The road to the village hosting the fair winds through the hills and valleys with devastating twists and turns. Chestnut trees shoot regally skyward, bifurcating the sky as we speed past. Driving one-handed, with the other resting loosely on the gearshift, Troy takes his eyes off the road briefly to shoot me a cocky grin.
My heart isn’t the only part of me that vibrates in reaction. “How long until we reach the village?”
“Just a few more minutes.” He downshifts, giving credence to his words.
We crest another hill and immediately I spy a village in the distance with charming stone buildings and wooden flower boxes filled to the brim with fall-colored blooms.
As we get closer to it, people are milling about, filling the air with laughter. Vendors have lined the streets to sell their wares or delicious smelling food. My head swivels back and forth as I try to decide where I want us to go first as Troy pays careful attention to finding a parking spot. Finally, he lucks out when he locates a space at the far end of the square. “Where do you want to start?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere.”
He slips out of the car and walks around to open my door. Offering me his hand, I readily place mine into his. The second his fingers close around mine, it steadies my balance but turns my stomach topsy-turvy. I squeeze them before sharing, “I want to do everything.”
“That’s entirely possible. But I have one caveat?”
“What’s that?”
He drops my hand to wrap his arm around my shoulders. My arm loops around his waist. “We do it together.”
“Sounds perfect.”And perfectscares me, if I’m being honest.
He tugs me closer. As if he can hear my thoughts, he murmurs into my hair, “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to being treated right.”
I’m trying not to get my hopes up, but I really hope he’s not wrong.
25
RUSHING THE PLAY: ADVANCING THE BALL BY RUNNING WITH IT FROM BEHIND THE LINE OF SCRIMMAGE.
For the rest of the afternoon, we wander around tasting local delicacies, wine, and checking out the artisanal stalls. I find an antique ratchet set for my father that was unearthed in a refurbishment not too far from the castle. “He’ll love this for Christmas.”
“What about your mother? Did you decide which shawl would be best for her,uvetta mia?”
Frustrated, we wander past another booth of incredibly beautiful workmanship. “I still can’t decide.”
Troy keeps pace beside me, oozing sexiness with his sleeves rolled up and sunglasses tucked into the front of his shirt. Every time he reaches for something — to hand a few coins to a vendor, to brush against me when the crowd tightens — I feel the memory of his arms around me from when we last kissed. Every time our skin brushes, even accidentally, heat ripples across my skin.
I like him. I want him. But am I willing to risk my heart again?
Suddenly, his words interrupt my internal musing. “What about this?”
My eyes cut to the left, and I realize he’s holding out a shawl that’s beautiful in its simplicity. It’s a deep burnt-orange color that my mother can use in so many ways. I gravitate toward it. I beam up at him. “It’s exactly what I was looking for.”
After I receive my wrapped package and thank the vendor, Troy gives me an overly exaggerated look of relief. “Good. Now we can get some food.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Something that will make your funnel cakes disappear from your memories for eternity.”
I snort. “Good luck with that.”
Troy deposits me and my bags at a standup bar table while he gets in line. Not long after, he comes back with a plate and two bottles of water. Edging in next to me, he urges me to try a pastry dusted in powdered sugar. “Try this.”
“What is it?”
“Something sinful,” his voice drops seductively.
I arch my brow and he concedes, “Okay, not as sinful as my kisses.”
