To put his hand on her knee as they drove, to come around and open her door once they parked, to lace their fingers together as they strode through the streets, side by side, so close they were brushing up against one another.
She hadn’t expected it, but she liked it more than she could say. She liked it a whole lot.
She’d been in the town before, and always found it charming, but there was something about exploring it with Francesco that layered a sort of magic over it, so she found herself reluctant to head back to the villa, even when they’d walked down every side street and identified the ingredients they wanted to pick up.
“There’s no rush,” Francesco said, as they passed a quintessentially Italian wine bar, with seats and tables set up on the footpath. “Let’s stop here a while.”
Her heart leaped into her throat, forgetting, temporarily, that it was supposed to be safeguarding Willow from stupid mistakes and hopes. She nodded, rather than trusting her voice to speak.
They took a seat on the pavement and a waiter immediately descended upon them, fluttering menus and offering charm. He spoke in rapid fire Italian, which Francesco returned, though paused to translate for Willow, so she was included in the conversation. Beyond some basic tourist phrases, she was out of her depth.
Francesco ordered a local prosecco and some entrees to share, and then, they were left alone, to watch people strolling past, and observe all the local colour of the town.
“Do you come here often?” Willow asked, once their prosecco was brought and poured by the waiter.
“At this bar?”
“In town, I meant.”
“A fair bit, yes.”
“In the bar?”
He grinned. “The town. There was another bar we went to more than is healthy, when we were teenagers. Think cheap drinks, and an abundance of tourists, looking for a holiday fling with a local guy.”
She smiled at that. Francesco had been born confident, able to charm anyone and everything. She could imagine how easy it would have been for him to make those connections.
“Our school was on the outskirts of town—that way,” he pointed in the opposite direction from which they’d come. “So, we passed through here every day. As boys, we’d stop for gelati, then, as we got older, coffee or a beer.”
She tilted her head to the side, remembering this version of Francesco. “You always seemed so care-free. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that your own upbringing was far from a walk in the park.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, his pose relaxed, even when there was a hint of tension in the way he held his mouth.
“It wasn’t so bad.”
Willow sighed softly. “You don’t want to talk about it?”
He turned to face her. “Do you?”
She bit into her lower lip. “After your father died, you opened up to me about it.”
Surprise was obvious on his features.
“Did I?”
“You’d been drinking; I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”
“I remember you being there for me. I remember being glad for that. And a little surprised.”
Warmth radiated through her like a wave. She cleared her throat, not letting his ego-stroking. “Why would you have been surprised?”
“We weren’t that close.”
Warmth gave way to something else. Crumbling earth beneath her feet. She looked away sharply and felt only the little girl she sought to protect, always. Alone and afraid, aware that she was being tolerated. That she wanted so much more from the people in her life than they wanted or needed from her.
She couldn’t respond. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that they had a closeness that defied explanation. A sort of connection that didn’t hinge on time spent together or stories shared, but that was ridiculous. Their closeness, as he would see it, came after his father’s death, when Willow had shown herself to be loyal and discreet. Two qualities she knew Francesco valued, almost above any others.
“I always wondered why you put your life on hold to get me through that, if I’m honest.”
