Matteo was still grinning when I walked to my bag and started organizing my clothes into the dresser, pretending to look for something to wear.
“So,” he said casually, flopping back onto the bed like he didn’t just emotionally unzip me, “What do you think about cliffs?”
I turned slowly. “Cliffs?”
“Yeah,” he propped himself up on his elbows. “Rocky things. High up. Over water. Very scenic. Very ‘take a picture and make it your phone background’ vibes.”
“I thought this week was about relaxing.”
He sat up now, eyes sparkling with a boyish enthusiasm I pretended not to find devastatingly charming. “Exactly! What’s more relaxing than driving down the coast with the windows down, your hair blowing in the wind, me singing obnoxiously to ABBA?—”
“Oh my God.”
“—followed by a top-secret lookout point over the cliffs, and then—wait for it—dinner at this tiny family-run trattoria I found online last night?”
“Did Anna find it?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
“She’s the one who found the cliff thing,” he conceded. “ButIpicked the restaurant. It’s got five stars and exactly twelve tables. Romantic without being too obvious. Rustic charm. You’ll pretend not to love it.”
I paused, pretending to be unimpressed. “Sounds like a date.”
“Wrong,” he said, hopping off the bed and heading to the door like a man on a mission. “It’s an outing.”
“Oh?”
“Yup. Purely platonic, non-committal, cliff-adjacent…outing.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Thanks,” he said, flashing me a grin that should honestly be illegal. “I’ll meet you downstairs in fifteen. Wear something…flowy.”
I arched my brow. “Flowy?”
“For the photos, obviously.”
“You’re assuming I’m coming.”
He was already out the door when he called back, “You hate missing out, Moretti. You’ll come.”
And God help me—I did.
Fifteen minutes later, I found him in the lobby leaning against the rental car, sunglasses on, wind already ruffling his dark hair. He opened the passenger door with a dramatic bow.
“Your chariot awaits, Princess.”
I rolled my eyes, but I got in anyway.
Because this was Matteo DeLuca, and he’d crawled under my skin like a disease, and I couldn’t seem to say no to him.
The drive wound up the edge of the coastline, sharp turns carved through wildflower-covered hills, the sea glittering below like spilled sapphire. It was all postcard-worthy—annoyingly beautiful, just like everything else in this country.
And then there was Matteo, who was tapping the steering wheel to the beat of a 2000s playlist and belting out lyrics like he was headlining a stadium tour.
“You know,” I said dryly, “if this whole Formula One thing falls through, you could always audition forThe Voice.In another country.”
He gasped. “Harsh, Moretti.”
“You’re off-key.”
