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19

July

T his country girl has never flown halfway across the world. I’d been to Mexico a few times growing up. We even took a family vacation to Canada a few years ago. But the farthest I’ve ever gone over an ocean was when I went to the Bahamas for my honeymoon with Aaron. We both got food poisoning, and it honestly was probably one of many ominous signs of how our marriage would be.

I did fine with our flight from Minneapolis to New York City, where we had a long enough layover that Griffin was able to arrange for a few of his friends and former Boston teammates to fly into the city to meet us. His friends Maksim, Nicolai, and Emmett flew down on a private jet, as if it were no big deal to fly into a city to catch up over lunch with their former roommate for four hours.

But as soon as our flight from New York City to Milan took off over the Atlantic, I became riddled with anxiety.

Carson somehow was able to get us seats next to each other, even with adding me to the trip last minute. I tried to protest the first class ticket he insisted on purchasing, but my efforts fell on deaf ears.

When he notices my hands white-knuckling the arm rests, he places a hand on top of mine and rubs his thumb slowly over each of my knuckles. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try not to look out the window to where the vast ocean threatens to swallow us whole.

The moment the seatbelt light turns off, Carson unbuckles his before doing the same to mine.

“Here, why don’t we switch,” he suggests.

Peeking my one eye open, I see his face is etched with concern. “What? No. You’ve got long legs—you’re a giant compared to me—you need the aisle seat,” I tell him.

“Austin, I don’t need the aisle seat. I actually wouldn’t mind taking the window seat so I have something to lean against. Come on, let’s switch.” He stands up and gestures for me to follow him into the aisle so he can switch seats with me.

I do, and as soon as I sit back down, Carson scoops up my legs and places my feet in his lap. The feel of his warm palm resting against my bare ankle fills my stomach with warmth, and when the rough pads of his fingers begin tracing circles on my calf, goosebumps erupt on the spot, sending a chill up my spine.

I’ve never experienced such immediate relief from another’s touch. Sure, a long hug from my mama growing up would calm me. But it’s as if Carson’s touch is my own personal elixir.

“Hey, I downloaded some of the classics onto my iPad. Do you want to watch a few movies together to take your mind off things?” he asks.

I simply nod in response.

When he queues up Twilight , my eyes shoot to him. With my brows still furrowed in confusion, I ask, “I thought you said you downloaded the classics?”

Scoffing, he clarifies, “I did. Edward and Bella’s love story is a classic.”

“You’re absurd,” I inform him.

We watch the first three movies in the saga, and after the third we decide to take a nap for the remainder of the flight. That way we can watch the last two on the flight home.

I’m woken up by the flight attendant tapping me on the shoulder asking me to return my seat upright and fasten my seatbelt as we prepare for landing. Unsure of when it happened, I find I’m currently burrowed under Carson’s arm, my head against the hard plane of his chest while he rests his head on his sweatshirt he’s using as a makeshift pillow against the plane’s window.

I begin to shift in his arms, which wakes him from what looked to be a peaceful slumber.

“Morning, Austin,” he rasps, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

“Good morning?” I question, reaching over him to open the window’s shade. Once it’s open, I gasp as the first lights of dawn shine behind Carson’s head, giving his golden hair an angelic glow.

Assuming I’m gasping at the scenery below, Carson shifts to take a look. I shoot out of his hold and begin to do as the flight attendant instructed, needing a moment to find my bearings.

I’ve heard you learn a lot about someone when you travel with them, and after two flights together, I would say that is accurate. For instance, I learned that even though we will be here for just shy of a month, Carson only brought a brown leather duffel carry-on, a backpack, and a special checked bag that holds two hockey sticks and his hockey gloves.

When I questioned him on the latter, he just shrugged and said it was part of his workout regimen he couldn’t stray from.

Griff and Kenna, on the other hand, shared a checked bag that they packed in together, and then they each packed their own carry-on bags.

I feel . . . slightly self conscious at the amount of baggage that I brought on the trip. With two large checked bags, a carry-on that I could barely get to zip, and my oversized purse, I take the cake on overpacking. But in my defense, my carry on includes my laptop, two cameras I brought to capture aesthetic photos and video content, as well as a few lenses.

When Carson saw me packing up my equipment, he said he hadn’t realized I liked photography. Growing up it was a hobby I was passionate about. I worked for our school newspaper as both a photographer and a journalist, as well as led the yearbook committee.

We’ve just grabbed our luggage and are at the rental car pickup. Both Griff and Carson chose to get luxury vehicles, so we’re waiting on the sidewalk for the valet to bring the cars around. When a sleek black Range Rover pulls up to the curb, I roll my eyes at Carson and begin to wheel my luggage toward the back of the vehicle just as Griff says, “That’s us.” He guides his and Kenna’s luggage to the rear of the vehicle.

“G, do you think we could fit some of our luggage in yours?” Carson asks.

Confusion knits my brow. I know I overpacked, but even if we got a standard size sedan, we can put some of the luggage in the back seat. My confusion wanes as another valet pulls up a gunmetal gray two-passenger convertible Ferrari.

“Carson—” I start but am cut off.

“Come on, Austin. Let me live out my fantasy of driving down the coast of Italy in the world’s sexiest sports car with the world’s most beautiful woman in the passenger seat.”

“How in the heck are we supposed to fit all of our luggage in there once Griff and Kenna go back to the states?”

He doesn’t even hesitate to answer. “I’ve arranged for a concierge service to transfer our luggage to each of the places we’re staying for us. We’ll each keep a carry on with us in the trunk while we’re driving to each location, but they’ll handle the rest.”

With my hand on my hip, I say, “That sounds very expensive.”

He shakes his head in disagreement. “I think you meant to say it sounds like I planned accordingly, and you can’t wait to explore Italy with such a well-traveled man.”

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and try not to let my own insecurities ruin this outrageously kind gesture of his. For almost the entire two weeks we were at his family’s cabin over the Fourth of July, Carson was meticulously planning this trip. He would ask for my input for things I wanted to do or places I wanted to see, but he wouldn’t let me lift a finger when it came to coordinating the logistics of our vacation. It’s the caretaker in him, and I know it’s the way he shows he cares, but I never want him to feel like I’m taking advantage of his generosity.

“I’m putting my foot down when it comes to the car. I’ve dreamed of driving a Ferrari Portofino M, but have never had the opportunity. This is my chance,” Carson explains.

“Alright, alright. Who am I to stand in the way of your fantasy?” I playfully tease.

Carson’s eyes seem to darken as he brushes his hand against the light scruff of his jaw. “Don’t tease me, Austin. You have no idea how many fantasies of mine you star in,” he rasps.

Leaving me there with my jaw hanging open, and a dumbstruck look on my face, Carson saunters over to the valet and hands him a tip as he grabs the keys.

Sitting against the hood of the Ferrari, he twirls the keys on his finger. “Your chariot awaits, my lady.” He punctates that statement with a flirtatious wink.

I’m so incredibly screwed when it comes to trying to resist his charms.

Especially so, because when we check into the hotel, we’re informed that the booking was only for two rooms. Not a big deal, considering Carson and I have lived together, so sharing a room shouldn’t be too much different, right? Wrong. Each of the two rooms only has one bed. One. Singular. Bed. Oh, but we can just get a cot, right? Wrong again. No cots are available at this lovely five-star establishment.

Kenna turns to me, worry etched across her face. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry Dakota. I didn’t realize I booked both rooms for only one bed. Do you want to have Griff and Carson room together and you and I can share a room?”

“Absolutely not,” Griff blurts at the same time as I say, “That is not happening.”

Kenna raises a brow at Griff, and he shrugs in response. “We’re on our honeymoon, Sunshine. Can you blame me for wanting to share a bed with my wife ?”

The possessive way he emphasizes her new title has Kenna melting in the palm of his hand.

Carson cuts in before Kenna can try to suggest any other arrangements, “Dakota and I shared a bed when we were at your bachelorette weekend.” He slings an arm over my shoulder, and peers down at me. “This won’t be any different, right?” he asks.

I clear my throat and will my jittery nerves to settle. “No, not at all,” I lie, because this will be completely different. We’re not at his parents’ lake cabin, we’re in one of the most romantic countries in the world on a once-in-a-lifetime vacation. And we were both drunk the night we accidentally fell asleep together. Now I’m going to be in my own head about whether I packed appropriate pajamas, if the smell of my shampoo is too strong, or if I hog too much of the bed. Clearly he likes to cuddle based on the position we woke up in that next morning. “Besides, they already took our luggage up to our rooms.”

Carson grabs the key from Kenna’s hand and, without another word, guides me toward the stairs, placing his hand on the small of my back.

His touch makes my nerves feel like they’re frayed at the ends and about to ignite, sending small shockwaves down my body—I feel my will slipping with each step we take toward our room.

Kenna and Griff are in their own little world, completely wrapped up in each other as we explore and walk across the stone-paved square in front of Duomo di Milano. I learned a new term today: piazza, the Italian word for an open square in a city. So technically, we’re exploring Piazza Duomo today.

The Duomo di Milano is a grandiose gothic cathedral in the heart of Milan. Stopping in the middle of the piazza , I stare up at a statue of a man riding a horse.

“Oh, I looked this one up. This is the Statua di Vittorio Emanuele II; he was the first king of a united Italy,” Carson explains.

Turning my gaze from the statue to Carson, I’m struck with a sight even more picturesque than the historic structures surrounding us. He has my film camera strapped around his neck and he’s wearing black Ray-Ban clubmaster sunglasses. I’m mesmerized watching the sinew of his forearms work as he rolls the sleeves of his long-sleeve white linen shirt. The top few buttons remain undone, and the peek of his gold chain against his tanned chest is enough to make me spontaneously combust. He completes the look with a pair of tan linen shorts and crisp white fashion sneakers.

He looks like he walked straight off the pages of a menswear magazine.

Lowering his shades so his blue eyes can stare into mine, he softly chuckles. “You should probably quit being so obvious about your ogling if you don’t want to give me a big head, Austin.”

Shaking my head, I start to walk toward the cathedral.

I halt my steps when Carson calls out, “Stop!” Turning around, I see he has lifted his sunglasses on top of his head and has my camera poised in his hands, pointing straight at me.

“Can I take a photo of you in front of the cathedral?” he asks.

“Oh, I don’t really know how to be in front of the camera. I’m used to being behind it,” I stammer, feeling awkward.

“Just look at me and smile, Dream Girl,” he instructs.

And as soon as the term of endearment leaves his lips, a smile spreads across my face and warmth floods my chest. I hear the click and shutter of the camera, knowing he probably captured me looking like a lustful fool.

“ Perfezione ,” he says, his accent scarily good.

Narrowing my eyes in suspicion, I ask, “Did you take some sort of crash course on how to speak Italian?”

“Nah, I’ve got a Rosetta Stone membership. I’ve been doing Italian lessons since Christmas when Griff got the tickets. I try to do a lesson on the way to each away game on the plane rides,” he explains, placing his sunglasses back over his eyes.

“Tell me something else,” I urge.

“ Mi sto innamorando di una bellissima donna ,” he recites.

Before I can ask what that means, a couple standing next to us claps and cheers at us.

“ Bacio, bacio! ” they exclaim.

Carson’s face lights up with an electrifying smile. “Should we give the people what they want?” he asks me as he hands the camera to the couple and asks them something I can’t understand.

Confused, and clearly unsure of what I’m getting myself into, I shrug my shoulders in response.

“Come here,” he requests, holding his hand out for me.

The moment I place my hand in his, he tightens his grasp on mine and spins me into his arms before dipping me so low I’d think he was going to drop me if it wasn’t for his firm hold on my back and across my waist.

“Woah,” I mutter breathlessly.

Carson leans in, his lips an inch from mine, and it’s as if time stands still in this moment. He gazes longingly into my eyes as my ragged exhales hang between us. My heart lurches in my chest as he closes his eyes, angling his head to press the lightest whisper of a kiss against my cheek.

When he pulls me up, he has to steady my hips to keep me from swaying.

“Are you good, Austin?” he questions.

I nod in confirmation, because what the hell are words right now?

Clasping my hand in his, he thanks the couple as they hand my camera back to him. “Come on,” he nods toward the cathedral. “I hear the view from the rooftop is to die for.”

As we make our way up to the rooftop of the Duomo di Milano, Carson shares more facts about the breathtaking cathedral. He stops us along the way to capture photos of some of the sculptures and architecture.

“Hopefully at least some of these turn out okay so you can use them for inspiration while you’re writing.”

“That’s a good idea, I didn’t think of that. Thanks,” I mutter, still feeling off-kilter from earlier. For a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me. And I can’t help but wish he would’ve.

When we get to the rooftop, I gasp at the panoramic view before us.

“Aren’t the architectural details stunning?” Carson gapes.

“This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” I admit, taking in the beautiful city of Milan before us.

“Have I ever told you I was a history major in college?” he asks.

“No, I didn’t know that. It makes sense why you’re so good with dates and rattling off fun facts though.”

“I don’t think I would’ve done anything with my degree had I finished college; I was more so picking a subject that interested me.”

“What would you do if you weren’t a professional hockey player?”

“I’d be a pro golfer.”

I snort. “Well, I’ve yet to receive my golf lessons, so you still owe me.”

“I remember.” He chews the inside of his cheek, before continuing, “Is it ridiculous of me to say that if I weren’t a professional hockey player, I think I’d want to be a youth coach, or maybe run a camp some day?”

Vulnerability bleeds through his question.

“Not at all,” I assure him.

“I wouldn’t have a fancy degree or a profound profession, but I know it would fill me with joy to watch kids have the opportunity to play and advance in the sport they love.”

“That sounds amazing, Carson.”

“I’ve been playing around with the idea of approaching Griff and Mack to open a youth camp by where our parents’ cabin is. My thought is that we could open a summer camp for hockey, volleyball, and maybe even golf. The kids would not only get to further develop their skills on the ice, court, or course, but they’d also get to do fun summer activities out on the water while meeting new friends.”

I’m stunned speechless at the thought he has put into this.

Carson does the thing where he claps his hands in front of him and hangs his head. “You know what, I’ve barely thought it through, I’d probably be in way over my head. And Mack is already so busy with volleyball and finishing school, she probably would think I’m crazy for even suggesting it.”

Placing my hands on his, I stop his nervous fidgeting. “Carson, stop doubting yourself. I think it’s an incredible idea. It honestly sounds like a place I wish I could’ve gone growing up.”

He lifts his head, hope shining in his eyes. “Yeah? You don’t think I’m crazy?”

I let out a soft chuckle. “I wouldn’t go that far. But your idea is definitely not crazy,” I jest.

Carson scoops me into a hug before tickling my ribs and making me squeal like an idiot. I’m sure people are looking at us as if we’re insane, but I honestly couldn’t care less. Because on a rooftop in one of the most romantic countries in the world, I just realized that I’m irrefutably falling for my golden boy.

Once we finished touring the cathedral, we went shopping at Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, one of the world’s oldest and most iconic shopping centers. The roof is stunning, made of glass and iron, and the mosaic floors lead us to some of the most esteemed fashion and jewelry brands. We walk in and out of the shops for Cartier, Gucci, Prada, and Louis Vuitton.

I was just forced to try on a dress in the Versace store that I could never afford. I’ll never admit it out loud, but the corseted black midi dress fits me better than any dress ever has, especially considering my petite frame. But the fact that Kenna and Carson are currently fighting over who is going to buy the dress for me has me putting my foot down. “Please do not buy that dress for me. I don’t need it. And if you didn’t remember, I have plenty of dresses in the two suitcases I packed.”

Kenna’s shoulders sink in defeat. “Ugh, fine. But for what it’s worth, you looked gorgeous in that dress.”

“She always looks gorgeous, no matter what she’s wearing,” Carson clarifies and then turns to me. “I’m sorry, Austin. It wasn’t my intention to upset you, I just wanted to spoil you a little.”

“Why don’t you spoil me with some gelato instead? We passed a shop down the street,” I suggest.

“It’s your funeral,” Carson replies with a devilish glint in his eyes. I narrow my eyes, confused at his remark.

The confusion is quickly cleared up the moment I watch him glide his tongue, far slower than is necessary by the way, along the edge of his cone of gelato. When he changes up the pace of his tongue strokes to lap up the melting gelato, I can’t stop myself from groaning. “Oh, come on. That’s completely unnecessary,” I remark.

“First cornbread, now gelato?” He tsks, shaking his head at me. “I’m beginning to think you have a food fetish, Austin.”

I’m beginning to realize I just have a fetish for anything and everything to do with Carson Wilder.