8. Fiat and Furious
Fiat and Furious
Lucy
I didn't really sleep last night. I tossed and turned, trying not to imagine what a wild night the guys were enjoying as I lay there in bed. I don’t know why I care. They’re all young athletes. They work hard, and they should have fun.
Pulling myself out of bed, I spend a good part of the morning organizing the race-day posts, since there’s so much content, before checking out of the hotel.
Next, I grab my car rental to get to our next location.
It’s a super cute Fiat, but this thing is absolutely tiny.
I kind of wanted to ask the girl at reception if they had this car in “plus size ,” but I didn’t want to offend anyone.
After spending a solid half hour trying to find a comfortable position in the driver’s seat, I can finally go.
I’m excited to visit the seaside. Maybe I’ll even be able to sneak in some time at the beach.
The weather is gorgeous—blue, cloudless skies lit by a radiant summer sun.
This is beach vacation weather, and I intend to enjoy it, even if just a little.
Having Elio’s schedule to plan around would have been a huge help, but his YOLO personality is dead set on ruining it for me.
The new hotel is even nicer than the last one. It’s smaller, almost like a guesthouse, with lush vegetation out front and a sunbed on my balcony overlooking a field of sunflowers. I can even glimpse the sea on the horizon.
It smells amazing, too, with a hint of floral perfume in the air.
Probably from all those pink and red flowers planted at every corner.
Suddenly, I get this indescribable urge to drop everything and move here.
Granted, that happens often when I go on vacation.
I almost didn’t leave Aruba when Chad and I went three years ago.
Of course, the way that Chad’s eyes lingered on the bikini-clad waitress straightened me right out.
It’s hotter here than it was at the track, so I change back into a light sundress before heading to Elio’s house.
Or at least, I try to.
Because apparently, my GPS has declared war on me.
At first, everything is fine. The little voice in the dashboard tells me to turn left, then right, then continue straight. Easy. But soon, it starts spitting out rapid-f ire Italian instructions, and I have no idea what it's saying.
“ Scusa ?” I ask the GPS, as if it can hear me.
I manage to decipher something that sounds like “ gira a destra ,” so I turn right, feeling proud of my linguistic detective skills—until I realize I’m bumping down a gravel road that definitely isn’t meant for my tiny Fiat.
There are chickens. Actual chickens. One flaps onto my windshield in protest before hopping off.
“Okay, okay, I get it. Not Elio’s road,” I mutter, attempting a three-point turn that quickly becomes a seventeen-point turn.
I reset the GPS, which recalibrates and leads me onto another road. This one is paved. Progress.
For about five minutes.
Then, out of nowhere, it tells me to turn left onto what appears to be a scenic countryside path. Except this is no road. It’s a driveway. A very long, very private driveway, at the end of which is an old man staring at me from his porch like I just ran over his prize-winning tomato plants.
I offer an apologetic wave, then desperately try to back out without getting stuck in the grass. The Fiat is clearly not built for off-roading. By some miracle, I escape without getting yelled at or arrested.
Finally, I seem to be on the right road, but I keep my eyes peeled for any chickens ready to attack me. The deceitful GPS proudly announces my arrival, but I know better than to take its words at face value.
Before me is a huge wood-and-bric k house, but it’s not as soulless as I thought it’d be—at least from the outside.
The rustic home is perched on the top of a hill, a stately brown gate and lines of olive trees blocking most of the house from view.
But through the gaps, I can see the large windows, the vines of flowers climbing the walls, and the subtle variation in materials that give the facade both depth and character.
Could this really be Elio’s house? Given his age and bank account, I was expecting some kind of gray, sharp mansion that screams power and cutting-edge technology.
Opening the window of my Fiat, I peek at the name written under the doorbell, and sure enough, it reads “ Elio Spinelli .” Guess I’m at the right place after all.
I extend my arm out the window to ring the bell, praying that Elio, James, and Caleb aren’t late and still snoozing at the hotel by the racetrack.
Thankfully, the gate opens a few seconds later, and I drive down the long driveway through the spacious yard. I spot a fountain at the center of a roundabout, and that makes me instantly fall in love with the place. This was my absolute dream growing up—a house with a circular driveway.
The large wooden door opens, and Elio steps out wearing a white linen suit that contrasts even more starkly against his olive skin.
Of course he’s wearing a suit. I knew it was smart to change before coming here.
This man is always dressed to the nines.
While I admire his sense of style, I wish he’d worn literally anything else.
Preferably something ugly that wouldn’t triple his sexiness.
“ Ciao , Bella! ” he says, opening his arms in a sweeping gesture. “Welcome.”
“Thanks,” I say with a smile as I close the door and take in his gorgeous house. The massive windows make the space feel so open, inviting in the warm Italian sunlight that seems to bathe everything in gold. “Your house looks amazing.”
“Grazie .” He flashes a big smile as I walk toward him, and he invites me inside.
The entryway alone is enough to make my jaw drop.
The smooth, polished concrete floors play against the warmth of the natural wood accents that run along the walls and ceiling.
The air carries the faint aroma of fresh herbs and tilled earth, a subtle nod to the surrounding landscape.
The walls are a soft, warm gray, adorned with contemporary art—bold, abstract pieces that look handpicked.
The only things out of place are the suitcases still piled near the entrance.
Elio turns to me. “How was the drive? Found the house okay?”
I wince. “I almost went into the ditch after being attacked by chickens, but I made it out victorious.”
His eyes widen. “What h—”
I swat a hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry about it. The GPS is just a little capricious, and I’m not used to driving around much in the States. It’ll take some adjusting.”
“Okay,” he says, withholding a smile. “Let’s go join the guys outside.”
Elio leads me into the massive ki tchen, and I can't help but feel a sense of awe.
The space is sleek yet welcoming, with countertops made of polished stone and hardwood cabinetry that gives the room an inviting, earthy feel.
Large glass doors stretch across one wall, opening up to the dining room, and beyond that, a spacious patio extends into the garden.
Caleb and James are sitting at a rustic wooden table outside, snacking on the delectable spread between them—plump tomatoes, fresh bread, olives, and cheeses.
“Wow! This looks—wow.”
“I hope you’re hungry,” Elio says as we step onto the patio and walk toward the table.
“Oh! Look out. The Chicago Cavaliers fan is in the building,” James calls when he sees me.
I laugh, waving to them.
“Hey, Lucy,” Caleb says. “Good to see you again.”
I offer them both a smile as I sit down. “You too.”
The conversation flows naturally, and I try not to throw myself at the food.
But everything is just so delicious. I knew coming to Italy wasn’t going to do my many extra curves any favors, but things might be worse than I thought.
Or better, because I just bit into the best prosciutto of my life, and I’ll never regret those calories.
“So, how was your night?” Elio asks me, forking a piece of cheese.
“Quiet. I finished up my work, then went to bed. No need to ask about your night,” I say with a weak chuckle.
“It was fun. We went to a club, but we actually went home early too. It was a long weekend.”
I sip my orange juice in a lame attempt to hide the emotions that are probably plastered all over my face. Why does the fact that Elio went home early make me so happy? He can do as he pleases. Plus, even if he went home early, it doesn’t mean he went home alone.
Setting my glass down, I turn to Caleb and James. “So, have you both had your ‘day with the cup’ yet?” Shifting the conversation to hockey has been my go-to move since yesterday, but I’m going to have to find something else soon, since they’re leaving today.
“Not yet, but I’m totally using it for a giant sundae,” James says, licking his lips.
“Of course you are,” Caleb says with a chuckle.
“It’s amazing you guys won. Seriously. It was a great final, and that last shot, Caleb—wow. I’ve still got chills.”
“Thanks.” He beams. “We worked hard, and after losing in that same final a year before, there was no way we’d let it slide again.”
“I bet.”
We keep talking hockey while picking at the delicious finger foods until it’s time for James and Caleb to leave.
“Are you guys off to France?” I ask, wiping my mouth with my napkin.
“ Oui ,” James replies, flashing a proud smile. “I’ve been practicing with Beaumont—our teammate.”
“Yeah. I feel so much better knowing I’m traveling with a fluent companion.” Caleb sighs, not hiding his sarcasm.
The gate buzzer rings to signal that their ride has arrived, and we all stand up, chatting as we walk to the door.
“Good to see you, bro,” Caleb says, hugging Elio while I say goodbye to James.
“Nice to meet you,” James says.
“Likewise,” I say to both of them.
“And as for you, man, it’s nice to see that your party-boy days are over.” Caleb elbows Elio. “Focus. Go get that seventh title, okay?”