Page 28 of The Road to You

LENA

I didn’t think olive trees could be romantic, but now, as we cruise down a narrow dirt road flanked by endless, twisted trunks stretching toward the pale blue sky, I’m suddenly convinced they are.

The silver-green leaves catch the sunlight just right, glinting like they’re part of some long-forgotten fairy tale.

And maybe it feels that way because Michele is next to me, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift, his jaw is shadowed with stubble, his sunglasses reflecting the road ahead.

I sneak a glance at him. I’ve been doing that all morning.

I said yes. I said yes to meeting his family because he promised they think I’m a friend, not a girlfriend. Because he assured me their expectations were already settled. Because he swore they were down-to-earth and warm and kind.

But mostly, I said yes because when he talks about them, his whole face softens. His voice changes. I’ve seen the way his eyes light up when he mentions his mom’s cooking, his father’s terrible jokes, or how his sister used to drag him into her dance routines as a kid.

There’s so much love there, so much pride, and it reminds me of my own family—loud and affectionate and a little too involved in each other’s lives. I get it. I love it. I miss it.

Still, my stomach won’t stop flipping.

“You’re quiet,” Michele says, not taking his eyes off the road. The car dips slightly as we hit a bump, and I grip the door handle tighter than I mean to.

“I’m just…” I inhale slowly. “Thinking.”

His mouth quirks. “Thinking looks a lot like panicking.”

“I’m not panicking.” I pause. “I’m pre-panicking. There’s a difference.”

He lets out a low laugh, like he’s been expecting this. “We’re twenty minutes from the house. You had all morning to freak out. Why now?”

“Because now it’s real. There’s a literal house at the end of this dusty road, and people in it who raised you. It feels like walking into a test I didn’t study for.”

He glances at me, really looks, then makes a split-second decision. He pulls the car off to the side of the road, tires crunching over dry gravel, and shifts into park. I squeak in surprise.

“Lena.”

I blink at him. “Are we…breaking up, or whatever you do in our situationship , in an olive grove?”

He smiles and reaches across the center console to take my hand. His grip is warm and steady. “You don’t need to be nervous.”

“Oh, no? Let me list all the reasons why I do. ” I tick them off on my fingers. “One: I’m not Italian.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You speak it better than half my cousins.”

“Two: I’m not your girlfriend.”

“That’s a relief. Less pressure.”

“Three: I’ve seen you naked and making very unholy sounds in a holy cave-town.”

That makes him laugh, full-bodied and so loud it bounces around the car like music.

“Okay, I’ll give you that one,” he says, still grinning. “But let me counter.”

I narrow my eyes. “This should be good.”

“One: My mom already loves you because she heard the joy in my voice when I talked to her.”

I open my mouth, then close it. How do you counter a sentence that makes your heart do a backflip in your chest?

“Two: You make me laugh even when you’re stripping me of my last shred of sanity.”

“Romantic,” I mutter.

“Three: My parents don’t want perfection. They want me to be happy. And I am.” He squeezes my hand. “Because of you.”

I stare at him.

It’s ridiculous how much those words melt me.

How they slip under my skin and curl around my heart like they’ve always belonged there.

We’ve never said out loud what we are, whether friends or something more, but it’s clear that our feelings for each other run deeper than mere acquaintances.

I don’t sleep with someone just for fun; I was never the one-night-stand kind of woman, and this trip shows it.

We’ve driven for weeks down the entire length of Italy, being together twenty-four-seven, sharing exhausting hours in the car, and laughing our heads off at the stupidest things.

We became friends, and then we took it a step forward.

We have had all the time in the world to make that decision, and it’s not just about sex.

I know I feel something deeper, and at this point, I know Michele enough to be sure he feels it too.

“You really think it’s gonna go that smoothly?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

“I think my mom’s gonna try to feed you until you explode, my dad’s gonna pretend he doesn’t cry but absolutely will when he sees me, and my sister is gonna corner you and ask if I still snore when I sleep.

I don’t know about my brothers because they’re idiots, and just say whatever crosses their mind in the moment. ”

“Do you snore? I haven’t had the chance to sleep a lot when you’re around.” I raise my eyebrow.

“No comment.”

I laugh in spite of myself. He leans across the seat, tugs me toward him, and kisses me senseless. His mouth moves over mine with purpose, reassurance, and something deeper I don’t want to name yet, but feel all the same.

When we part, I’m breathless, and no longer nervous.

“Let’s go, then,” I murmur.

He smiles like the sun. “ Bene .”

He shifts the car back into gear, and we roll forward, deeper into the grove. The house appears in the distance, white stone and flat roof nestled among the trees like a postcard. A breeze lifts dry leaves as we approach.

I watch it get closer—this home he gave his parents with the initial money he earned playing the game he loved—the house he donated with gratitude. And I realize I’m not just about to meet his family.

I’m about to meet the people who made him.

As we drive closer to the house, I realize it’s not just a house. It’s massive.

Not in a flashy, Beverly Hills kind of way, but sprawling and warm, with white stone walls that seem to glow under the sun and dark wooden beams that peek out from the arched doors and windows.

Olive trees frame it like a painting, and prickly pear cacti cluster along the stone paths that curve between the buildings.

“Michele,” I say slowly, staring out the window. “You told me your parents had a house. You didn’t mention a compound. ”

He chuckles, eyes on the long gravel drive. “Technically, it’s a masseria .”

“A what?”

“A fortified farmhouse, from the 1700s. We renovated it years ago when I bought it for them. There are a lot of these in Puglia. Most are hotels now.”

I blink. “You told me your parents had a house. Not that they live in a historical landmark.” I gape at the building coming closer and closer.

“They needed the space,” he says with a shrug, like that explains everything . “With all the siblings and grandkids, it gets chaotic, especially on weekends.” He is way too nonchalant not to suspect he is hiding something important.

“Today is Wednesday,” I state, already hearing the note of suspicion creeping into my voice. I hope he’ll say something, but he doesn’t speak, raising all the alarms in my head.

He doesn’t even look at me. Instead, he pulls the car into a turn that leads toward the courtyard in front of the main house.

And that’s when I see the kids.

There must be five or six of them, running around barefoot on the terracotta tiles, shrieking and chasing each other like mini whirlwinds. One of them spots our car and lets out a high-pitched squeal, waving wildly.

“ Zio Michele! Zio Michele è arrivato! ”

The others echo the call and take off like a stampede toward the house. A moment later, more figures begin pouring out—adults, teens, toddlers. A whole wave of people filters through the arched stone entrance like they’ve been waiting their whole lives for this exact moment.

I count quickly, then stop because I lose track of the numbers. At least thirty people are now standing in front of the car. Smiling, chatting, waving, clapping, even.

I whip my head toward Michele.

“You liar! You said your parents might be home. Maybe some grandparents. This is a wedding reception. ”

He grimaces but doesn’t look even a little bit sorry. “It’s Wednesday. My siblings should be at work.”

“Then why are there thirty people waiting to mob us?”

He shrugs. “They probably heard I was coming and came for lunch.”

“Oh my God,” I whisper under my breath while my gaze rolls over the people still pouring out of the door.

Before I can say anything else, he kills the engine, and then we are surrounded. The moment the doors open, it’s a full assault.

I barely have time to plant one foot on the ground before a petite woman with thick curls and sparkling eyes rushes toward Michele and crushes him into a hug, murmuring in rapid-fire Italian. A second later, she pulls back, eyes shining, and throws her arms around me.

I freeze.

She kisses one cheek, then the other, then cups my face in her warm hands and smiles like she’s been waiting to meet me since I was born.

Before I can even recover, someone else—an older man with wild salt-and-pepper hair—grabs me in a bear hug and lifts me clean off the ground.

Another woman presses a kiss to my temple and mutters something in Italian too fast for me to even try to understand.

A teenager with braces hugs me like we’re old friends.

A tiny child clings to my leg like a koala.

I look over at Michele, who’s trapped in his own cyclone of greetings, shaking hands, and getting his hair ruffled like he’s still twelve.

“Michele,” I hiss through my smile as another set of lips lands on my cheek. “ Do something. ”

He glances over at me and bursts out laughing.

I scowl at him, but it’s hard to keep it up.

There’s just… so much love here. Unfiltered, uninhibited affection.

The kind of joy you can’t fake. And I get it.

I really do. I’m used to family affection.

I grew up in a house full of noise and hugs and people who couldn’t care less about personal space.

But I’m still American. And this is a whole other level.

I’m being kissed and hugged and introduced to sisters and brothers and kids whose names I’ll never remember. I’m being dragged from one pair of arms to another like I’m a prize on parade, my feet barely touching the ground.

And I’m laughing. I’m laughing because it’s too much and too loud and so very Italian, and when I catch Michele’s eyes across the crowd and shoot him a desperate, pleading look, he just grins wider.

I think I might murder him.

Later. After lunch.

If I survive this welcoming committee.