Chapter 3
Chapter Three
T HE MINUTE SHE WALKED into her room and saw Francesco’s bags there, she realized her oversight. Naturally, the housekeeper had assumed Francesco would share Willow’s room. Or perhaps her stepmother had given the instructions. She was clearly very pleased with Willow’s apparent choice of boyfriend, and would want to show how supportive she was of the union.
But this?
Sharing a room with Francesco?
Willow looked around despairingly, large, pale blue eyes taking in the double bed, small settee, dressing table and desk. It was not a small room, by any stretch, but the proportions of everything were in accordance with the teenager she’d been when she left home for good. It was almost laughable to imagine Francesco in this space.
But Willow didn’t laugh. She kept looking from the bed to the floor, the wheels of her mind churning furiously as she tried to come up with a solution.
Like…she had some kind of rash and needed her space. Or they were being old fashioned and waiting till marriage. As if anyone would believe that. Perhaps she could say that Francesco had nightmares and his screaming would wake Willow? Or that…
No.
It was no good.
There was no excuse she could give that wouldn’t sound strange, and potentially raise alarm bells with her parents. And the last thing she wanted was for her stepmother to think Willow had found the perfect boyfriend, only to lose him straight away.
She sighed heavily, carefully skirting around Francesco’s bags. Gawd, even his tote was unswervingly masculine, with its black leather and brown details. She showered quickly and kept an eye on the door as she dressed, heart racing at the mere thought of Francesco arriving when she was near naked.
He didn’t interrupt though. In fact, Willow had time to climb into bed, read a chapter of her book (one eye still trained on the door), turn out the light and fret for fifteen minutes or so, before—when she was just finally in the early stages of sleep—the door opened and the light flickered on.
“ Cristo!” Came Francesco’s loud explanation. “Willow?” he looked as surprised as she’d been. “This is your room?”
She sat up in bed, keeping the sheet tucked under her arms, and nodded. She was wearing a cotton nightie, hardly the last word in seduction, yet she felt incredibly exposed and vulnerable, having him in her childhood bedroom.
“Your father just pointed to this door, and told me it was my room. I didn’t realise?—,”
“No, I didn’t either. That is to say, I didn’t think about it, and I should have, because if I’d known in advance that this was going to be the sleeping arrangement, naturally I should have come up with an excuse to get us both out of…” she gestured helplessly towards the other side of the bed. “I didn’t think,” she repeated.
But Francesco was moving deeper into the room, lifting up his bag and placing it on Willow’s very feminine and delicate antique dressing table. The bag looked as out of place in here, amongst the pink and white floral wallpaper, as Francesco himself did.
“It’s okay,” he was saying. “This is not the end of the world.”
Speak for yourself, Willow thought with a grimace.
“We can sleep in the same room, can’t we?” he prompted, a teasing note in his voice that irked her.
“Of course we can. I don’t take up much room,” she added, though her eyes dropped suspiciously to the other half of the bed—which was no match for Francesco’s size.
He laughed. “But I do. It’s fine, cara. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
She was momentarily blindsided by his use of the word ‘cara’, a term of endearment he’d never used with her. In fact, he’d never called her anything other than Willow. So, it took her brain a moment to catch up with the fact he was suggested sleeping not on the bed but rather on the ancient timber floor.
“Don’t be absurd,” she said. “The floor is as cold as ice and harder than granite.”
“I did not have you pegged for an abuser of superlatives,” he said. “Besides, you have a fire. It won’t take me long to light it.”
“The fire?” Her heart began to race. Fires in bedrooms were one of Willow’s favourite things, and she often lit hers, though she’d been too distracted and tired tonight. But the thought of crackling heat and the romantic flickering of flames whilst Francesco was here with her seemed a little much.
Except, he was right. She was being absurd. They were friends. Friends who’d spent a lot of time together and never crossed that line. With the exception of that one night, when he’d been drunk and grieving, and she’d been tempted in a way that had caught her completely unawares. If anything, that experience should act as insurance against the possibility of anything unnecessary happening now. She’d known temptation and walked away from it—and she’d do so again, over and over.
Besides, what about Tom, a voice in the back of her head demanded indignantly. True, they’d broken up, but that hadn’t been Willow’s choice. She’d been devastated, convinced she could win him back. So why was she suddenly feeling as though she was a tiny little bug that was stuck in Francesco’s spider web? Why did she suddenly feel as though she was minutely aware of every single one of his movements? Like the way his pants strained over his muscular thighs as he bent down to check the fireplace and add some more pinecones. Or the way his hands moved with such deft, confident motions. Or the richness of his tan, or the masculine angles of his face and body. She was not an artist, and yet she felt an urge to draw him on paper. She could easily imagine the sharp, bold lines she would use to render his frame.
“There,” he stood, rubbing his hands together, as flames began to light in the grate. “That will help.”
“You really don’t have to sleep on the floor.”
He shot her a droll expression. “You know there is only one way we could both sleep in a bed that size, Willow,” he said, slowly though, as if she really didn’t understand.
“Oh?”
“It would involve one of us spooning the other, all night long.”
She was tempted to say, ‘so?’ because they were both adults and could surely control themselves, but something held her back. And she didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to guess what that ‘something’ might be.
It was true that long term she intended to find a way to be with Tom, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t also be tempted by other men.
She forced a smile, though, in response to his description. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t really seem like the spooning type.”
“No?”
“I’m guessing you’re more of a wham, bam, thank you, ma’am kind of lover.” Even referring to him as a ‘lover’ stirred something in her bloodstream. She dug her fingernails into her thighs with the effort it took to maintain a neutral expression.
“You wound me, Willow,” he said, but with a grin that belied his words.
She held up a hand, placatingly. “That definitely wasn’t my intention.”
He went to the settee and removed a throw blanket, placing that down on the ground, before striding to the bed to grab a couple of pillows. Her heart seemed to lurch into the base of her throat.
“I don’t tend to do long term relationships, but I’ve never been accused of kicking a woman out of my bed after sex.”
“Aww, so you do snuggle?” she teased, amazed that her voice didn’t reflect the sudden flash of irritation she got at the careless way he referred to lovers.
Which was ridiculous!
They weren’t actually a couple. This was all for show. Pretend. Him doing her a huge favour by coming to her parents’ home and pretending to be her doting boyfriend for the weekend, to get them off her case.
She had no business actually feeling jealous. Maybe she was a method actor, she considered. Isn’t that what method actors did? Throw themselves so completely into a role, any role, that they became the character? As far as theories went, it seemed pretty plausible to Willow.
“What can I say? I’m a tactile person.”
Yes. Definitely method acting, if the erratic throb of her pulse was anything to go by.
He threw a grin over his shoulder as he flicked off the light switch then strode to his makeshift bed—she used that term very loosely—and lay down. The flames cast enough light for her to see that his long legs overshot the blanket by a ruler’s length at least. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
Still, it was way better to have him on the floor than in her bed, she reminded herself. Easier to keep the lines straight if they weren’t spooning, as he’d put it.
She flopped back onto the pillows, and gave the ceiling the same attention he was, eyes boring into the ancient plaster.
His breathing was soft, and even, so sometime later, she began to resent how easily he’d fallen asleep. She rolled onto her side and stared at the wall that housed her desk. Willow had spent term times at boarding school, but when she came home, she’d taken a form of refuge in here, and studied at the desk for hours at a stretch. When she hadn’t been studying, she’d devoured whatever she could find in her father’s prized library. There hadn’t been many contemporary titles—he’d inherited the library and knew enough about books to know that it was an impressive collection, but he was no collector. Nor was he a reader. The lack of modern offerings hadn’t bothered Willow, anyway. She’d lost herself in Dickens, Austen, Heyer, any of the classics she could lay her hands on.
“What’s the story with her, anyway?”
Willow blinked. “You’re still awake?”
“Evidently,” he drawled.
Her lips tugged to the side. “Who?”
“Your stepmother.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t really talk about her.”
“Don’t I?”
“A comment here and there.”
“You’ve met her before.”
“Briefly, yes. This is the most time I’ve ever spent in her company, though.”
“Ah. And you’re surprised by her?”
“Frankly, yes.”
“In what way?”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“She doesn’t seem to like you very much.”
At that, Willow burst out laughing.
“You find that funny?” he asked, obviously surprised.
“No, I really don’t. I just…the way you said that. I don’t know. It’s…hard to explain.”
“Try.”
Her smile slipped, and she sighed. “It’s not that she doesn’t like me; it’s just a little complicated.”
“You are her stepdaughter. The daughter of her husband. The sister of her daughters. You’re family. What is complex about that?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to be able to understand.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have this amazing, big family. Look at the way you all rally around each other, all the time. Even Marcia,” she tacked on, because she knew enough to know that none of the brothers or cousins liked Raf’s new wife, but that they still kept that disapproval to themselves, in the aim of supporting Raf. Yes, the Santoros were nothing if not wonderful, and loving. The kind of family, if she were honest, that she’d always dreamed of belonging to.
She couldn’t think of Gianni and Maria and their warm, affectionate home without experiencing a sensation akin to stepping from the shadows into the morning sun.
“That is what family is supposed to be.”
She laughed then, a short sound of retort.
“You disagree?”
“Oh, I absolutely agree. It would be a wonderful thing—a much better world, to be honest—if all families were like yours. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like, to grow up just knowing that you’re loved and accepted as you are.”
“To be fair, my family was not exactly like that.”
She winced. She knew that. “I meant your broader family.”
“I know,” his voice, though, was the same as always. No hurt. No annoyance.
Of course. Because this was Francesco Santoro, level-headed, confident, in command.
“But your father wasn’t great,” she said, softly now, because she’d seen the wound left by his father’s death, up close and personal. It was something he’d struggled, for at least six months, to recover from.
“No.” Francesco shifted on the floor, and one of the boards creaked. She grimaced a little.
“Did I tell you it’s a very old house?”
He laughed softly.
“Not missing your immaculate, art-gallery-come-penthouse, just a little?”
“Believe it or not, no.”
She glanced down at him. “Your father has an exceptional collection of whisky. If nothing else, I’ll enjoy sampling my way through it this weekend.”
She made a mock wounded noise then reached for a pillow, aiming it at him before dropping it back to the bed.
“Go to sleep, Willow. I understand there are activities planned for tomorrow.”
“Ugh,” she said, rolling onto her side. “Don’t remind me.”
A deep, gruff laugh. “Not your thing?”
“Oh, I love games, as much as the next person. But this is…next level. To say my stepmother is competitive is putting it lightly.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
* * *
Francesco had never been so glad to see the drizzly English rain in his life as he was around lunchtime the next day, when the bad turn of the weather meant the ‘game’ of croquet was to be suspended.
Competitive was one thing.
A bully totally another, and he was beginning to think that Meredith Von Bates was very squarely in the latter category. Whilst Kathryn and Aria, he surmised were busy making each other giggle, and Baxter seemed utterly ignorant to the way Meredith constantly picked and critiqued every single decision Willow made in a day.
Starting from the minute they appeared, side by side, in the breakfast room, and Meredith regarded Willow over the rims of her glasses with a severe frown and a little, “I never thought green was your colour, dear.” Never mind the fact Willow made an excellent living as a stylist to other wealthy socialites and had a pretty good handle on what suited her.
So, Francesco had disagreed, pointing out that Willow looked great in every colour. He did it partly to peeve Meredith off, partly because it was what a doting lover might say, but mostly, because it was true. Willow’s dress sense was flawless.
After that, Willow received a metaphorical slap on the wrist for taking too much food from the buffet—Francesco had leaned into his role at that point, and suggested she must have been a little worn out. Crass, but his fuse had been lit and he’d started to enjoy shocking Willow’s stepmother. Once they’d gone outside, Baxter had bailed him up for more business talk, but by then, Francesco had had an ear trained permanently on Meredith and Willow. She was scolded for the way her hair fell out of its bun a little, the way she struck a ball, the way she slouched her shoulders, the fact she checked her phone—once—during the game.
By the end of it, Francesco’s mood was as dark as the storm clouds gathering over the grand old country estate. The clouds had beaten him to bursting point by minutes, at best.
“For God’s sake , Willow,” he muttered under his breath, finally managing to free himself from Baxter and drag Willow away from her so-called family. “She is truly awful.”
Willow, though, was smiling serenely. “Didn’t I mention that?”
“You said she was competitive…”
“Yes, and she knows I can beat her in croquet. It’s a mental game, Francesco. I like to get in her head from the morning.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know she hates it when I wear green,” Willow said, with a shrug.
Francesco stared at her. “ Cristo,” he spat. “You are a grown woman. What business does she have hating, or having an opinion on, for that matter, anything that you choose to wear?”
Willow blinked up at him and shrugged. “Who knows? But every time she tells me something like that, it gives me the power to use it against her.”
“She’s awful,” he repeated.
“She’s nuanced,” Willow diffused, in a way that bordered on defensive of her stepmother. Like some kind of Stockholm syndrome, he figured, shaking his head, because he wasn’t following Willow’s line of defense.
“Didn’t you see me hook my hair out of my bun?”
He shook his head, dropping his gaze to her still loose hair, then wishing he hadn’t, because it was so soft and silky, shimmering like black silk in the light cast by the hallway lamps. And from the ends of her hair, it was a very short trek inland, to the swell of her neat breasts, visible through the tightness of her green sweater.
His hand formed a fist at his side.
“It’s juvenile of me,” she said, oblivious to the inner battle being raged between his head and his cock. “But she’s so easy to annoy.”
He stared at her.
“I know how it must seem,” she admitted after a beat, mistaking his silence, perhaps, for skepticism. “But if I hadn’t developed this…coping mechanism…as a teenager, she would have destroyed me. I didn’t know how to handle her, so I took back the power in the only way I had available to me. I leaned into her irritation. I sought it out, so that whenever she criticized me, I’d feel like I had scored a victory, not the other way around.”
“I hate that you have had to live like this,” he said, shocked by how profoundly and deeply he did hate that.
“It’s fine,” she said, shaking her head, smiling, but in a way that he hated even more, because it didn’t come close to reaching her eyes. He had the feeling he was being managed, in fact, just as she managed her stepmother.
It was the last thing he wanted.
“Willow—,”
But what could he say? What could he offer her, beyond the support he’d already promised.
He reached down and grabbed her hand, holding it in his, appreciating, for the first time, how fine and delicate it was, and yet, how perfectly it fit in his clasp.
“What are you doing?”
“Being your boyfriend,” he reminded her, wondering at the darkness in his tone. “For another forty-eight hours, anyway.”