I shiver against him, partly from the cold and partly from the rumble of his words. Then, he revs the engine, pushes off the ground, and rides away from his farmhouse, into the rolling hills, languid curves, and dark promise of night.
24
Luca
Having Carla García on the back of my bike, in Tuscany, is a wet dream come to life. The feel of her arms wrapped around my ribs, her thighs shadowing mine, her chest pressed up against my back has me acutely aware of every shift, shuffle, and sigh she makes.
I chase the freedom of the night and the possibility of the future with Carla. After our earlier, illuminating, conversation, I want to share my secret with her. Not many know about my motorcycle riding, not even Bianca or Alejandro. Mainly, because it’s prohibited in my contract but also because my father forbade it when I was growing up.
After he passed, the idea of riding became a strange mixture of control, independence, and rebellion. And I craved it. Almost as much as I crave the blonde pressing her palm against the center of my chest.
We ride for nearly an hour, leaning into the curves of the road, and feeling the sting of the wind against our cheeks. I smile into the open emptiness, reveling in the feeling. It’s akin to flying.
When I finally turn off the road, I slow the bike. Our ride up the vineyard lane is blanketed by a low, stone wall that could tell a thousand love stories, rich in family drama and history, and I pull back even more so Carla can enjoy our surroundings.
She snuggles deeper against me and I drop one hand to hers, holding it against my chest. Dio, I want her. Her admission earlier, about wanting to try, about feeling more for me than any other man, filled me with such hope, I had to check myself. One day at a time. I can’t get ahead of myself with Carla. She needs time to sort things out for herself and if I plunge full speed ahead, the way I’m apt to do when I feel control slipping, I’ll push her away. Our moment will wither before it’s ever had a chance to bloom.
The gravel road gives way to a denser copse of trees. We ride through a narrow path through cypress and oak trees and I grin when I see it. A small cottage, my casale, appears like a long-awaited present.
I park the bike in front of the small, cozy, stone-built structure. It boasts a traditional feel with a terracotta-tiled roof, wood-beam ceilings, and an old-fashioned fireplace in the living room.
I cut the engine and drop my feet to the ground.
“This is stunning,” Carla murmurs behind me.
Half turning around, I admit, “It was my mother’s. This is where she grew up.”
Carla sucks in a breath as I tug her hand and help her swing off the bike. Then, I unfold my body and stand.
“I bought it years ago. It was in bad shape and had to be restored, but I kept as much of the original integrity as possible.”
“You did an amazing job,” Carla murmurs, shaking her head as she studies the cottage. “Did your mom ever see it?”
Regret clogs my throat and I swallow around the growing ball of pain. “No.” My voice cracks. “I told her about it, in detail, describing everything but…she was in and out of it at that time. I don’t know if she knew, but I like to think that she’d approve.”
Carla wraps her arm around my waist and rests against my side. We stand like that, staring at my mother’s childhood home and a piece of my family history. “She’s proud of you, Luca. Unbelievably so.”
I drop my head, fighting to gain control of my emotions. Talking about Mamma is as painful as it is important. “Come on.” I move toward the front door and fish the key from my pocket.
Carla curls her fingers on the hem of my jacket, staying close. I push open the front door and we step inside.
Flickering on the lights, I turn to note Carla’s expression as she takes in the cottage for the first time.
It’s simple and understated, crafted with traditional materials, but as she drinks it in, her face lights up like Christmas lights. Warm and bright and joyous. “Wow,” she murmurs, running a hand over the mantel of the fireplace. “I love it here.”
“Let me get the fire going,” I say, moving to the front door. “I’ll be right back with the wood. Make yourself comfortable. The fridge won’t be stocked, but there’s wine and snacks in the pantry.”
I set to work, gathering firewood and coming back inside with a handful of logs. Then, I clean the hearth, lay the tinder, and add bits of kindling, before laying the logs on top. I light the tinder and within minutes, the cottage crackles with the loud pop of snapping twigs. When the logs catch, I slowly build the fire, shaking off my jacket and pushing up my sleeves, as the warmth from the flames chases the cold from my skin.
Rich woodsmoke, scented with cedar, fills the small space, warming the air and casting the room in a cozy glow. Once the fire is thriving, I sit back on my heels and note Carla, perched on the edge of an armchair.
On the coffee table is a tray arranged with snacks, two wineglasses, and a bottle of Chianti Classico. “If we start drinking, we’ll have to spend the night.” I stand from my crouch and move toward her.
She stands to meet my approach, peels off her leather jacket, and unwinds her scarf. “I know.”
I pause to pour two glasses of wine. Passing one to her, I study the expression on her face. Calm and open and hopeful.
I smile and clink my glass against hers. Then, I raise the glass to my lips and take a long pull. The wine is full-bodied and delicious, rolling over my tongue with a familiarity that warms my body from the inside out.
