I blinked at him.
He smiled crookedly. “Vacation, remember?”
“And when it gets messy?”
“Say it was just the heat. Too much sun. One too many glasses of wine. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Moretti.”
I didn’t answer right away.
Because I was staring at his mouth, at the curve of it when he smiled like that—mischievous and maddening and beautiful.I was realizing I wanted to kiss him, which seemed to be some sort of addiction at this point.
“I’m not climbing into bed with you again just because you start showing me sunsets and plying me with food,” I blatantly lied.
He stepped just a fraction closer, his voice nearly a whisper. “I never said anything about a bed, but good to know where your mind is.”
The air between us hummed. We stayed like that until the sun dipped beneath the horizon, pretending we were not aching, pretending we weren’t dissenting into dangerous territory. And yet I felt my heart relax, in this fantasy bubble. Maybe I could just lean into it.
“I wanted to ask you something,” I said after a while, wrapping my arms around myself to calm the nerves.
“Anything,” Matteo replied seriously.
“I’ve been working on this charity campaign for the Foundation,” I started. I felt his eyes on me, and the attention made goosebumps riddle my arms. “I think it would help to have some specific promo with the drivers. I was wondering if you’d be willing to tack on some with your other media days when we’re back. The admins can film behind the scenes and maybe ask some questions in more of a vlog setup so it feels more personal. I’m trying to team up with local charities along each race stop till the end of the season. I know it’s a lot to ask, but…”
“Of course I will.” There it was, the way I knew he would agree immediately in his casual shrug kind of way. Matteo lived and breathed Moretti Racing. The camera loved him, the fans loved him. He did more media than most of the drivers by far, so asking to add on another felt selfish. But I found myself feeling relieved that he agreed so fast. “Send me the details and I’ll make it work. Maybe we can visit one of the charities in person too.”
I stared at him in awe. “Um, yeah, wow that would be amazing. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
We talked about the charities I was focusing on, how I wanted to donate to local food banks, shelters for women and children, and a few animal rescues. Matteo listened diligently, asking follow-up questions and even offering some ideas like a recorded Q&A while he was at the shelter with the puppies or kittens that the fans would no doubt share far and wide. It was a great idea, so great that I was typing furiously on my phone, noting it all down.
Matteo nudged my shoulder, pulling me from my notes app. “Hungry?”
“Famished.”
The trattoria was tucked into the side of a hill, with stone walls that glowed gold in the early evening light and faded blue shutters that looked like they’d survived a hundred summers. The kind of place that smelled like garlic, grilled fish, and magic.
“I can’t believe this place is real,” I murmured, half to myself as we climbed the crooked stone steps.
Matteo grinned beside me. “You’re welcome.”
The hostess greeted us in rapid Italian, and of course, Matteo charmed her in three sentences and a crooked smile. Suddenly, we were led to a candlelit table on a tiny terrace that overlooked the sea. The tablecloth fluttered in the breeze, a tiny vase of wildflowers in the center. The only table on the secluded terrace. It was all veryromantic.
Which was not helping.
At all.
“Seriously?” I hissed as we sat down. “You brought me to an actual date location.”
“This isn’t a date,” he shrugged, handing me a menu, “It’s vacation.”
“That’s your answer to everything now?”
He leaned back in his chair, lazy and golden in the light. “You like the view, admit it.”
I pretended to be staring at the menu. “It’s fine.”
“I saw your face. You were about to cry when that lady offered you focaccia and wine”
