“Yes, Zio Emilio loves your cars. And you take care of his roses. And you also make olive oil.”
“Cars?” I ask.
“Sì!” Vanni says and starts to get up from his seat. “He has a car collection. They’re all old and cool and expensive. You must come see.”
“Vanni, sit down,” Claudio warns him.
Vanni sighs and sits back down, cracking open the mineral water.
“I saw the vintage Ferrari in the front,” I tell Claudio.
He nods and gestures to the next property over where there’s a big barn. “That’s where I keep them.”
“Oh. I assumed that was someone else’s place.”
“No. We own about thirty acres here, though twenty of it is the woods. That barn is … multipurpose. It’s a garage for my vintage cars, a small olive oil pressing plant, while the upstairs holds all my plasters.”
He seems to expect me to know what he means when he talks about plasters, so I just raise my brows. “I take it you don’t know much about sculpting.”
I obviously don’t.
I obviously also didn’t realize that being a sculptor meant you could afford this place plus a barn full of vintage cars.
“Finish up,” he says to me, swallowing the rest of the wine. “So I can show you around. I’m sure Emilio didn’t tell you much.”
“Just that he’ll be back tomorrow.”
But even with Claudio telling me to finish up, lunch lingers on. The two of us finish the bottle of wine after we’ve eaten all the food, while Vanni tells me about an Italian scientist called Enrico Fermi and his views on quantum theory.
“One day I’ll have to tell you all about Gio,” Vanni says after he’s talked for about ten minutes straight.
I look at Claudio for answers. “Gio?”
Claudio suppresses a smile at his son.
“Yes, Gio,” Vanni says. “He’s me but in another timeline. As you know now, Giovanni is my real name and I was named after my dead uncle. So, I’m Vanni and he is Gio, and we are both me.”
My head spins a bit. The sun and wine don’t help. “I’m sorry, another timeline?”
Vanni frowns at me. “You are familiar with the multiverse, yes?”
“Okay, okay,” Claudio says, getting up. “Vanni, this is too much for after a meal. Could you please clean up while I take Ms. Har–Grace on a tour?”
Vanni grumbles but says, “Yes, Papà.”
Claudio walks over to me and grabs the back of my chair, pulling it out.
“Thank you,” I tell him, momentarily taken aback at the old-fashioned gesture, just as Vanni noisily piles the plates on top of each other. “Grazie!” Vanni corrects me.
Claudio puts his hand out for me, and I stare at it for a moment, admiring it, while I’m wondering what’s going on. Then I put mine in his, the warmth of his palm and his calloused fingers as they close over mine causing a current of electricity to run up my arm, making me feel like I’m standing at the edge of a thunderstorm.
He helps me to my feet, which is just as well because suddenly it feels like I have no feet.
Then he drops my hand, because all he was doing was being gentlemanly and polite and oh so Italian, and starts to walk across the grass. “Come. We’ll start with the garage first.”
I take a deep breath before I walk after him, using the moment to get my head on straight. I’m going to be with this man for a month, the last thing I need is to have any sort of feelings, physical or otherwise, every time he’s around.
I mean, he ticks all my boxes, and that’s not just a euphemism. He’s handsome as hell. Incredibly sexy. Built like an athlete, trim with broad shoulders, muscular and strong. Charming as sin. All of our lunch, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, and yet I had to keep looking away. He’s like the sun, where giving him too much attention might be dangerous, and yet your gaze is drawn there anyway.
There’s nothing wrong with admiring his looks, I tell myself as I walk alongside him. You admire hot guys all the time.
Though not when they’re your agent’s ex.
And not when you’ll have to be in close proximity with them for a month.
I steal another glance at him as we walk, and his eyes catch mine. I know that for all the staring I was doing of him, he was doing the same as me, though he seemed completely unapologetic about it. Might just be the way he is.
I’m sure you’ll get used to him in a day or two. Then he’ll be old news.
I’m counting on it.
He leads me to a path lined with potted cypress, then through an old iron gate along the stone wall. We step into what looks to be another gravel parking lot, perhaps where guests would park back in the day, and then to the barn.
He motions for me to stay where I am and walks to the barn doors which he unlocks with a key he pulls from his pocket. Then, in an impressive display of strength, he pushes one of the heavy doors open, the muscles in his arms and shoulders popping, and flicks on a light.
“Here we are,” he says, waving for me to come forward.
I slowly approach him and peek inside.
There are five cars, four of them vintage sports cars, then a modern green Range Rover SUV. The vintage cars are all two-door, one of them a convertible. I don’t recognize all of them, but from the insignias I see a Maserati, a Lamborghini, and an Alfa Romeo.
“Wow,” I say breathlessly. “This would be my father’s heaven.”
His brows raise appreciatively. “Your father likes cars?”
“Yes. Growing up he had a 1968 Jaguar and I think now he might have an Aston Martin. I’m not sure. I haven’t seen it.”
“You don’t see your parents very often?”
“Uh, well, not really. I live in Edinburgh but my mother is in Ullapool. That’s on the West Coast, the Highlands, and my father lives in London. He remarried a long time ago.”
“Ah,” he says.
“So this is all yours?” I can’t help but ask.
He shrugs. “More or less. My father had the Maserati Ghibli there and the Lancia Stratos. He gave them to me. Has no room or no need for them anymore.”
“But you collected the rest? Including the Ferrari out front?”
He nods, scratching at the stubble on his strong jaw. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“What?”
“How does someone in the arts afford all of this.”
“You’re right. I am thinking that. No offense.”
He gives me a lopsided smile. “No offense taken. But it all started with my father. Have you ever heard of Sandro Romano?”
I shake my head. “I know Sandro Botticelli.”
“Personally?”
I burst out laughing, and without thinking, I reach out and smack his arm playfully. “No. Not personally. Anyway, go on.”
His grin widens, seeming to appreciate my outburst, and I have to wonder what’s wrong with me, because I am definitely not one of those reach out and smack someone playfully people. I keep my arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.
“Sandro Romano is my father,” Claudio says. “He’s a famous painter here in Italy, and I guess around the world in certain circles. His paintings are worth a lot of money.”