preparing to attack its prey.

And from the gorgeous, cocky grin on his face, he is sure he has already won.

“What are you doing?” My voice pitches higher as he reaches me, his hands sliding under my body before I can react.

I barely have time to yelp before he lifts me up, arms locking around my waist and knees as I instinctively clutch at his shoulders. His warm skin against mine sends pleasant shivers down my spine.

“Michele!” I squeak when I realize what he is doing.

Too late. He strides straight into the water, taking me with him. And then the cold hits me. Freezing, bone-deep cold.

I gasp as the water rushes up, swallowing me to the shoulders. My entire body jolts at the contrast between the summer heat and the icy pool, which is almost unbearable.

“You’re insane!” I shriek, pushing at his chest. But I’m laughing. Goddamn him, I’m laughing. It was so unexpected that I’m not even mad at him. Considering where my thoughts were headed, I needed a cold bath to chill my overheated hormones.

He laughs too. A deep, rumbling sound that sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through me, in direct contrast to the water.

It’s not helping my cause that his hands are still on my waist, steady and firm, holding me close.

Damn, not even the icy water is helping me.

How can his skin be so tempting underneath my fingers?

And those droplets running down his shoulders?

They’re begging my tongue to run over them.

“You needed a cold shower,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. He leans in just slightly so I feel the rough scrape of his stubble tantalizingly close to my cheek. “I saw you biting your lip while checking me out.”

My stomach drops. He is totally right. I was biting my lip, trying not to moan, thinking about how he would feel between my thighs while I straddle him. I indulged way too long in that thought.

“I was not.” My voice is embarrassingly breathless.

His grip tightens. Not enough to trap me. Just enough to make me feel it. The tension, the awareness sparking between us. There is an electricity running between us that is way too dangerous for two people submerged in water.

I suddenly realize how little space is left.

My gaze flickers to his lips and my heart stutters.

They’re parted just slightly, with water glistening along their shape.

His tongue darts out, catching a stray drop that slides down the corner of his mouth, and a traitorous thought slams into me: I want to do that.

I want to chase every bead of water down his skin with my own tongue, follow the inked lines of his tattoos with my mouth, and feel the taut muscles beneath my hands.

His fingers flex against my waist, and I swear I feel the heat of them through the cold water.

I need to get out of here before I do something I’ll regret. Now.

I abruptly push away, standing up so fast I nearly slip. “I’m freezing,” I blurt, grasping at the excuse like a lifeline. “I need a hot shower.”

I don’t look at him. I can’t. I just turn and rush inside with my pulse hammering, my skin burning, and the ghost of his touch still lingering on my body.

Forty minutes. It takes me forty damn minutes in the bathroom to get a grip, to wrestle my pulse back under control, and to focus on anything but Michele’s hands on my waist, his lips parting ever so slightly, his breath warm against my face.

I can’t do this. Not with Preston’s name still making the rounds in the gossip magazines back home, his tongue practically down Ronan’s throat in every new photo.

Greta says not to worry, that the headlines will die down eventually.

But Tabia is more honest, or better, not tiptoeing around the truth.

She tells me the fire is still burning, fueled by every new sighting.

They might not have found me in Los Angeles yet, but it’s only a matter of time before someone blows my cover.

Thinking about Michele in that way right now is confusing and makes me feel guilty.

Because, at the end of the day, I’m not like Preston, and if a relationship is still unclear, I don’t dive into another one, even if it’s just a summer fling.

I exhale sharply and push open the bathroom door. But the moment I step into the kitchen, everything I spent forty minutes suppressing comes rushing back with brutal, delicious intensity.

Michele stands at the stove, a glass of wine within easy reach, completely at ease in his own skin. And by skin, I mean bare skin because the only thing covering his body is a loose pair of linen pants hanging low on his hips, clinging to his butt in a way that makes my throat go dry.

The massive snake tattoo curling over his back shifts with every movement as he stirs the sauce in the pan.

The flicker of the warm kitchen lights catches the lines of his muscles, making them stand out in sharp contrast. He looks like he belongs here, as if he’s done this a thousand times before.

Casual. Effortless. Devastatingly sexy. And maybe he has, considering how well he knows his way around the kitchen.