Chapter 27
The light of the sun pouring through the shutters lets me know it’s the morning after. I’m grateful I can feel the warmth of her body curled into mine. My nose is buried in the scent of her curls that are fanned across my pillow.
Maya is half buried in the covers she fought me over with the strength of a linebacker. I grin when I think about the number of times she yanked them off my body to wrap them around herself like a burrito only to fling them off when she was too warm.
Apparently, she found her happy medium. She tucked one hand beneath her cheek, parted her lips in a smile that the Mona Lisa would envy, revealing womanly satisfaction and intrigue.
Lying back, I throw one arm over my forehead and embrace my fate.
I’m completely owned by Maya Cox, heart, body, and soul.
Maya lets out a small mew in her sleep, and my head whips to the side.
She’s still curled toward me, her hair a tangled halo across the pillow, her fingers resting over my ribs like she’s claiming territory even in her dreams. I never stood a chance, did I?
Somewhere between the first joke on the rooftop deck, the way she caught me when I fell, to the way she showed her inner fortitude, I stopped pretending I didn’t feel something other than friendship.
Her brow softens until she looks almost vulnerable. It’s as if she’s entrusting me to bear the weight of her day-to-day burdens.
Which I’ll do in a heartbeat.
She rolls. Part of me braces for the blast of cold air in the event she steals the covers, but she tucks herself against my chest. Her body fits against mine perfectly. She must think so too intuitively, as a soft sigh escapes her lips.
Reaching over, I play with one of her tightly coiled curls. My fingers tangle in them. “You’re changing my life.”
Without opening her eyes, she murmurs, “Good thing?”
I press a kiss against her forehead. “Very good.”
“Okay. Sleep now. Talk later,” she mumbles.
I laugh softly, knowing she’ll likely need closer to two pots of coffee for that conversation. With that realization, I give myself a few more minutes to wish I could slip inside her dreams before I slip out of bed.
Yanking on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, I leave some clothes for Maya at the foot of the bed before making my way into the kitchen barefoot.
The stone floors are cool beneath my feet as I start the coffee maker.
By the time the first pot has brewed, I’m already pulling together eggs, herbs, cheese, and bread.
I’m loading the casserole into the oven by the time Maya joins me in the kitchen wearing the drawstring shorts and sweatshirt I left for her. Yawning, she brings a hand to her lips. “Coffee?”
Knowing I have no hope of having any sort of conversation with her before she’s had any, I hand her my mug. Much to my surprise, she doesn’t retreat around the counter but snuggles up to me instead.
Wrapping my arms around her waist loosely, I rest my head against hers. “I could get used to this.”
Her response is a delicate slurp that causes me to chuckle. That’s when she mutters, “No serious stuff before fuel.”
“Understood.” I’m about to brave her wrath to find out how she feels about fresh herbs when I hear a faint click at the side door.
Please, God, not Zia Vinnie.
“Troy?”
This is so much worse. The voice has my body locking and Maya coming out of her pre-caffeinated fog to ask, “What’s wrong?”
I step in front of Maya to block her view of our unexpected arrival. Opening my arms to the woman walking in the door, I exclaim, “Mama! What are you doing back so soon from your trip with Papa?”
Maya, who must have taken a sip, immediately chokes. “Mama?”
My mother, Patrizia Walsh—Trish to family and friends—shoots me a look riddled with mild amusement and irritation that Italian mothers must master the moment their children are born.
“Your Zia Vinnie is meeting me here. We’re going to Turin for the day.
I’d ask if you would like to join us, but I see you are already… cooking.”
“Yes, I…uhh.”
Maya, brave, sweet, sacrificial lamb she is, offers her hand to my mother. “Maya Cox. I’m staying here at the villa.”
“Buongiorno, Maya.” She takes Maya’s hand as if they’re meeting over mimosas. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Maya sips her coffee again after shooting my mother a faint smile. “If you could refrain from conducting the third degree until I’ve consumed at least half of this mug, I’d be grateful.”
My mother’s brows rise just slightly. “Vinnie forgot to mention this curiosity.”
I jump in. “That’s because she’s normally not here for breakfast.” Then, once my mother turns her light-blue eyes on me, I realize my tactical error.
Never give the opposing team inside information if you want a chance at winning the game.
Just then, Maya smacks her lips before placing her mug down. She smiles gratefully at me. “Thank you. I can be civil now.” Directing her attention to my mother, she announces, “Your son just saved the world and also ensured I’m not lying to you about my state of mind right off the bat.”
“Oh? How did he do that?”
Maya points at the sweatshirt she’s wearing and remarks, “I own a t-shirt that says ‘Coffee makes me less murdery.’ I don’t want to be accused of falsely advertising my state of mind.”
“Does my son make you murdery?”
“Not him, per se. Just any morning where I’m being denied caffeine.”
“I’m not that foolish,” I mutter. “You consider coffee a food group as much as I do.”
Maya flutters her lashes at me.
“As if I would deny you anything, uvetta mia.”
My mother quirks a brow even as Maya eyeballs her empty mug. I snag it from her and refill it before mayhem can ensue. “Here. Keep drinking.” I roll my eyes.
Maya lifts the mug and complies.
However, my mother is startled by the nickname. “A nickname? Really?”
“Mama,” I warn her, cutting my eyes to Maya, who is now fully awake and watching the byplay like she’s at Wimbledon.
It doesn’t stop her. “è qualcuno di speciale, tesoro.” She’s someone special, sweetheart.
I don’t acknowledge her, but she doesn’t need the affirmation. Instead, she asks Maya. “You are a photographer, yes? The one who took those exquisite pictures in China that were published in Travel + Leisure.”
Maya squares her shoulders. “Yes, that’s me, Mrs. Walsh.”
“How have you enjoyed your time at our vineyard?”
Maya immediately launches into how captivated she’s been with the ancient castle ruins and the intense level of work at harvest. After a few moments, her eyes pop and she realizes she’s been talking to my mother—who is in this season’s St. John suit—in a pair of my old shorts and sweatshirt.
Running her fingers through her hair, she pleads, “Now that I’m conscious, I’m also fully self-conscious.
Do I have time to change before we eat?”
My mother, amused, flips her hand. “Don’t change on my account, bella.”
I glance down at the timer and warn. “You have eleven minutes.”
A look of sheer determination comes across her face. “I’ve done more with less,” before sprinting for the door.
Once I hear the pad of her feet up the stairs, I bury my face in my hands. “I feel all of sixteen again.”
“Your taste wasn’t as good at sixteen.”
My head snaps up in surprise. “You’ve talked with her once.”
“And chatted with Vinnie.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
My mother stands and moves around the counter to pour her own coffee. “She’s lovely, Troy. Intelligent. Insightful.”
“You got all of that from a ten-minute conversation?”
“Plus from reading about her work online.”
“Let me guess, you also read other things.”
She shrugs. “When a woman has survived public speculation the way she did, and is still full of grace, I’m not worried about her being good enough for my son.”
“Thanks, Mama.”
“I’m worried about my son being good enough for her.”
Shock rips through me. She pats my cheek like I’m twelve again. “Don’t ruin this one, figlio mio.”
Before I can express my outrage, the door flies open behind me. An entirely different Maya appears. The sight hits me like a punch to the chest.
Gone are my old cut-off shorts and sweatshirt. Now, she’s sporting a cashmere v-neck sweater paired with dark-wash jeans, and ballet flats. Her face looks freshly washed, and she has twisted her hair up in a clip. Smugly, she snatches up her coffee and takes a drink. “With a minute to spare.”
My mother shoots me a smile—soft, knowing, and more than a little smug. Before I can say a word, Zia Vinnie opens the side door after her habitual morning walk. “Ah, breakfast. Perfetto.”
I quickly serve up the casserole. During the meal, my mother behaves—mostly. She lets me limit the conversation to how her trip with my father was and what’s been happening on the property. Vinnie’s chimed in a few times about gossip in town and local happenings.
Maya mostly stayed silent. Observing with her keen photographer's eye the interaction between the family.
Still, it wasn’t too long of an inquisition I had to endure before my mother and Vinnie stand and walk around the table to give me warm hugs goodbye—leaving me with the dishes; I note grouchily.
With a wink in Maya’s direction, my mother remarks, “Next time, I’ll knock first,” before breezing out the door.
I’m afraid to assess the damage my mother left in her wake when I hear a giggle behind me. I whip around in shock to find Maya biting back her laughter. “So… that was your mom?”
I sigh, knowing my ears are going to burn all day because my mother and aunt will be gossiping about me and Maya. “Yeah. And congratulations.”
“For what?”
“Judging by how my mother treated you, she has officially baptized you into the family. Honestly, I’m impressed that you weren’t embarrassed to be caught in my clothes.
If no one has proven it’s possible to choke on thin air from wheezing in embarrassment, Maya is doing an exceptional job of contributing to medical knowledge because of it. I whack at her back a few times before she shouts, “I’m fine.”
I pull her close. “It’s okay. You’re part of the family now.”
“Well, this part of the family is going to go take a shower. I can still feel you between my legs.” She breezes out the door, leaving me standing there, jaw dropped like a damn rookie.
Yeah, forget cleaning the kitchen. I race off after her.