“Troy?”
This is so much worse. The voice has my body locking and Maya coming out of her pre-caffeinated fog to ask, “What’s wrong?”
I step in front of Maya to block her view of our unexpected arrival. Opening my arms to the woman walking in the door, I exclaim, “Mama! What are you doing back so soon from your trip with Papa?”
Maya, who must have taken a sip, immediately chokes. “Mama?”
My mother, Patrizia Walsh—Trish to family and friends—shoots me a look riddled with mild amusement and irritation that Italian mothers must master the moment their children are born. “Your Zia Vinnie is meeting me here. We’re going to Turin for the day. I’d ask if you would like to join us, but I see you are already…cooking.”
“Yes, I…uhh.”
Maya, brave, sweet, sacrificial lamb she is, offers her hand to my mother. “Maya Cox. I’m staying here at the villa.”
“Buongiorno, Maya.” She takes Maya’s hand as if they’re meeting over mimosas. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Maya sips her coffee again after shooting my mother a faint smile. “If you could refrain from conducting the third degree until I’ve consumed at least half of this mug, I’d be grateful.”
My mother’s brows rise just slightly. “Vinnie forgot to mention this curiosity.”
I jump in. “That’s because she’s normally not here for breakfast.” Then, once my mother turns her light-blue eyes on me, I realize my tactical error.
Never give the opposing team inside information if you want a chance at winning the game.
Just then, Maya smacks her lips before placing her mug down. She smiles gratefully at me. “Thank you. I can be civil now.” Directing her attention to my mother, she announces, “Your son just saved the world and also ensured I’m not lying to you about my state of mind right off the bat.”
“Oh? How did he do that?”
Maya points at the sweatshirt she’s wearing and remarks, “I own a t-shirt that says ‘Coffee makes me less murdery.’ I don’t want to be accused of falsely advertising my state of mind.”
“Does my son make you murdery?”
“Not him, per se. Just any morning where I’m being denied caffeine.”
“I’m not that foolish,” I mutter. “You consider coffee a food group as much as I do.”
Maya flutters her lashes at me.
“As if I would deny you anything,uvetta mia.”
My mother quirks a brow even as Maya eyeballs her empty mug. I snag it from her and refill it before mayhem can ensue. “Here. Keep drinking.” I roll my eyes.
Maya lifts the mug and complies.
However, my mother is startled by the nickname. “A nickname? Really?”
“Mama,” I warn her, cutting my eyes to Maya, who is now fully awake and watching the byplay like she’s at Wimbledon.
It doesn’t stop her. “È qualcuno di speciale, tesoro.” She’s someone special, sweetheart.
I don’t acknowledge her, but she doesn’t need the affirmation. Instead, she asks Maya. “You are a photographer, yes? The one who took those exquisite pictures in China that were published in Travel + Leisure.”
Maya squares her shoulders. “Yes, that’s me, Mrs. Walsh.”
“How have you enjoyed your time at our vineyard?”
Maya immediately launches into how captivated she’s been with the ancient castle ruins and the intense level of work at harvest. After a few moments, her eyes pop and she realizes she’s been talking to my mother—who is in this season’s St. John suit—in a pair of my old shorts and sweatshirt. Running her fingers through her hair, she pleads, “Now that I’m conscious, I’m also fully self-conscious. Do I have time to change before we eat?”
My mother, amused, flips her hand. “Don’t change on my account,bella.”
