She grins and says, “Cunning, I like it. You and I are getting matching tattoos of foxes,” she says, pointing at Rowan.
There’s a flare of jealousy at the possibility that the two of them could share something as meaningful as a tattoo, but I think that’s what makes me say, “Ugh, fine. It’s a deal then. The winning pair next year have to get matching tattoos.” I give in, only because I’m determined to win again.
“We are sooo getting the alligator tattoo.” He smiles excitedly and I shake my head. Ever since I moved to Florida, he’s been trying to talk me into getting a matching tattoo of an alligator holding a tennis racquet in its mouth. I have no idea where the idea came from, but I’ve shot it down every time. It’s absolutely ridiculous.
“Never going to happen. I’ll come up with something better,” I say.
Surprisingly,the rest of dinner is spent sharing childhood stories and how we each got into tennis. I never thought I would come to like Elena, let alone relate to her, but the two of us have similar stories. Her mom used to be a reigning tennis champion back in the early 90s, having won a Calendar Grand Slam, meaning she won all four major tournaments in the samecalendar year. She was a legend and someone I looked up to for a very long time.
Winning a Calendar Grand Slam is a goal that many of us have, yet few are able to achieve. I’ve won the Australian Open and now the French Open this year, and even though I’m halfway there, there’s still so much that could go wrong between Wimbledon and the US Open. That won’t stop me from trying my damned hardest to win them all, though.
As the four of us say goodbye, Rowan and I start walking the short distance to our hotel. The streets are bustling with couples walking hand in hand, with restaurants opening up their patios and patrons drinking wine and enjoying the beginning of June.
“What if we didn’t go home yet?” he asks all of a sudden.
I look over at him, fighting the urge to hold his hand as we walk through this romantic town, with string lights all around us.
“Where would we go?” I ask, adjusting the straps of my sundress.
“Italy,” he says, looking over at me with a soft look on his face.
“And what’s in Italy?” I prod, smiling.
“You and me, and all the pasta we could eat. And a villa in a quaint little town where no one would know who we are,” he says, painting the perfect getaway.
“Pasta, you say?” I ask, biting my lip. “I could be persuaded.”
CHAPTER 25
Rowan
One Year Ago - Italy
I’m not usedto how narrow the roads are in this rural part of Italy, so my driving is extra careful, bordering on being under the speed limit. The Fiat behind me honks incessantly and I wave at him through my open window to pass me.
Maggie stifles a laugh next to me and I shush her as the guy passes by us. He’s gesturing wildly at us and I yell out, “Sorry,” even though he can’t hear me. I’m met with gesticulating hands right as he speeds up and pulls in front of me, a little too close for comfort.
My cheeks turn red and Maggie guffaws. “Oh. My. God. Did he just give us the Italian equivalent of flipping the bird? You should honk back,” she says excitedly and I laugh, shaking my head. She seems ecstatic about this vacation and I can’t believe we’ve never thought to do this until now. I guess we’ve always been too focused on work.
“Let’s not anger the man any further,” I say, swatting her hand away when she reaches for the wheel.
“You’re no fun,” she says, a bright smile in place. Maggie is wearing a white sundress with lots of buttons in the front and showing off her long, tanned legs. Her blonde hair is wavy and pinned half up in a bun.
Meanwhile, I’m wearing a pair of light pink shorts and a floral short-sleeved shirt. “I’m plenty fun,” I say, winking over at her.
“In 2.5 kilometers, turn right,” the GPS informs us and I turn my attention back to the narrow road ahead. The hour long drive from Milano to Masserano took us mostly on the highway, but once we got off, we were able to enjoy some of the mountain views in the distance.
We drive up the hill until the GPS finally tells us we’ve arrived. The stone walls are pristine and the greenery around them perfectly trimmed. I type the gate code in and the large black iron gates slowly open inward.
I look over at Maggie and find her grinning at me. “I don’t know how you pulled this off, but this is really cool,” she says.
“I have friends in high places.” I laugh and squeeze her bare thigh. I let my hand linger and forget the Fiat is a manual. When I hit the accelerator again, the engine dies.
Maggie’s hands fly to her mouth and she tries her best to cover up her laughter. I groan and rest my head on the steering wheel for just a second. “This is so embarrassing. Here I thought I was woo-ing you.”
“No, babe, I’m still woo-ed, I promise.” She giggles and pats my leg.
I start the car back up and put it in first gear, pulling into the property and keeping my hands to myself until we’re up the long driveway. Our laughter turns into awe when we park infront of the eight bedroom villa, with brick walls covered in grape vines.
