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With the playfulness gone, and Spencer’s sudden change of topic and mood, I got in. I quickly twisted my hair into a bun so it wouldn’t get tangled on the drive, not saying another word as he turned the key in the ignition. I smiled when his face lit up as the engine roared into life, then Spence hastily backed out of the garage.
“Stephen taught me how to drive in this car,” he said, his voice taking on the slightly faraway tone that I’d begun to notice it did whenever he sounded nostalgic. Of course, it wasn’t often, but it happened significantly more since we got here. “Dad had taught him a few years before,” he said, shifting gears as we drove down the driveway.
“You guys learned how to drive in this?” I asked, shocked. “That’s incredibly daring. I don’t think I’d ever let my kid near the steering wheel of this car, no matter how responsible they were.”
“My dad had a theory about that,” he smirked at me.
“I’m curious about that theory.”
“He said that the best way to teach someone responsibility was to place their life and fortune directly into their own hands, which is effectively what he was doing with Stephen. I was there to watch while Dad taught my brother, and you’d best believe I was fucking jealous.”
“But Stephen was the one to teach you?” I had to ask, given that he’d stopped the car just before leaving the estate grounds and seemed more emotional than I’d imagined about his dad teaching his brother how to drive.
“My dad died when I was twelve,” he said, staring down the road. “He was always healthy, but I assume the stresses of the previous few years had started to get to him, and he had a massive heart attack.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry,” I said, reaching over to set my hand on his thigh.
He seemed to recover as soon as I became genuinely sympathetic. “Don’t apologize. It’s all part of life. I understand that. I lost him too soon, but,” he seemed to force a smile, “it was his time whether anyone agreed with that or not.”
He still seemed troubled, but I instantly caught onto him, hiding any vulnerability. My heart was sad for him, but what could I do? Pry into his deepest emotions and get him talking? I wasn’t upset that he would hide his vulnerability; I was confused about why I felt anything at all. Vulnerable or not, I shouldn’t care. It was Spencer, and this was me. I was here because I was a strong enough woman to deal with his mother’s bullshit while pretending to be used as his wife. Those were just facts.
So, why was it bugging me that I had an emotional hiccup in my system just now, and why did I care that he didn’t trust me enough to be vulnerable?
I didn’t function like this with men I chose to be in a sexual relationship with. I couldn’t care less about their emotional needs. I cared like this only for my close friends and my brother. This shit was foreign to me, so I was happy when Spencer stepped on the gas, and we took off at high speeds.
The powerful engine of the small, cherry-red Ferrari raced over the hills, practically leaving my stomach behind as we made our way into the lakeside town closest to Spencer’s family’s home.
Spencer reached forward for the radio and turned it up. He didn’t want to talk, and I wouldn’t force him to. At this point, it was best if we both reset ourselves in this bizarre situation we’d accidentally fallen into.
* * *
I’d been to some pretty incredible places. Hell, the very beach where I spent most of my weekends was widely considered to be one of the most beautiful locales in the world, drawing tourists from every corner to hopefully rub elbows with celebrities.
I hated to admit it, but those views had absolutely nothing on Sirmione, which was like nothing I’d ever seen.
Spencer pulled into the parking lot of a local museum just outside of Old Town and parked the car. He handed the keys to an attendant standing by, who accepted them as though he received the keys to a car worth almost six hundred thousand dollars every day.
“Ciao, Signore Monroe,” the valet said with a charming smile. “Come stai?”
“Bene, Paolo, grazie,” he responded in fluid Italian that only made me go more liquid. “E tu?”
“Bene,” he said, tilting his head to the side. Then, he grinned at me and gave me an obvious appreciation. “Lei e molto bella, signore.”
I didn’t have to know Italian to know what he meant by his words, but I didn’t feel any heat or self-consciousness until Spencer wrapped his arm around my waist and set his mouth against my pulse point. “E vero.”
I could see Paolo—I’d managed to pick up that much, at least—biting down on the inside of his cheek, either in embarrassment or entertainment. I couldn’t tell which.
“Buona sera, signore e signora,” he said, inclining his head a bit to us as he walked around the front of the Ferrari.
“He seems like a good kid,” I said as we turned toward the parking lot exit, walking toward the doors that led to the streets.
“He is,” Spencer responded. “I’ve known him and his family since I was little. His dad was the museum caretaker, and he brought in his son to be a part of the community.”
“So, exactly what is there here to—oh!” The words died in my throat as I looked down the thoroughfare that led down to the lake, surrounded on all sides by olive trees. The sun was beginning to make its downward trek, and I felt my heart stall in my throat at the sight of the way the water reflected the light back toward the little town, with its elegant, ancient stonework and the gated, sectioned-off areas where people gathered to eat in the shade of the larger trees.
Stepping away from his embrace, I took a deep breath as I turned in a circle on the cobblestones, taking in my surroundings.
“You grew up here?” I said in a low voice, barely able to contain my sense of wonder combined with the faintest green tinge of jealousy. “In this place?” I waved my hand around the palace-like grounds.
