Page 24 of The Road to You

His deep chocolate eyes lock on mine, and it’s impossible to look away.

My heart skips. “Caught.”

“You are,” he says softly with a low and teasing voice. “But I don’t mind.”

He’s flirting without even trying, and I don’t know how he does it so effortlessly. Like my presence across this table is something he’s waited for, something he’s savoring.

“I have a question,” he says after a sip of wine, his gaze still locked on mine. “What happens after the summer?”

The words catch me off guard. “You mean when I go back?”

He nods, fingers toying absently with the stem of his glass.

I exhale slowly, looking back at the water. “I don’t know. I don’t have any auditions lined up yet. LA feels far away right now. I guess I’ve been pretending it doesn’t exist.”

There’s a pause, heavy and thoughtful. I glance back at him and find his brow creased, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.

“Sometimes,” he says slowly, “far away is exactly where it should stay.”

I smile at that, but there’s something tender inside me cracking open. Something that whispers I don’t want this to end. The idea of leaving this little pocket of a world we’ve created with sun-drenched days, boat rides, and shared laughter, makes my chest ache.

He looks at me like he feels the same thing. I don’t say it, and neither does he, but it’s there. The heavy weight of reality looming over us like a storm cloud on the horizon you can’t outrun.

We eat slowly, more for the company than the food.

Every moment feels suspended. Sacred. Our conversation changes direction, wandering from favorite books to embarrassing childhood stories.

He tells me how he used to sneak out of bed as a kid to watch late-night matches on TV and how he nearly got expelled from school for skipping too many days to attend a youth league tournament.

“And now look at you,” I say, “Italy’s golden boy.”

He snorts softly. “That’s what the papers say. I don’t know about golden.”

“You’re humble,” I reply, watching him. “It makes it worse.”

“Worse?” he raises an eyebrow, amused.

“Harder to resist.”

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

His eyes darken just a fraction, and I see the shift in him, subtle, but unmistakable.

His hand finds mine across the table, fingers brushing and lingering against my skin.

Every breath I take feels suddenly shallow, like my lungs forgot how to function.

My confession is merely the culmination of the turmoil within my chest that has begged for release for days. Because this tension between us, even if we don’t speak of it, is impossible to ignore.

He leans in, his voice is husky and quiet. “You’re not so easy to resist yourself, you know.”

I feel it like a ripple down my spine. The air between us crackles. This is the moment. He’s going to kiss me. And I don’t mind it at all because I’ve been craving his lips on mine since that kiss in Rome, the one that made me forget every other kiss in my life.

“ Scusa ?” A small voice interrupts us.

We both blink. Like we’ve been pulled underwater and dragged up for air, a return to reality neither of us saw coming or was ready for.

A boy, maybe six or seven, stands at the edge of our table, wide-eyed and clutching a well-worn soccer ball. His cheeks are flushed, and his voice is shaking with excitement. “ Tu sei Michele Moretti, vero ?”

Michele blinks, then nods and smiles gently. “ Sì, sono io .”

“My dad says you’re the best striker Italy’s ever had! And that goal you scored at the Euro final…”

The kid’s eyes light up like stars. His dad hovers nearby, clearly trying not to interrupt but watching with a proud, hopeful expression.

Michele stands slowly, just a little stiff, but he masks it well, and crouches beside the boy, taking the ball and signing it with a steady hand.

They talk for a few minutes, Michele asking questions and the kid answering shyly.

They pose for a picture, Michele ruffling the kid’s hair afterward with a wink.

“Keep practicing, Luca. I’m sure one day you’ll wear the jersey. ”

“ Davvero ?” the kid’s voice cracks with joy.

“Really.” Michele nods.

When they finally leave, thanking him profusely, we’re left staring at each other across the table, both a little breathless.

For the first time tonight, I remember where we are.

That he’s him . That I’m not just here with the beautiful, infuriating man I’ve spent the last weeks falling headfirst for, but with a national treasure.

A face that lives in stadiums, in headlines, in highlight reels.

And suddenly, we are no longer just two people sharing candlelight.

Our lives are too complex and too public to pretend to be normal people.

We are not, and we should remember that.

Michele runs a hand through his curls, lets out a long breath, and gives me a crooked smile. “Well. That killed the mood.”

I smile back, my heart still thudding. “Only a little.”

He reaches across the table again, and this time, he doesn’t pull his hand away. “They never forget. Kids like that. You should’ve seen me at his age. All I wanted was someone to believe I could be more.”

I squeeze his fingers. “Now you’re that someone.”

He looks at me, quiet for a beat. “Yeah,” he says. “But tonight, I just wanted to be this someone.” He says softly, stroking my hand with his thumb, never leaving my gaze.

And I know exactly what he means.

The walk back to the hotel is quiet.

It’s not awkward, but we don’t feel the need to fill the silence with small talk. As if the sea stole our words and carried them out with the tide.

Michele walks beside me, his arm brushing mine now and then, but he doesn’t reach for my hand like he did earlier.

He’s quiet, lost in thought, and the easy touches from dinner are gone, as if the moment with the little boy reminded us both of something we were trying to forget.

That outside of this bubble, there’s a world that still sees him as Michele Moretti , the star.

Not just a man who smiles at me across a candlelit table and makes my heart race without even trying.

His limp is subtle, but it’s there. I only catch it when he thinks I’m not looking, when his steps falter for a split second, or when he presses his fingers to his thigh like he’s trying to chase away the discomfort.

He hasn’t done his physical therapy in almost two months; I’m aware of that.

I’ve watched him push through the pain like it’s just another opponent he has to beat, but tonight, he’s tired.

I slow my pace until we’re walking in sync again. I don’t say anything. He doesn’t either.

When we reach the hotel, I turn to him in the elevator, trying to keep my voice light. “I think I’m calling it a night. I’m kind of beat.”

He nods. “Yeah, me too.”

But he doesn’t press the button right away.

We just stand there for a moment, the space between us charged, like something’s still hanging in the air from before.

His eyes drop to my mouth. Mine linger on the curve of his jaw, the way the light shadows his cheekbones.

He smells like sea salt and lemon and the faintest trace of the cologne he wore to dinner.

I want to lean into him. I want him to lean into me.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, when we reach our hallway and stop in front of our separate rooms, he hesitates. His gaze lingers, soft and unreadable.

“ Buonanotte , Lena,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough around the edges.

Then he leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek, warm, slow, lingering just long enough to make my breath catch. His stubble brushes my skin. I close my eyes without meaning to.

“Sleep well,” he adds, so quietly it could almost be a figment of my imagination.

And then he’s gone.

I stand there for a moment, heart thudding in my chest, his warmth still burning against my skin. My cheek pulses where his lips touched it, like it’s trying to memorize the shape of his mouth.

Inside my room, I close the door and lean against it for a beat before pushing away and walking toward the bathroom.

The tile floor is cool beneath my bare feet, the hotel lights dimmed to a soft glow.

I let my dress fall to the floor and step into the shower, turning the water as hot as I can stand it.

The steam fogs the mirror, curls around my body, but it doesn’t melt the thoughts spinning through my head.

I should be tired. I said I was tired. But now I’m wide awake.

All I can see is Michele. The way he smiled at me at dinner.

The way his voice dipped low when he leaned in.

The gentle way he held that little boy’s soccer ball and the way his eyes lingered on mine like I was the only thing in the world he could see.

And then, the limp. The flicker of pain he tries so hard to hide.

I press my palms against the shower wall and lower my head under the stream of water, trying to make sense of the knot in my chest. I’m not just worried about him. It’s more than that.

I care about him.

Not as some guy I’ve been flirting with under the sun, not as the man who makes my stomach twist every time he touches me, but as him .

The man who makes me laugh until I cry. The one who watches the sea like it’s speaking to him.

Who teaches me how to drive a Vespa even when he’s injured.

Who kisses me on the cheek instead of taking what we both clearly want because he’s thinking of me .

And that terrifies me.

Because I don’t know what will happen after this summer. I don’t know where I’ll go, or what I’ll do, or where he’ll end up if his leg doesn’t heal. I don’t want to imagine a world where he can’t go back to the soccer field, the place that gave him everything. The place he loves.

But part of me is just as scared of going back to my world, where things are shallow and uncertain and exhausting, and leaving behind this strange, golden bubble we’ve created together.

I lean my forehead against the tile and sigh. When I close my eyes, I see him again.

Michele.

The curve of his mouth, the heat in his eyes, the mess of curls I want to sink my fingers into. I imagine his hands on me, his mouth finding mine, slow and deliberate. I imagine what would’ve happened if that kiss hadn’t landed on my cheek but lower. Real. Hungry.

My breath stutters.

I can’t stop thinking about him. About his deep, chocolate-brown eyes and the light dusting of hair on his chest that I wanted to touch one morning in Tuscany when he walked out of his room in nothing but a towel, scratching his jaw and smiling at me like he didn’t even realize how wrecked he made me.

I exhale a soft sound, cheeks flushing hot, and wrap my arms around myself beneath the water. My skin is sensitive, tingling, like it remembers his touch even though he’s never really touched me like that.

But I want him to.

God, I want him to.

I lower my hand between my thighs, slipping my fingers between the soaking folds of my core.

Wet from the arousal I have carried since dinner, and that demands a release.

I flicker the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs and moan softly.

I pinch my nipple with one hand while the other plunges two digits deep inside my hot core.

I pump into my opening hard and fast, pressing my palm against my clit and feeling the pleasure building fast inside my lower belly.

I imagine Michele’s fingers filling me, curling deep inside me, while his luscious lips pull my nipple into his mouth and suck. Hard.

The pleasure washes over me like the waves outside this room, lapping against the rocks and making it impossible to resist moaning Michele’s name while I come undone under the hot shower, thinking about how he would feel here with me.

I breathe hard with my forehead pressed against the cold tile walls, my legs struggling to keep me up.

I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around myself, sitting on the edge of the bed with water still dripping from my hair. The sea breeze floats in through the open window, cooling my overheated skin.

The ache in my chest is more than desire. It’s longing. Deep and raw and unexpected.

I’ve known him for barely two months, but I already know this isn’t something I’ll be able to walk away from easily.

I lie down, staring at the ceiling, listening to the waves in the distance.

Somewhere down the hall, Michele is in his room. Probably lying in his own bed. Probably not thinking about me the way I’m thinking about him.

Or maybe he is, and somehow, the idea of that is the only thing that finally lets me fall asleep.