Page 5 of The Road to You

LENA

Y es or no? A simple answer to a simple question.

This gorgeous man just offered to buy me a cappuccino after I thoroughly ruined his shirt.

Logic says I should be the one offering to pay for dry cleaning, not accepting free coffee from him.

And more than that, I shouldn’t even stay here.

I should turn around and disappear. Lay low, Lena. You have one job this summer: lay low .

But how am I supposed to say no when he looks like that ?

Warm brown eyes, a sharp jawline dusted with the perfect amount of dark scruff, and full lips that appear to be far too easy to fantasize about.

I always thought that the whole Italian men are next-level attractive thing was an exaggerated stereotype.

But if he’s the standard, then yeah, I get it now.

This man could convince me to rob a bank, right here, right now, and I’d probably ask which getaway car he prefers.

“Yes,” I breathe out, and the smile that spreads across his face is blinding .

He says something in Italian to the barista—something deep and smooth that I don’t understand but definitely wouldn’t mind hearing again—then places a firm hand on my back, guiding me toward a small table outside.

His touch is light, but it leaves a trail of heat against my skin.

The bar is quiet at this time of day. Most people are tucked away in air-conditioned offices, while we sit beneath a large umbrella shielding us from the hot Italian sun.

A gentleman, he pulls my chair out for me like he’s done it a thousand times before. It looks effortless, second nature for him. When he takes the seat across from me, he extends his hand with a confident, easygoing smile.

“I’m Michele Moretti. Nice to meet you.”

Oh, that voice. It’s rich and deep, laced with something that makes my stomach dip in a way that is very dangerous.

I clasp his hand way too clumsily, and my fingers are sweaty against his warm palm. “Lena. Lena Sinclair.”

The second the words leave my lips, I regret them. Idiot . I should have just said Lena . But it’s too late. His eyes flicker with recognition, and my stomach clenches in a grip.

“ That Lena Sinclair?”

My heart sinks. It was too good to last. I made it fifteen whole days without being recognized, and now my anonymity is over.

Heat creeps up my neck, but I force myself to nod, staring down at my hands. The urge to bolt is strong, but if I run now, I’ll make a worse scene.

Instead of an over-the-top reaction, he simply leans back in his chair, studying me like he’s debating whether to say something or let it go.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, his voice still smooth but now careful. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just prefer to be straightforward. Pretending not to recognize you would feel dishonest, and I’m not that kind of man.”

My head snaps up, and my eyes lock onto his. I was bracing for something else , the usual fake nonchalance, then the casual request for a selfie, maybe even a veiled attempt at getting more details about my situation. But he just says it like it is. No big deal.

And for some reason, that makes my shoulders relax.

“I’m just not used to people recognizing me and keeping it cool,” I admit. “Most of my encounters end with a ‘quick photo’ that’s on social media before I even walk away.”

His brows pull together slightly, but his lips stay tilted in that barely-there smile. “Would it make you more comfortable if I asked for one?” His voice is teasing. “I could sell it to the gossip magazines. Make a fortune.”

I scrunch my nose at him, but my lips betray me with a small smile. “Oh, absolutely. I hear they pay big money for blurry pictures of me covered in cappuccino stains.”

He lets out a low, warm chuckle that makes my stomach quiver.

“Trust me, I’m not selling anything to those vultures,” he says in a firm voice. And for some unexplainable reason, I believe him.

Something about the way he sits—completely at ease, legs sprawled out like he has all the time in the world—makes me settle into my chair a little deeper.

The barista places our drinks in front of us and Michele thanks him before turning his attention back to me. “So, Lena. What brings you to Brera?”

I pause, unsure. Does he really not know, or is he being polite?

“I’m staying at a friend’s place for the summer,” I say carefully. “She has an apartment nearby and isn’t using it, so she offered it to me.” I lift my cappuccino to my lips, hoping that’s enough to end the subject.

He nods, sipping his espresso in one go like a true Italian. “Unusual choice for a summer getaway.”

I tilt my head. “Why’s that?”

He shrugs. “Most people go to the coast or the lakes. Milan in the summer is, let’s say, hot . Most locals escape the city, especially around August. It’s only June, but still, not a typical choice for a tourist.”

That actually makes sense, considering the streets have been emptier than I expected. But before I can ask more, I see the shift in his expression, the playful curiosity replacing casual conversation.

“So why are you here in the middle of a workday?” I raise an eyebrow at him, mirroring his earlier question. “I’ve noticed people take their jobs very seriously in this city.”

That earns me a full, head-tilted-back laugh, and I swear I stop breathing for a second.

“Fair enough.” He grins, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “I had an appointment nearby, then decided to grab a coffee. And, well…” He gestures at his shirt, smirking. “I got a cappuccino too.”

He winks. And my stomach does a whole backflip .

I press my lips together to stop a smile from spreading too wide. “I really am sorry about that. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. A washing machine will fix it.”

I hesitate for a second, my gaze flicking to his left hand. No ring. Not that it necessarily means anything , but still. It makes me wonder if there is someone who will wash his shirt while I’m here, having a coffee with him.

Then I remind myself, rings don’t mean much, not in my world. And look how that turned out.

Four hours.

That’s how long we’ve been sitting here, lost in conversation, oblivious to the world around us. We only realize the time when the barista, now looking a little sheepish, approaches our table with a hesitant smile.

“We don’t make dinner, but I have some sandwiches if you want,” he offers.

The bar is empty now, the nearby tables wiped down, chairs stacked. It’s obvious he’s closing up, but he’s also clearly a friend of Michele’s and doesn’t want to rush him out.

“I’m sorry, we didn’t realize it was so late,” I murmur, feeling a little guilty.

The man’s smile is warm, reassuring. “Don’t worry, I’m used to him staying late. He can talk for days if you let him.”

Michele lets out a low chuckle. “We appreciate the offer, but I think we should let you go home to your wife.” He pulls out a bill and places it on the table without waiting for change.

After two weeks here, I’ve learned that Italian coffee is absurdly affordable.

What he left probably covers at least four overpriced Starbucks lattes back home.

I instinctively reach for my purse to contribute, but before I can even touch my wallet, Michele’s hand lands lightly on mine.

The contact is brief, but it still sends a jolt up my arm.

“I offered you a cappuccino, and I meant it,” he says, shaking his head.

I pause, then murmur, “Thanks.”

A silence settles between us as the barista disappears inside. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but it’s different, like both of us are waiting for the other to do something first. Like both of us understand the need to leave, but don’t want to.

“So…” he finally says.

“So…” I echo.

Something has shifted. The easy rhythm we had all afternoon has been interrupted, as if we stepped outside the little bubble we unknowingly created.

There’s still so much to say, so much we could ask each other, and yet the words won’t come.

We’ve talked about everything and nothing, and it feels like there is a whole world to talk about.

Does he feel it too? That unfinished feeling, like neither of us is ready to walk away just yet?

Michele clears his throat, and his tone is almost hesitant when he speaks again. “Okay, this might sound strange, but would you like to have dinner with me?”

I blink, surprised not just by the offer but by the hopeful edge to his voice. A sentiment that mirrors mine.

“Now?” I ask, just to be sure we’re on the same page.

He nods. “Unless you have plans.”

There’s something endearing about the way he says it, like the thought of me having evening plans hadn’t even crossed his mind until now.

I chuckle. “I’m here alone. My only plan was watching TV with a cup of gelato.”

His lips curve into a slow, confident smile. “I promise you won’t regret missing the gelato.” He extends his arm slightly in an invitation, not too intimate, just enough to suggest we walk together.

I hesitate only a second before slipping my hand through the crook of his elbow.

As we start strolling toward a quieter street, I glance at the stain still marring his shirt. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home and change?”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Where we are going, they don’t mind if I walk in wearing only my boxer briefs.”

I let out a laugh. “Is this a common occurrence? You showing up to dinner half-naked?”

Michele smirks, shaking his head. “No, but they’re used to worse. Believe me. And this?” He gestures to his stained shirt. “This is nothing. Accidents happen.”

His casual attitude about it is almost charming. In my world, if I as much as step outside with a coffee stain, the headlines would have a field day.

We reach a tucked-away trattoria nestled between a residential building and a covered walkway leading to a small square.

Above the door, a wooden sign reads Trattoria Mamma Rosa, and from the terrace above, a cascade of pink, white, and purple flowers spills over, partially veiling the windows.

It’s intimate and charming, the kind of place only locals seem to know about.

As soon as we step inside, a woman behind the counter looks up and her face lights up when she sees Michele.

“ Ragazzo mio! ” She sets down the bottle of wine she is opening, hurrying around the counter.

I watch as she wraps her short arms around his torso, pressing her cheek against his chest with motherly affection. Michele chuckles, resting a hand lightly on her back, murmuring something in Italian.

The brief exchange is warm and affectionate.

Around us, a few tables have turned their attention our way.

For a split second, my stomach clenches with nerves.

Have they recognized me? But no. They’re not looking at me.

They’re looking at him . Maybe because of the stained shirt?

I don’t linger looking for an answer, but I’m glad I’m not the one drawing attention.

After a few more words I don’t understand, the woman leads us to a corner table.

The trattoria is cozy, with butter-yellow walls and old-fashioned tools hanging as decor.

It feels worlds away from the upscale, modern restaurants I’m used to.

I sigh in relief when I realize I can relax a bit and not think about being perfect in here like I usually do when I go out in Los Angeles.

Michele settles into his chair and glances at me. “Sorry, she doesn’t speak much English. She was just asking how I’ve been.”

I smile. “No problem.”

Honestly, I’ve noticed it’s rare to find someone here who speaks English fluently, especially the older generations. Most know enough to get by, but deeper conversations are another story.

Michele picks up a menu but doesn’t even glance at it before looking at me again. “Do you trust me to order for you? I’d like you to taste a bit of Milan.”

There’s something almost boyishly eager in his expression, and it’s contagious.

“I’d love that,” I say. “I’ve mostly been playing it safe with food since I got here. I’m sure I’m missing out.”

His grin is almost triumphant as he orders an antipasto : cheese, cured meats, marinated vegetables, and thin, crispy breadsticks he calls grissini . Everything is paired with a bottle of wine.

As he pours us each a glass, his gaze flickers back to me, more curious now. “So…do you always have this much time between films, or did you take time off just to visit Italy?”

I hesitate, taking a slow sip of wine. Do I tell him the truth? He knows who I am. He will notice my face on the magazines for sure, if he hasn’t already. I exhale and decide that if he’s going to hear about it, I’d rather it be from me than from a gossip column.

“Usually, no. My schedule is packed. But…my ex-boyfriend was caught by paparazzi cheating on me with his male co-star. My publicist suggested I lay low for the summer to avoid fueling more headlines. Hence, my impromptu trip to Milan.”

Michele’s expression darkens, not with pity, but something closer to disgust. “That sucks. I hope you found out before it hit the magazines.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Nope. I heard it from the tabloids first.”

His jaw tightens, and he mutters something in Italian under his breath.

I arch an eyebrow. “What does that mean?” It didn’t sound nice at all, especially paired with the disgust on his face.

His lips quirk. “ Che pezzo di merda .” He pauses before translating. “What a piece of shit.”

I burst out laughing, feeling the burden lift, as if I’ve been holding it forever.

The knot in my throat, the weight in my stomach every time I talk with someone about what happened, is not as heavy anymore.

And for the first time since landing in Italy, I feel a flicker of something I hadn’t dared to think of.

Hope.