Chapter 39
END ZONE: THE SCORING AREA AT EACH END OF THE FIELD.
We eat lunch under the shade of an old chestnut tree and we’re having our first argument.
“Let me get this straight. You arranged with my parents—”
“And Christin, Amy, and Emery, and their families,” he interjects.
“To have them all come to Italy for Thanksgiving?”
Until a few moments ago, my head was in Troy’s lap while we were sharing the responsibility of feeding one another bread and cheese.
It’s Troy who had come up with the ingenious way for us to share the wine he brought once he realized he forgot the glasses.
After drinking some, he leaned over and kissed me, letting the rich liquid drip slowly into my mouth.
It was perfect.
It was romantic.
Then he brought up what plans he made for Thanksgiving—a holiday I know isn’t celebrated here—leaving me flabbergasted. “What possessed you to do this?”
He crooks a brow. “You left the plans in my hands.”
I sputter. “I…” Crap. I absolutely did.
Troy holds up a cube of cheese that I take from him and chew on while I recall our earlier conversation. Initially, I dismissed his offer to fly everyone over to Italy. “If you bring everyone over, you’re footing the bill for like twenty people!”
“It’s doable.”
“I’ll get right on planning that.” I rolled my eyes skyward.
“Why don’t you let me handle it, uvetta mia? Besides, you have a trip to Istanbul for TravelAwaits.”
“I’m now beginning to feel terror that my best friends and my boyfriend now have each other’s cell phone numbers.”
He roars with laughter. “Yet, my having your parent’s number doesn’t frighten you the same way?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’ve probably been texting them like you’re auditioning for future son-in-law status.”
Troy grins, unrepentant. “They like me.”
I shoot back. “They probably think it’s adorable that you say, uvetta mia, every other sentence.”
He shrugs. “Can’t help it if they appreciate my charm. Or my logistical skills. Flights are booked, villa rooms sorted. Oh, and your mom said it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without her sweet potato pie. I’ve already translated the measurements into metrics, so we should be good on the big day.”
I drop the piece of bread I’m holding. “You did what?”
He looks far too pleased with himself. “She seemed thrilled to help. Also, your dad wanted to know if he could watch the Macy’s Day parade online, so I ensured we’ll be able to stream it.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m efficient.”
I lean back against him, groaning. “You realize this means they’re all going to assume this is serious.”
Troy’s smile softens. “That’s because it is.”
His quiet confidence hits somewhere deep because it’s just acknowledging what we both know to be true. Time isn’t going to slow down what our hearts already know to be fact.
I’m struggling to restrain a smile. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he brushes a crumb from my lip, “you’re going to be here for Thanksgiving and not halfway around the world.”
“Only because you’re holding me hostage with wine and my mom’s sweet potato pie.”
He laughs before kissing me, tasting like sunshine and mischief.
For a while, we don’t talk. The breeze rustles through the branches, scattering golden leaves across our picnic blanket. The world feels far away — just us, the vineyard, and the faint sound of church bells drifting from the village.
Finally, I murmur, “You really think you can blend my family’s Thanksgiving and your family’s Italian traditions without chaos?”
“What chaos? No one said anything about letting you into the kitchen.”
“You know, for someone who agreed to take things slow, inviting my entire family to another continent is a bold move.”
He smirks. “Slow doesn’t mean small intentions, uvetta mia.”
My laughter erases any lingering tension. Troy’s the most incredible man. He’s my friend—first and foremost. He’s my biggest supporter. He’s thoughtful, caring, and sexy as hell. Incredibly, he loves me, even though I’m still getting used to what that means.
I stretch out beside him again, resting my head back on his lap. “Okay. So, maybe Thanksgiving in Italy won’t be the disaster I imagine. Maybe it’ll be something else entirely.”
“Like I said, it’s only a disaster if we allow you to cook.”
If someone had told me a year ago that I would spend Thanksgiving in Italy, I would have been shocked. Instead, it’s worked out beautifully.
Everyone is watching the parade while Troy puts the finishing touches on dinner. I’m wrapped in his sweater, staring out over the vineyard while he bastes the bird for the last time. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He grins. “Sip your wine. I’ve got everything under control.”
“Famous last words,” I tease. “I can—”
He cocks a brow. “Boil water? Burn the bread?”
“Unfair.” I’m about to argue my side when Amy and Christin come into the kitchen.
Amy sells me out with no compunction. “You once asked me if olive oil could go in a kettle.”
“Okay, that was one time,” I mutter.
“And you asked me if you could roast marshmallows in a microwave,” Christin reminds me.
“We were doing a science experiment!”
Emery enters the fray. “I’ll allow the marshmallow disaster, but you asked me what was wrong with throwing the whole egg into the dish—shells and all.”
I throw up my hands. “Fine! I’m completely useless.”
“Not useless. Never that,” he murmurs, voice dipping low as he hugs me from behind.
Breathless, I ask, “What am I then?”
“You’re everything.” My heart stutters even as he nudges me toward my girls. “Even so, you’re a distraction, and I don’t want this turkey to taste like regret. Take the Prosecco and go fill the glasses.”
Someone’s set the long farmhouse table with mismatched plates and wildflowers, candles flickering between them. It’s messy and perfect and alive. Somehow, all these people from different corners of my life — home, friends, heart — fit here. With him.
Troy glances up and catches me standing in the doorway. His grin spreads slow and easy. “What are you thinking?”
My throat tightens. “That you’re unbelievable.”
He winks. “I try.”
By the time we sit down, the sky outside has gone deep blue. Candles flicker over glasses of chianti and plates piled with roasted vegetables and turkey glazed in balsamic and honey. The food is half American, half Italian, all heart.
Across the table, Troy’s watching me with that look — the one that says he’s not just proud of this day; he’s proud of me.
Once the laughter quiets and everyone’s plates are half-empty, my mom raises her glass. “To unexpected blessings,” she says. Then she lifts her glass to Troy’s family. “And the people who remind us that home isn’t always a place.”
Everyone clinks glasses. Troy’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. “To home,” he says softly.
My heart squeezes and I know I need to tell him what I feel.
It’s not too soon.
After the last dish is washed, I find Troy outside on the terrace.
The air’s cool, the sky velvet-black. The vines below glimmer with dew under strings of soft light.
He’s sitting on the stone wall, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty glass of wine dangling from his hand.
He looks up when I step out, a slow smile curving his mouth.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Come here.”
“You worked so hard,” I say solemnly. “Our families, my friends, the food. You made today perfect.”
He tilts his head. “You think it was perfect?”
“I think it was exactly what I didn’t know I needed.”
His expression softens. “Then I did my job as the man in your life.”
“Troy,” I start, then falter. “I don’t even know how to start—”
“Just tell me you’re happy.”
The bonds of fear holding me back slip away. “I am.”
“Good.”
We sit in silence for a while, just absorbing the reminisce of happiness that lingers after a day as full as this one was. Then I say what’s been lingering in my heart all day. “You know, when I woke up this morning and heard them laughing, I realized something.”
“What’s that, uvetta mia?”
“Time is irrelevant when it comes to love. You can spend years with the wrong person and never feel a thing. And a few months with the right one changes everything.”
He doesn’t speak, just waits for me—patient, listening.
“I love you,” I admit, voice low but steady. “Faster than maybe it should be. And it scares me, because I don’t want this to burn out. I want it to last. To be real.”
“Your love for me is as real as mine is for you, Maya,” he growls softly.
“You love me?”
“Yes.”
I press a hand against my stomach. “Wow.”
“Good wow or…”
“Incredible. But…”
“Love can still mean taking slow steps, uvetta mia.”
“You don’t mind?”
He shakes his head. “Maya, I’m not risking your love for anything.”
My chest tightens. “You keep saying things that ruin me.”
“I’m just telling the truth.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. “You know, you’re exceptionally good at this whole holiday thing.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he teases. “Christmas might just be pizza and beer.”
“As long as we’re together, I don’t care.”
He turns his head, presses a kiss to my hair. “That’s the only present I want.”
“Me too,” I murmur.
The night settles around us, gentle and full. Somewhere inside, my friends are still laughing. Our mothers are probably swapping recipes. And me? I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
With the man I love.
After all, love isn’t a game. It doesn’t follow rules or keep score.
Sometimes it just takes one good kick to send it flying in the right direction.