“I’m emotive,” he corrected, flashing me a grin. “That’s the difference between karaoke and a performance.”
I didn’t respond. Mostly because I was distracted by the way the wind tossed his hair, the crinkle of sun in the corners ofhis eyes, the tanned skin of his forearm resting casually on the wheel.
No. We werenotgoing there again.
This wasn’t real. It was vacation energy. Temporary. But he was so golden. One night was not enough to get him out of my system, but hey, maybe a week would do the trick.
“You okay over there?” he asked, glancing at me briefly.
“Just wondering when we’re supposed to start cliff diving.”
“No diving,” he promised. “Just views.”
A few more turns later, we parked at a small, dusty pull-off. There was nothing around except nature and the occasional hand-painted wooden sign in Italian.
“Are you taking me somewhere to murder me?” I asked, squinting at the path that snaked into a patch of cypress and wild thyme.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, grabbing his backpack and coming around to open my door. “You’d haunt me. Very aggressively.”
“You’re not wrong.”
The trail was narrow and a little steep, the smell of the sea mingling with the warm dust of the hillside. I focused on the uneven ground, not the way Matteo’s hand kept brushing mine, not how aware I was of every step that brought us closer to the edge of something bigger.
Finally, the path opened.
And the viewactuallystole my breath.
Cliffs stretched in both directions, plunging into turquoise water. Gulls dipped and cried over waves that crashed in rhythmic power. The sun was low now, spilling molten light across the water. Everything smelled like salt and rosemary and the sea.
“Oh,” I whispered, before I could help myself.
“See?” Matteo said softly behind me. “Worth it.”
I nodded, barely hearing him over the roar of my own thoughts.
He didn’t move closer. But I felt him, a step away. His silence was strange—for him. I snuck a glance at his profile. His jaw was tight. Eyes distant.
“Why did you really bring me here?” I asked, voice quieter than I meant it to be.
He shrugged. “You needed it.”
I swallowed. “Needed what?”
“This,” his voice dipped. “A moment. A breath. Something just for you.”
Something about the way he said it—soft and certain—made something crack in my chest. I exhaled hard, like I was trying to let it out. Whateveritwas. Whatever italwayswas with him.
“Matteo…”
He finally looked at me, and God, I wished he hadn’t. His eyes were so open, too honest. It was the look he gave before saying something that might split me open.
“I know,” he said gently. “You don’t do feelings. You don’t do this.”
I stiffened, ready to retreat, to joke, tocut.
But he didn’t let me.
“But maybe,” he continued, voice low and almost tender. “For once, just let yourself enjoy. Let me spoil you.”
