After another thirty minutes of winding through lush, Tuscan countryside, I turned off the main road and onto the long, cypress-lined lane to Jack’s villa.
Jack’s new place was a Renaissance-era villa perched atop a small hill in central Tuscany. Orange-yellow stucco with enormous white corner stones, the villa featured a sweeping staircase up to the grand front entrance. Every window sported a breathtaking view over the surrounding countryside—rolling green hills and fields of sunflowers, far-off castle towers, the lingering smoke of farmers burning off fields glinting in the setting sun.
I supposed it was a fitting house for a former English lord.
I parked the car and wrestled my suitcase and bag out of the trunk, up the wide stairs, through the entrance hall and into the gilded drawing room to the left of the front door.
Jack grimaced as I set down my heavy bags. “I truly dislike being unable to help at times like this.”
“I can manage, your lordship.” I was breathing heavily. My bags weighed a ton . . . probably time to reevaluate my shoe obsession. “I can do this. You think these puny little arms need help?”
I flexed for him. Jack cocked an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. I shrugged and looked around.
The room had changed over the past few weeks. I had walked through the place with Tennyson a month ago, but with minimal furnishings, the house had been a hollow shell.
Since then, Jack and my brother had been busy. The room gleamed with new furniture, some of it still in plastic wrap. The ubiquitous ginormous flatscreen TV of all male residences sat to one side of the room, facing a comfy looking couch and club chairs. The other side had elegant chairs and sofas around the tall marble fireplace, all backed by a gleaming grand piano. Overhead, frescoes punctuated gold-leafed beams and moldings.
Wires poked out of the walls here and there, interrupting the svelte look of the space.
“The contractors have not finished installing the home automation devices.” Jack nodded toward the bare wires.
I sighed and kicked off my shoes. “Translation—you will need me to turn things on and off for you.”
“I do love your quick mind, Chiara.” He grinned. “Would you please turn on the television for me? I would like to catch up on today’s news and rest my sexy body on this couch.”
“Not sexy, Jack.”
“Really? What changed between the car and now?” He mockingly looked at his ever-same self. “I distinctly remember someone saying I was, and I quote, ‘a healthy dollop ofsexyEnglish lord.’”
“I should have cut out my tongue first.”
“I think your subconscious just got the better of you. It loves my impossibly handsome self. You’re right. Let’s forget about the TV. We’ll chat about my gorgeousness while you unpack instead.”
He swept his hand, indicating the way toward the kitchen, expression far too innocent.
I didn’t exactlystompover to the massive television, but I certainly muttered threats under my breath. Fortunately, it didn’t take me long to find a gossip channel discussing the latest Beyoncé slash Jay Z fiasco.
Score.
Jack groaned. “Change it.”
“Not a chance, buster.”
“Chiara.”
“Jack.” I nudged the volume up.
His eyes narrowed.I hate you.
Right back atcha, big guy.
I paused, waiting.
Hey, what do you know? I managed tonotsay that line. Maybe I could be the adult here.
Progress.
I mentally high-fived myself and walked through into the kitchen. Now I just needed to stop mooning over Jack’s pretty eyes and broad shoulders and decidedly kissable lips—
