Chapter 12 Nicola #2
“—followed by a top-secret lookout point over the cliffs, and then—wait for it—dinner at this tiny family-run trattoria I found online last night?”
“Did Anna find it?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
“She’s the one who found the cliff thing,” he conceded. “But I picked the restaurant. It’s got five stars and exactly twelve tables. Romantic without being too obvious. Rustic charm. You’ll pretend not to love it.”
I paused, pretending to be unimpressed. “Sounds like a date.”
“Wrong,” he said, hopping off the bed and heading to the door like a man on a mission. “It’s an outing.”
“Oh?”
“Yup. Purely platonic, non-committal, cliff-adjacent…outing.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Thanks,” he said, flashing me a grin that should honestly be illegal. “I’ll meet you downstairs in fifteen. Wear something…flowy.”
I arched my brow. “Flowy?”
“For the photos, obviously.”
“You’re assuming I’m coming.”
He was already out the door when he called back, “You hate missing out, Moretti. You’ll come.”
And God help me—I did.
Fifteen minutes later, I found him in the lobby leaning against the rental car, sunglasses on, wind already ruffling his dark hair. He opened the passenger door with a dramatic bow.
“Your chariot awaits, Princess.”
I rolled my eyes, but I got in anyway.
Because this was Matteo DeLuca, and he’d crawled under my skin like a disease, and I couldn’t seem to say no to him.
The drive wound up the edge of the coastline, sharp turns carved through wildflower-covered hills, the sea glittering below like spilled sapphire. It was all postcard-worthy—annoyingly beautiful, just like everything else in this country.
And then there was Matteo, who was tapping the steering wheel to the beat of a 2000s playlist and belting out lyrics like he was headlining a stadium tour.
“You know,” I said dryly, “if this whole Formula One thing falls through, you could always audition for The Voice. In another country.”
He gasped. “Harsh, Moretti.”
“You’re off-key.”
“I’m emotive,” he corrected, flashing me a grin. “That’s the difference between karaoke and a performance.”
I didn’t respond. Mostly because I was distracted by the way the wind tossed his hair, the crinkle of sun in the corners of his eyes, the tanned skin of his forearm resting casually on the wheel.
No. We were not going there again.
This wasn’t real. It was vacation energy. Temporary. But he was so golden. One night was not enough to get him out of my system, but hey, maybe a week would do the trick.
“You okay over there?” he asked, glancing at me briefly.
“Just wondering when we’re supposed to start cliff diving.”
“No diving,” he promised. “Just views.”
A few more turns later, we parked at a small, dusty pull-off. There was nothing around except nature and the occasional hand-painted wooden sign in Italian.
“Are you taking me somewhere to murder me?” I asked, squinting at the path that snaked into a patch of cypress and wild thyme.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, grabbing his backpack and coming around to open my door. “You’d haunt me. Very aggressively.”
“You’re not wrong.”
The trail was narrow and a little steep, the smell of the sea mingling with the warm dust of the hillside. I focused on the uneven ground, not the way Matteo’s hand kept brushing mine, not how aware I was of every step that brought us closer to the edge of something bigger.
Finally, the path opened.
And the view actually stole my breath.
Cliffs stretched in both directions, plunging into turquoise water. Gulls dipped and cried over waves that crashed in rhythmic power. The sun was low now, spilling molten light across the water. Everything smelled like salt and rosemary and the sea.
“Oh,” I whispered, before I could help myself.
“See?” Matteo said softly behind me. “Worth it.”
I nodded, barely hearing him over the roar of my own thoughts.
He didn’t move closer. But I felt him, a step away. His silence was strange—for him. I snuck a glance at his profile. His jaw was tight. Eyes distant.
“Why did you really bring me here?” I asked, voice quieter than I meant it to be.
He shrugged. “You needed it.”
I swallowed. “Needed what?”
“This,” his voice dipped. “A moment. A breath. Something just for you.”
Something about the way he said it—soft and certain—made something crack in my chest. I exhaled hard, like I was trying to let it out. Whatever it was. Whatever it always was with him.
“Matteo…”
He finally looked at me, and God, I wished he hadn’t. His eyes were so open, too honest. It was the look he gave before saying something that might split me open.
“I know,” he said gently. “You don’t do feelings. You don’t do this.”
I stiffened, ready to retreat, to joke, to cut.
But he didn’t let me.
“But maybe,” he continued, voice low and almost tender. “For once, just let yourself enjoy. Let me spoil you.”
I blinked at him.
He smiled crookedly. “Vacation, remember?”
“And when it gets messy?”
“Say it was just the heat. Too much sun. One too many glasses of wine. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Moretti.”
I didn’t answer right away.
Because I was staring at his mouth, at the curve of it when he smiled like that—mischievous and maddening and beautiful. I was realizing I wanted to kiss him, which seemed to be some sort of addiction at this point.
“I’m not climbing into bed with you again just because you start showing me sunsets and plying me with food,” I blatantly lied.
He stepped just a fraction closer, his voice nearly a whisper. “I never said anything about a bed, but good to know where your mind is.”
The air between us hummed. We stayed like that until the sun dipped beneath the horizon, pretending we were not aching, pretending we weren’t dissenting into dangerous territory. And yet I felt my heart relax, in this fantasy bubble. Maybe I could just lean into it.
“I wanted to ask you something,” I said after a while, wrapping my arms around myself to calm the nerves.
“Anything,” Matteo replied seriously.
“I’ve been working on this charity campaign for the Foundation,” I started.
I felt his eyes on me, and the attention made goosebumps riddle my arms. “I think it would help to have some specific promo with the drivers. I was wondering if you’d be willing to tack on some with your other media days when we’re back.
The admins can film behind the scenes and maybe ask some questions in more of a vlog setup so it feels more personal.
I’m trying to team up with local charities along each race stop till the end of the season. I know it’s a lot to ask, but…”
“Of course I will.” There it was, the way I knew he would agree immediately in his casual shrug kind of way.
Matteo lived and breathed Moretti Racing.
The camera loved him, the fans loved him.
He did more media than most of the drivers by far, so asking to add on another felt selfish.
But I found myself feeling relieved that he agreed so fast. “Send me the details and I’ll make it work.
Maybe we can visit one of the charities in person too. ”
I stared at him in awe. “Um, yeah, wow that would be amazing. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
We talked about the charities I was focusing on, how I wanted to donate to local food banks, shelters for women and children, and a few animal rescues.
Matteo listened diligently, asking follow-up questions and even offering some ideas like a recorded Q&A while he was at the shelter with the puppies or kittens that the fans would no doubt share far and wide.
It was a great idea, so great that I was typing furiously on my phone, noting it all down.
Matteo nudged my shoulder, pulling me from my notes app. “Hungry?”
“Famished.”
The trattoria was tucked into the side of a hill, with stone walls that glowed gold in the early evening light and faded blue shutters that looked like they’d survived a hundred summers. The kind of place that smelled like garlic, grilled fish, and magic.
“I can’t believe this place is real,” I murmured, half to myself as we climbed the crooked stone steps.
Matteo grinned beside me. “You’re welcome.”
The hostess greeted us in rapid Italian, and of course, Matteo charmed her in three sentences and a crooked smile.
Suddenly, we were led to a candlelit table on a tiny terrace that overlooked the sea.
The tablecloth fluttered in the breeze, a tiny vase of wildflowers in the center.
The only table on the secluded terrace. It was all very romantic.
Which was not helping.
At all.
“Seriously?” I hissed as we sat down. “You brought me to an actual date location.”
“This isn’t a date,” he shrugged, handing me a menu, “It’s vacation.”
“That’s your answer to everything now?”
He leaned back in his chair, lazy and golden in the light. “You like the view, admit it.”
I pretended to be staring at the menu. “It’s fine.”
“I saw your face. You were about to cry when that lady offered you focaccia and wine”
“Focaccia and wine is really all I need to survive actually.”
He tipped his head with a dimpled smile. “Noted.”
We ordered grilled calamari, truffle pasta, and wine. By the time the food arrived, the sun had fully set, replaced by the soft hum of string lights above our heads and distant waves below.
Matteo forked a piece of his pasta and reached across the table. “Try this.”
“I have my own food.”
“It’s better.”
“DeLuca—”
“Say ah, Moretti.”
He was smirking. Teasing. And for some reason, I let him feed me. Because I was fucking weak. And the pasta melted on my tongue, rich and earthy and unfairly good.
“Well?”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. You win. It’s amazing.”
“I always win,” he said, eyes darkening slightly as he watched me chew.
That look sent heat pooling low in my stomach. I took a long sip of wine.
The breeze picked up again, tugging at a loose strand of hair, and he reached out before I could stop him, brushing it back behind my ear. His fingers trailed for a second too long across my cheek.
I cleared my throat and looked away. “You said something about no pressure.”
He leaned in, voice low and smooth. “No pressure at all, Princess. I’m just sitting here. Existing.”
“You exist very annoyingly.”
He grinned. “And yet you’re still here.”
I was halfway through pretending I was unaffected when music drifted from inside the restaurant—a slow, lilting tune played by a small trio in the corner courtyard.
Matteo stood and held out his hand.
“No,” I said immediately.
“Come on. Just one dance.”
“I don’t dance.”
“You danced at the gala.”
“That was different. There was tequila involved.”
He wiggled his fingers. “I’ll buy you tequila after.”
I didn’t know why I took his hand. Maybe it was the wine. Or the wind. Or the fact that I was so tired of fighting whatever this was.
He pulled me into the courtyard, just one of a handful of couples slow-dancing under the stars. The music was soft, dreamy. Matteo moved easily, one hand at my waist, the other holding mine.
“You’re terrible at letting go,” he murmured.
“I’m dancing with you, aren’t I?”
“You’re enduring dancing with me. It’s different.”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“I’m full of wine and calamari and the sight of you in that sundress, actually.”
“Don’t push your luck, DeLuca.”
He laughed, low and warm, and I hated how much I loved the sound.
We swayed like that for a long time, the stars twinkling above us under the dim light of the terrace. I wanted to stay in the moment, wrap myself up in it. When he pulled me just a little closer, I rested my cheek against his shoulder and let myself imagine: what would it be like if this was real?
If it wasn’t just vacation.
But the song ended. And I stepped back before he could say anything.
“Come on,” I said, smoothing my dress, trying to find my footing again. “You promised me tequila.”
He watched me like he saw everything. Then smiled.
“Let’s go find you a bottle.”