Page 7 of The Road to You

LENA

M ichele pulls up in front of my apartment the next morning, and my jaw nearly drops.

A vintage Alfa Romeo, painted deep, glossy blue with chrome accents, stands near the curb like something straight out of an old Italian movie.

It’s compact, elegant, and effortlessly cool, just like the man behind the wheel.

I step closer, running my eyes over the sleek lines of the car. “Are you sure you’ll even fit in that thing?” I ask, arching a skeptical brow as he climbs out. The door creaks slightly.

He smirks, rounding the car to take my bags. “Hey, don’t underestimate my Giulia. She’s taken me on more adventures than you can imagine.” His voice is laced with pride as he runs a hand lovingly over the hood, like he’s petting a beloved pet rather than a sixty-year-old vehicle.

I cross my arms, barely containing my grin. “You named your car?”

He opens the passenger door, motioning for me to get in. “Sort of. It’s an Alfa Romeo Giulia Super . The name was kind of a given.” He winks before shutting the door behind me, and I feel my stomach flip. That damn wink will be the end of me, I already know it.

Inside, the tan seats are buttery soft, worn just enough to be inviting but still immaculate. The scent of aged vinyl mingles with the faintest trace of gasoline, and I run my fingers along the polished dashboard. This car hasn’t just survived time. It defied it.

Michele folds himself into the driver’s seat, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing. He dwarfs the space, his broad shoulders nearly brushing mine, his long legs maneuvering awkwardly to fit. Our elbows touch lightly, and I glance at him, with amusement bubbling up my throat.

“What?” He shoots me a curious look.

I shake my head, fighting back a chuckle. “Nothing. I’m just fascinated to see how you plan on driving across Italy without cramping up like a pretzel.”

He rolls his eyes, shifting the gearstick with practiced ease. “You Americans and your giant cars. Just wait. You’ll be grateful for my Giulia when we have to squeeze between parked cars and oncoming traffic in the old Roman streets.”

I huff a small laugh, conceding his point.

The first time I visited Italy, I was baffled by the roads.

They are narrow, winding, and seemingly designed for vehicles half the size of what I was used to.

Compared to the vast highways back home, these streets feel like something out of an old movie, made for horse-drawn carriages rather than modern traffic.

“Fair point,” I admit, trailing my fingertips over the pristine dashboard. “This car is in incredible shape.”

Michele beams, his chest visibly puffing with pride. “It took me years to restore her. She’s a restomod .”

I glance at him, intrigued. “What does that mean?”

“It means she still looks like a classic beauty on the outside, but under the hood, she’s got modern upgrades: engine, suspension, brakes, and electronics. Makes her safer and more reliable.”

I nod, absorbing that. There’s something undeniably appealing about the combination.

Vintage charm with a strong, capable heart beneath.

And, if I’m being honest, the way he talks about it, with such effortless confidence, like he doesn’t need to prove anything, only makes him more attractive.

What I noticed immediately about him is that he doesn’t need to show off to be seen.

It’s a feat very few men I’ve met can pull off.

“We don’t have air conditioning, though,” he adds, glancing at me sideways. “So I’ll stick to side roads, avoid the highways. We can keep the windows down and let the breeze do the work. Sound good?”

I smile. “Fine by me. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

We settle into a comfortable silence as he weaves through Milan’s chaotic traffic. Horns blare, modern Vespas zip by narrowly avoiding us, and yet, Michele seems unbothered, driving the car with an ease that speaks of years spent navigating streets like these.

The moment we leave the city behind, the landscape shifts.

The mountains in front of us replace towering buildings, and the road leads us through small towns.

I lose count of how many towns we pass. In the U.S.

, I could drive for hours between cities without seeing a single house, just miles and miles of open land.

Here, everything is connected. The small cities are stitched together like a tapestry.

There’s no getting lost in Italy; there’s always something just around the corner.

“Where are we going?” I ask after a while, realizing I’d jumped into this car with zero clue about our destination. Probably not my smartest move, but somehow, I trust him. Hopefully, that trust won’t end with my body hidden in a vineyard somewhere.

Michele flicks his gaze toward me, grinning like he’s got a secret he can’t wait to reveal. “I figured Como might be a bit of a paparazzi trap, considering all the celebrities who vacation there. So, instead, I’m taking you to Varenna. It’s a small town on Lake Como. Less flashy but more charm.”

I blink, surprised by his thoughtfulness. “Aren’t there still a lot of tourists?”

“Oh, tons,” he admits with a chuckle. “But tourists aren’t paparazzi. No one’s sitting around with a zoom lens waiting for us to show up.”

He reaches into the back seat and pulls out something, dropping it onto my lap. Two navy-blue baseball caps, each embroidered with the Alfa Romeo emblem.

I pick one up, holding it between my fingers. “Do you own anything that isn’t car-related?”

His grin is unapologetic. “I love my sweet baby, okay?” He gives the dashboard an affectionate pat, and I can’t help but laugh.

Shaking my head, I slide the cap on and then lean toward him to check my reflection in the rearview mirror. He says nothing, but when our eyes meet, he winks. That. Damn. Wink.

Suddenly, I’m staring at him for far too long, taking in the dark hair peeking from beneath his cap, the way his scruff sharpens the angles of his jaw, the unbuttoned collar of his polo shirt teasing a glimpse of his chest dusted with dark hair.

Usually, I go for clean-cut, polished men, the type who keep their beards perfectly trimmed and their suits pressed.

Michele is none of that. He’s rougher, a little unpolished, like he belongs more to the road than in a boardroom. And damn if that doesn’t make him look like he gives women the time of their life.

We arrive in Varenna, and I can’t decide where to look first. On one side, the mountains rise like a sturdy wall, their peaks covered in thick vegetation.

On the other side, the lake stretches out, calm and glassy, mirroring the pastel-colored houses that cling to the mountainside.

The entire town looks like it was plucked from a postcard, with red, yellow, and pink facades standing in perfect contrast against the lush greenery.

Michele parks the car near a cobblestone square lined with iron benches and a handful of trees that offer sparse shade.

Across the street, a church stands tall, flanked by its ever-present bell tower.

I’ve seen places like this in pictures, but experiencing it in person is something else entirely.

This is the Italy I always imagined, the one that doesn’t need filters or staged angles to feel breathtaking.

There aren’t many people around, just a few elderly locals going about their morning routines and the occasional tourist snapping pictures. It’s nothing like the usual chaos that follows me in Los Angeles.

“I get what you meant about this place,” I say as Michele leads me through an arched stone passageway between aged walls rich with history. “It’s not exactly empty, but there aren’t a lot of people who’d sell a story to the gossip magazines.”

He nods, his hand brushing the rough stone wall as we descend a set of narrow stairs. “Don’t let the quiet fool you. Teenagers on vacation with their parents might recognize you, but at least you won’t have a mob of paparazzi waiting at every corner.”

I smirk. “I’ll take that over getting ambushed outside my home any day.”

The winding streets of Varenna are a maze of tucked-away hotels, flower-draped balconies, and staircases that seem to lead nowhere until, suddenly, we emerge onto a terrace overlooking the lake. My breath catches in my throat.

From here, I can see the coastline stretching in the distance, tiny villages dotting the green slopes like constellations against an emerald sky.

The mountains roll down to meet the water, and the lake’s colors soften their peaks.

The whole scene feels untouched by time, like something out of another era.

“This is incredible,” I whisper.

Michele steps closer, his chest just barely grazing my back and his presence warming my skin. The touch is so light, but it sends a ripple down my spine. He lifts an arm, pointing toward the left side of the lake.

“That’s the Lecco branch,” he explains, his voice lower, almost intimate. “Varenna is right in the middle, facing both the Como and Lecco sides.”

I frown, turning slightly toward him. “Isn’t it the same lake?”

He chuckles. “Technically, yes. But there are two branches, one under the Como province, one under Lecco. They have a bit of a friendly rivalry.”

I arch an eyebrow. “So, what, you guys split the lake like divorced parents?”

Michele laughs, his voice rich and warm reverberating through my chest. “Something like that. Each side swears theirs is better.”

I smirk. “I guess I’ll have to see both and decide for myself.”

He leans in slightly, his face brushing against mine, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne, something woody and clean, like cedar with a hint of citrusy soap.

“I already planned on that,” he murmurs, his breath teasing my skin before he straightens, giving me space.

The fresh air left by his body’s absence is almost bothering me.

I swallow, willing my pulse to slow down. The way he commands a moment without overpowering it is almost too much. And yet, I find myself leaning into him, reaching for that warmth he left behind.

“Come on,” he says, suddenly grabbing my hand in his firm grip. “We need to have breakfast on the lakefront. You can’t miss that.”

I let out a breathless laugh, trying to focus on his words and not the way my hand tingles where he’s holding it, the way it perfectly fits in his. “You know my trainer is going to hate me after this trip, right? I swear, all I’ve done in Italy is eat.”

Michele glances at me over his shoulder, and a smirk plays at his lips. “You’ll walk enough to burn it off.” He winks, and damn it, he’s right.

By the time we reach the café, I feel like we’ve climbed half the town, ducking under low arches, navigating winding alleyways, dodging overgrown branches spilling from hidden gardens.

But the effort is worth it when we finally sit at a table right by the water.

The lake laps lazily at the stones a few feet away, and the late-morning sun kisses my skin with just the right amount of warmth.

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. “This place is unreal.”

Michele leans back in his chair, tilting his face toward the sun. “Yeah. I love it.”

“It’s so quiet,” I admit. “I’m not used to this.”

He watches me for a long moment before speaking. “I imagine it’s a big change from LA.”

I huff a laugh. “That’s an understatement. I don’t know how to be a tourist. Even when I’m on vacation, I bring work with me. A script to read, a book that’s being adapted into a movie I might audition for. This whole ‘doing nothing’ thing makes me feel…lazy.”

Michele smiles, but there’s something knowing in his gaze. “Then I’ll teach you how to live like an Italian.”

The way he says it—like it’s a fact, not a suggestion—makes me bite back a grin. “Deal.”

Silence stretches between us, but it’s comfortable, like the warmth of the sun or the steady sound of the water until curiosity gets the better of me.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

Michele’s eyes flick to mine, guarded yet amused. “Go ahead.”

I hesitate, but only for a second. “Aren’t you supposed to be working instead of playing tour guide? You don’t exactly look retired, but you’re too old to be in college and have the summer off.”

His chuckle is light, but for the briefest moment, something flickers in his expression, something unreadable, almost like pain.

“I’m in between jobs,” he says vaguely, his fingers absently tracing the rim of the table. “Taking some time for myself.”

It’s an answer, but not really. There’s more to it, something unspoken, something he’s not ready to share.

And for some reason, that makes me want to know him even more.

There is an intelligence, an emotional maturity that transpires between the jokes and the laughs.

And something deeper that I can’t pinpoint.

His eyes tell me that he’s been through a lot, and that makes me assume there are way more layers to peel back before you can say you really know him. And it’s a challenge I want to take on.

Michele is a puzzle wrapped in easy smiles and quiet confidence. And as I sit there, watching him with the lake shimmering behind him, I realize something. I have no idea what I’m getting myself into, but for the first time in a long time, I don’t mind.