Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
But she never hides it. She lays it out, raw and unpolished, as if she trusts me to hold it without throwing it back at her. I don’t need anyone to tell me how rare that level of trust is. I treasure it more than I’ll ever say out loud.
She leans back against the counter, meeting my eyes. “Good,” she says honestly. “Prepared. Starting to get the butterflies and the nerves are on high alert, but… I’m ready to go.”
I take her hand and squeeze it. “Good. Because you deserve to be here, Francesca. You’ve got the talent, the work ethic, and you’re exactly where you should be. Anyone who doesn’t see that is an idiot.”
I recognize the spark in her eyes, the one that appears when she’s not just hearing the words but truly believing them.
And for once, I’m not thinking about points, standings or lap times. I’m thinking about how much I want her to keep looking at me like that. I slide a hand along her jaw, to the side of her neck, curving around the back. Francesca’s eyes darken and I wonder if dinner would be ruined if we turned off all the burners and came back to it later.
I bend down, intent on a quick brush of my mouth over hers when there’s a knock at the door.
Francesca groans and glances that way. “I think that’s my neighbor. He keeps coming to the door, asking if I need help with anything. He recognized me and I think he’s got a crush.”
There’s that flare of jealousy, but also anger. No one is going to stalk my girl. “Want me to handle it?”
She grins at me. “That’s kind of hot, you offering. Maybe he’ll get the hint seeing you here, but honestly, he’ll recognize you too and he’s likely to fan all over you.”
“I’ve got it covered. I can be charming and threatening at the same time.”
Francesca laughs and turns back to the stove. “The pasta is almost done, so we’ll be ready to eat by the time you send him off.”
I head for the door, already running through the tone I’ll use—just enough steel to make the neighbor think twice about knocking again, wrapped in enough charm that it doesn’t turn into a headline.
But when I open it, the words I had lined up die in my throat.
Two people stand there, each with a rolling suitcase at their side. The woman is in her fifties, golden-blond hair and a bone structure so close to Francesca’s, it’s like looking at her twenty years from now. She’s got warm brown eyes, though right now they’re a little wide in confusion. The man beside her is solidly built, same coloring as his wife but with deeper lines at the corners of his eyes, like he smiles often.
For a half second, my brain refuses to process it. Then the horror sets in. Her parents.
“Oh,” the woman says quickly, her Italian accent wrapping around every syllable. “I think we have the wrong apartment—mi dispiace.”
“Actually, I think you have the right place,” I manage, forcing my voice steady. “You must be Francesca’s parents.”
Her father’s gaze sharpens on me with recognition. “You’re Ronan Barnes.” It’s not quite a question. His brow furrows almost immediately. “Did we interrupt some type of gathering the drivers are having here?”
“Not interrupting,” I say, stepping back and gesturing inside. “Come on in.”
They roll their luggage over the threshold, and I lead them down the short hall to the kitchen.
Francesca’s at the stove, the steam from the pasta curling around her. She glances over and freezes. “Mamma? Papà?”
Her mother’s face breaks into a grin, and the next thirty seconds are a blur of hugs, rapid-fire Italian, and overlapping exclamations. I catch enough English to understand they decided to surprise her a day early.
And then, like a light switch, the flurry of movement slows. All three of them turn to look at me.
Francesca moves to my side, giving me an apologetic look that says Sorry… I had no idea this was going to happen.
“Mamma, Papà… this is Ronan Barnes.” She then touches my lower back. “Ronan… my mother, Giulia, and my father, Luca.”
I nod at them, afraid to shake hands because my palms are sweaty. “Pleasure to meet you both.”
Then I glance at Francesca and there’s a flash of worry there, like she’s bracing for me to bolt. And as much as I’d prefer to, I can’t do that to her. I try for an encouraging smile and hope she understands.
Her mother’s brows lift, and her father’s mouth tips in a knowing smile. “We didn’t know you were friends,” her father says with a twinkle in his eye.
Francesca doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re dating.”
That earns me another look from them both. Wide eyes assessing, curious but certainly not unfriendly. Her mother’s lips twitch like she’s holding back a dozen questions. “Dating,” she repeats, drawing it out.