His quiet confidence hits somewhere deep because it’s just acknowledging what we both know to be true. Time isn’t going to slow down what our hearts already know to be fact.
I’m struggling to restrain a smile. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he brushes a crumb from my lip, “you’re going to be here for Thanksgiving and not halfway around the world.”
“Only because you’re holding me hostage with wine and my mom’s sweet potato pie.”
He laughs before kissing me, tasting like sunshine and mischief.
For a while, we don’t talk. The breeze rustles through the branches, scattering golden leaves across our picnic blanket. The world feels far away — just us, the vineyard, and the faint sound of church bells drifting from the village.
Finally, I murmur, “You really think you can blend my family’s Thanksgiving and your family’s Italian traditions without chaos?”
“What chaos? No one said anything about letting you into the kitchen.”
“You know, for someone who agreed to take things slow, inviting my entire family to another continent is a bold move.”
He smirks. “Slow doesn’t mean small intentions,uvetta mia.”
My laughter erases any lingering tension. Troy’s the most incredible man. He’s my friend—first and foremost. He’s my biggest supporter. He’s thoughtful, caring, and sexy as hell. Incredibly, he loves me, even though I’m still getting used to what that means.
I stretch out beside him again, resting my head back on his lap. “Okay. So, maybe Thanksgiving in Italy won’t be the disaster I imagine. Maybe it’ll be something else entirely.”
“Like I said, it’s only a disaster if we allow you to cook.”
If someone had told me a year ago that I would spend Thanksgiving in Italy, I would have been shocked. Instead, it’s worked out beautifully.
Everyone is watching the parade while Troy puts the finishing touches on dinner. I’m wrapped in his sweater, staring out over the vineyard while he bastes the bird for the last time. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He grins. “Sip your wine. I’ve got everything under control.”
“Famous last words,” I tease. “I can?—”
He cocks a brow. “Boil water? Burn the bread?”
“Unfair.” I’m about to argue my side when Amy and Christin come into the kitchen.
Amy sells me out with no compunction. “You once asked me if olive oil could go in a kettle.”
“Okay, that was one time,” I mutter.
“And you asked me if you could roast marshmallows in a microwave,” Christin reminds me.
“We were doing a science experiment!”
Emery enters the fray. “I’ll allow the marshmallow disaster, but you asked me what was wrong with throwing the whole egg into the dish—shells and all.”
I throw up my hands. “Fine! I’m completely useless.”
“Not useless. Never that,” he murmurs, voice dipping low as he hugs me from behind.
Breathless, I ask, “What am I then?”
“You’re everything.” My heart stutters even as he nudges me toward my girls. “Even so, you’re a distraction, and I don’t want this turkey to taste like regret. Take the Prosecco and go fill the glasses.”
Someone’s set the long farmhouse table with mismatched plates and wildflowers, candles flickering between them. It’s messy and perfect and alive. Somehow, all these people from different corners of my life — home, friends, heart — fit here. With him.
Troy glances up and catches me standing in the doorway. His grin spreads slow and easy. “What are you thinking?”
