Page 19 of The Road to You

LENA

I wake up slowly, wrapped in the hazy warmth of sleep, my body still buzzing with the memory of yesterday. The sensation is faint, like an echo reverberating through my skin, but it’s there, the lingering imprint of him.

Michele Moretti. The soccer player. But for me, just Michele, the man who makes me forget everything else in my life.

My fingers brush my lips, and I close my eyes, exhaling softly.

That kiss. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a shift, a crack in the carefully laid foundation I’d built around myself.

I’ve been kissed before by men who knew they were handsome, who knew their touch could make me weak.

Men who thrived on the chase, the power of the hunt, who saw seduction as a sport, and me as the trophy.

Michele is different. There was no selfish possessiveness in his kiss, no attempt to claim me as his prize.

He seemed to claim me because he didn’t want to let me go.

He didn’t push for more, didn’t treat it as an invitation for something beyond that moment.

And when we pulled apart, when my breath was still uneven and my heart pounded against my ribs, he just smiled.

Easy, unbothered, like we hadn’t just shattered a delicate boundary between us.

And then…we moved on. He didn’t make it awkward. He didn’t push or pull away. We continued exploring Rome as if nothing had changed, except everything had.

I shift under the sheets, stretching my limbs.

The room is quiet, save for the distant hum of the city waking up.

A sliver of sunlight spills through the curtains, painting golden streaks on the tiled floor.

Outside, I hear the faint ringing of a bicycle bell, the occasional chatter of passersby, and the unmistakable scent of fresh bread wafting through the air.

I smile to myself, rolling onto my side, watching the light dance along the walls. Rome feels like a dream, like I’ve stepped into an old movie, playing the role of a woman who gets lost in a city of history and romance. Of kisses and whispered secrets.

A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. Frowning, I push the sheets away and pad toward the door, still in my nightgown, a silky, cream-colored thin layer of fabric that barely grazes my thighs. I should probably grab a robe, but curiosity gets the best of me.

I unlock the door and pull it open.

Michele stands there, holding a tray with two cappuccinos in delicate ceramic cups, steam curling from their surfaces. A brown paper bag rests beside them, slightly crinkled, and the scent of something sweet drifts toward me.

He looks at me, his eyes scanning over my face, down to my barely-there nightgown, and back up again. If he has any thoughts about my attire, he doesn’t show it. His expression remains as calm and confident as ever, but I can see a glint of lust before he hides it behind his beautiful smile.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice still tinged with sleep.

I blink at him, trying to shake off the fact that he’s standing here, looking so effortlessly put together in a crisp white T-shirt and navy shorts, his dark hair slightly tousled. He looks like he belongs in an ad for How to Be the Perfect Italian Man. Damn, he is sexy as sin.

“Good morning,” I murmur, stepping back to let him in. “You bring breakfast to all the women you kiss, or am I special?”

His lips curve into a smirk as he strides past me. “Depends. Do all the women I kiss look this good first thing in the morning?”

My stomach tightens, appreciating the compliment, but I roll my eyes, pretending he doesn’t affect me so much, and shut the door behind him. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Moretti.”

He sets the tray down on a small table by the open terrace doors. “That’s a lie, and we both know it.”

I shake my head, but I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. He is right, and if he keeps up his charming persona, I can’t guarantee how I will react. Or do.

The morning air is cool as I step onto the terrace, the view stealing my breath for the hundredth time since we arrived.

Rome stretches before me, rich in history and tales to discover.

Terracotta rooftops bathe in golden sunlight, church domes pierce the sky, and streets are lined with flower-filled balconies.

It feels surreal, like I’ve wandered into a Fellini film, where the city itself is a character whispering secrets to those who pause long enough to listen.

Michele follows, setting the cappuccinos and the bag on the small wrought-iron table. He pulls out a chair, gesturing for me to sit. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s done this for me.

I arch a brow. “Are you always this much of a gentleman?” I like to tease him for his gestures that feel like another era, mostly because I’m not used to it, and I don’t know how to react to them.

“Only when I’m trying to impress a woman in a nightgown,” he says, winking.

And here we go—he’s so candid in expressing what he thinks that sometimes he shocks me.

I laugh, sinking into the chair. “Well, points for honesty.”

He sits across from me and pulls out two pastries from the bag. They are golden, pillowy soft, split open, and filled with thick, glossy cream.

I raise a brow. “That looks dangerously good. What is it?” My mouth starts to water just from the smell of it.

“ Maritozzi ,” he says, handing me one. “A Roman classic. Sweet bun and whipped cream. Basically perfection.”

I take a bite, and my eyes nearly roll back in my head. “Oh my God.” I moan like an orgasm just hit me. And from how my body is tingling for this delicacy, I might have just come and don’t realize it.

He chuckles. “I’ll take that as a good sign.”

“It’s a very good sign,” I say around another bite. “This is…unreal.” How is it possible someone came up with something so good?

“See? You’re getting the full Italian experience.”

I sip my cappuccino, letting the creamy foam linger on my lips before licking it away. Michele watches me, something unreadable flashes in his gaze, like there is some worry in his chest that he is deciding to share with me, but he is not sure. I study him from behind the rim of my cup.

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You said last night that we were lucky we walk a lot. What did you mean?”

He goes straight for what is bothering him, I can see it in his tight muscles and frowning brows. I appreciate this side of him.

I wave a hand. “Just that if we keep eating like this, I’ll need to live on a treadmill when I get back to LA.”

I realize it’s the wrong thing to say when his face darkens, leaving me puzzled.

His expression shifts slightly, his brows drawing even more together. “You worry about that?”

I shake my head. “No, not really. I mean, yeah, Hollywood has its expectations, and I do need to stay in shape, but I don’t obsess over it. I love staying active. I feel better when I exercise. But I also love food, and I’d rather enjoy what I eat than spend my life counting calories.”

He let out a sigh of relief that surprises me. Was he worried about my approach to food? I know most people think Hollywood has the highest rates of eating disorders, but I’m not part of that statistic. I value my health.

He studies me for a moment, then nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer. “That’s good.”

I tilt my head. “Why do you look so concerned?”

“Because too many people, especially women in your industry, don’t see it that way,” he says simply.

Is he worried about me? The realization hits hard in my chest. It’s a kind of confirmation of the feeling I have that our relationship is far more complicated than we want to admit.

I purse my lips, nodding. “Yeah. It’s a weird world.

Sometimes, it’s exactly like people imagine: glamorous parties, designer clothes, eccentric rich people with ridiculous habits.

And sometimes, it’s just…work. Waking up at four a.m., sitting in a makeup chair for hours, shooting until midnight, then going home and collapsing into bed like any other exhausted person.

And this applies to food too. I see way too many actors and actresses, killing themself in the gym for a part, eating ridiculously tiny portions, but others just live a healthy life.

We’re lucky enough that we have access to the best food and the best trainers to help us with that. ”

He seems to think about it for a long moment before smiling and nodding.

“You don’t sound like you mind working your ass off for it.” He takes a sip from his cappuccino, studying me.

I smile, shaking my head. “I don’t. I love what I do. I’m lucky. I get to live my dream, and I don’t take that for granted.”

Michele nods slowly. “I get that.”

I look at him, suddenly curious. “What about you? What’s life like for you outside of…well, everything that happened?”

He exhales, looking out at the city for a moment before answering. “It used to be fast. Always moving, always training, always preparing for the next game. Now…it’s different. Slower. And I thought I’d hate it, but…” He looks at me, his gaze soft. “I don’t.”

A warmth spreads through my chest. There’s something incredibly real about this conversation, about sitting here with him, drinking cappuccino and talking about life like we aren’t two people who just had a kiss that could’ve set the world on fire.

We are taking our time getting to know each other, and the feeling is so surreal it feels like I’m dreaming it.

The slow life. Michele is giving me that. Letting me exist in it, without expectations, without pressure. And I don’t know what that means yet, but I do know I don’t want it to end.