by Beth Ciotta
“Stacy,” the woman says. “Stacy Bevins.”
“Nice to meet you,” Nick says with a kind smile, as Stacy nearly falls into his lap while trying to shake my hand.
“Sorry,” she says to Nick while looking at me. “I’m just so nervous. I’m such a fan. I told Kyle it was you when you boarded, but he didn’t believe me.”
“Miss,” a flight attendant says, “you need to take your seat. We’re preparing for takeoff.”
“Oh, sure.” Stacy straightens, the autographed magazine clutched to her chest. “Wait’ll I show Kyle! Nice to meet you, Nick. Sorry for the fangirl moment, Megan, but yay!”
Smiling, I wave good-bye. “Have a great time on the tour, Stacy.”
I’m always flattered by the kind words of fans, but right now I’m especially appreciative of any compliment, given my recent fall from grace.
Nick shakes his head as Stacy makes a flustered retreat and once again I think about his enormous talent and how he could be signing autographs, too. Is he envious of my semi-celebrity status? Does he think I’m obnoxious because I obviously enjoyed Stacy’s praise?
“You probably think this is shallow,” I say, as the attendant launches into her safety patter, “but recognition, praise for my work, never gets old.”
“I’m a musician, Meg. An entertainer. You don’t think I get off on accolades and applause?”
He gets me, I think. For reasons I don’t want to examine, my heart does a funny squeeze.
Overwhelmed in the wake of Stacy’s adoration, tears prick my eyes.
I clear my throat. “What if I don’t land a new travel show, Nick?”
He wraps his beautiful hand around mine, a comforting gesture that messes with my pulse. “Then you’re meant for something different.”
“Like what?”
“The spotlight doesn’t define you, Meg,” he says as the engines roar to life. “Think outside the box.”
Chapter 12
BY THE TIME the attendants make their first round and offer beverages, I’ve changed my mind about that cocktail. Nick’s right. I’m wound tight. A glass of wine will take off the edge. “Merlot, please.”
“I’ll have Chardonnay with dinner,” Nick says to our chipper gal. “Coffee for now, please. Black.”
It’s best to avoid caffeine on extended flights, but I bite my tongue. Nick’s an adult and as he put it, an experienced flyer. I’m wary of sounding like a bossy know-it-all. Or, God forbid, his mother. Besides, it’s also recommended that you steer clear of alcohol and I intend to indulge. I’m determined to relax and that’s difficult given the deliciously sexy man sitting next to me.
“Okay. Let’s do this,” I say.
Nick raises a brow.
“We need to come up with a story for your grandmother. History for our pretend romance. How we met. How long we dated. Where we got married. That kind of thing.”
Nick nods. “Let’s keep it simple. Neighbors who fell in love at first sight, a heated six-month affair, and a weekend in Vegas that resulted in a spontaneous marriage. Given your public profile, we’re temporarily keeping our relationship secret as we adjust to being newlyweds.
“A whirlwind scenario,” he adds, “combined with the fact that your work kept us apart for days and weeks. It also explains why we may not know certain details about one another. Sound good?”
“You’ve given this some thought.” I consider, then smile. “I can work with that.”
We discuss a few specifics and laugh about our cheesy choice in chapels. It helps that we’ve both been to Vegas. That’s when I learn Nick toured with a tribute band for a couple of years. He also performed in the house band on a cruise shop. And that’s just part of his professional past.
I’m anxious to hear more about him, but he jumps on something I said about me.
“You toured with a theater company? What? Broadway? Off-Broadway? A local group in Philly?”
“Nothing so glamorous or noble,” I say. “I worked Renaissance Faires.”
“Ah. Cheeky Shakespeare.”
I’m impressed that he’s familiar with so many facets of theater. Even more so, he didn’t dis my Ren roots. “A quirky career and lifestyle. But I was young and obsessed with theater, and,” I clear my throat, “head-over-heels in love with the troupe’s director.”
He smiles. “How young were you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Huh. So you went on the road right out of high school?”
“Much to the horror of my parents, who wanted me to go to college. I come from a highly motivated, highly educated, and highly successful family. Dad’s a practicing physician and mom’s a retired nurse. My older brother, Mitch, is a surgeon and my little sister, Marcy, is a pharmacist. I was always, and still am, the odd duck.”
“You march to the beat of your own drum,” Nick says while drinking coffee. “No problem with that.”
“Tell that to my family.”
“You’re estranged?”
“Not really. But I don’t spend much time with them, either. They don’t get the extent of my artistic drive. Or my extreme wanderlust. You would think it’s enough that I’ve always managed to pay my bills.”
Buzzed on Nick’s rapt attention and a glass of Merlot, I launch into my colorful work history. Myriad acting experience that eventually led me to auditioning for Epic Adventures.
“Even landing the show failed to impress my parents,” I say. “Bottom line. No matter how hard I try, I can’t live up to my brother and sister who, in addition to making mountains of money, are making an important contribution to society as medical professionals. My parents look at my globetrotting job as futzing around and now…” I trail off, unwilling to indulge in a pity party. My “need to succeed” sounds obsessive, even to me.
Uncomfortable with the notion that I’ve spent my life trying to prove my worth, I start to question Nick about his family—only to be derailed by heart-stopping turbulence.
Chapter 13
I’M NOT A nervous flyer by any means, but by the time we land at Leonardo da Vinci International, I want to kiss the ground.
It was one of the most turbulent flights I’ve ever experienced. Twice I thought we were going to bite it. To my credit, I didn’t shriek or puke, but I’m pretty sure I turned a whiter shade of pale.
When Nick pulled me close, I didn’t question it. I welcomed his embrace. At some point I relaxed enough to fall asleep, but I didn’t sleep well. I’m not sure if Nick slept at all.
What I do know is that I woke to the faint scent of herbal soap, my face snuggled against Nick’s neck. Wrapped in his arms, I confess, I feigned sleep a little longer simply to enjoy the platonic snuggle. It was the best part of my week by far.
After dragging our weary selves through customs, I lead Nick out of the crowded flow. “We’re jet-lagged and exhausted and, I don’t know about you, but my stomach’s shaky. Instead of driving, there’s an alternative that will allow us to sleep. Let’s take the train to Chiusi and then a taxi to Cetona.”
Nick scrapes a hand over a day’s worth of stubble. Rumpled and worn, he’s still smoking hot. “I don’t want to be stuck at my grandmother’s without a car. I don’t know her transportation situation.”
“So we nix the taxi and—”
“Let’s stick to the plan. After that flight from hell, it’ll feel good to be in control.”
I can’t argue that. “All right. I’ll drive. I’m comfortable with the Italian rules of the road and, as Stacy Bevins mentioned, I toured Tuscany. I know my way. Plus I have an International Drivers Permit.”
“I have a permit, too. Researched road regulations and directions before we left. Plus,” he waggles his phone, “GPS. Let’s find something to settle your stomach then hit the road.”
Chapter 14
SINCE NICK HAD initially expressed a desire to drive to Cetona, and since I’d volunteered to make our travel arrangements, I’d already booked our ride. Much to his delight, it’s one of those
vintage Fiats—a convertible, no less. I have no problem driving a stick and those zippy little cars are economical and fun.
Nick takes one look at our tomato-red ride and smiles. “Sweet.”
After loading our luggage in the back, he cops the keys then holds the door as I settle in the passenger seat. Somewhere along the way, I accepted this man’s chivalrous ways as a pleasant norm. Or maybe I’m too exhausted to resist. At least my stomach is no longer churning.
Soon after we’re tooling northeast with the top down. It’s a beautiful morning. I revel in the fresh air, pulling my curls into a ponytail to keep them from thrashing my face. Like Nick, I slide on sunglasses.
He dials up the radio.
I don’t speak fluent Italian so I don’t understand the lyrics. Melodies, however, are universal, and this one’s an earworm. The second time through the chorus Nick’s humming along and my insides go squishy.
His voice is rich. His profile’s to die for. And his confidence as he navigates the autostrada is mesmerizing. Even though I’m travel-weary and desperate for a shower, I feel somewhat revived.
Clearly Nick’s not up for conversation and I’m not the sort who’s adverse to silence. I bask in the sunshine and admire the glorious countryside. I think about how lucky I am. How lucky I’ve been. Visiting and experiencing various and multiple landscapes and cultures was not only my job as a travel show host, but my pleasure.
Mingling with Peruvian villagers before ascending the Andes and marveling at the clustered ruins of Machu Picchu.
Exploring bewitching monuments of ancient Greece, then feasting with the colorful locals.
I flash on the poppy, lavender, and sunflower fields of Provence.
The icy-blue tidewater glaciers of Prince William Sound.
I don’t have a favorite, but Italy ranks high and Tuscany even higher. As we make our way north into Umbria, I point out unique sites and share interesting facts. I can’t help myself. This region is rich in history and culture. There’s a lot to celebrate.
Nick doesn’t say much. Mostly he listens. If my travel commentary is annoying he doesn’t let on.
As time crawls, I’m increasingly aware of two, no, three things. A more intense and somber side of Nick. My unspoken, sexually amped attraction to Nick. And Nick’s compulsion to check his phone messages.
His intensity while texting is what strikes me the most. Or maybe he’s e-mailing. I’m not sure. It’s none of my business and yet I wonder. Who’s demanding his attention and why do I care?
So what if it’s another woman?
We’re not a real thing. We’re a pretend thing. I’m a weekend wife. A convenient acquaintance with modest acting skills.
Still.
An hour into our drive I spy one of the world’s locations that is closest to my heart. A medieval town sitting high above the valley atop a big chunk of volcanic stone. It overlooks picturesque valleys and slopes ripe with cypress trees, olive groves, and never-ending vineyards.
This region is famous for its exclusive wines and truffle pasta. My mouth waters just thinking about a glass of Orvieto Classico and a sampling of bruschetta topped with truffle paste. The culinary wonders of Italy excite me almost as much as the architectural and artistic marvels.
“Orvieto,” I say over my grumbling stomach. “One of the most dramatic and interesting sites in Europe.” Unable to help myself, I list several of the things I adore about the historic city, including the food.
Just when I think he isn’t paying attention, Nick takes a detour. “Sounds like a place I need to see.”
Chapter 15
I SHOW NICK the complimentary park and ride lot on the valley floor in the newer section of Orvieto. “They discourage traffic in the old town.” I point out the cable car near the train station. “We’ll take the funicular up.”
“Let’s book a room,” he says. “Grab a shower. You can give me the grand tour then we’ll play it by ear. I vote for dinner and a solid night’s sleep.”
His game plan’s wonky considering we’re less than an hour from our destination. “We can shower and sleep after we reach Cetona. Your grandmother’s expecting us.”
“I’ll give her a call and square things. Tomorrow’s soon enough.”
I gawk as he slides out of the car, phone in hand. Not that I mind revisiting magical Orvieto. Also the additional private time with Nick will allow me to garner more details about his past before we greet his grandmother. But he wants to spend the night? I thought he wanted closure with his grandmother pronto.
I decide not to argue. This is his party, not mine. But I know if we were visiting my parents, I’d prefer a quick in and out.
Allowing him privacy, I pull up a search engine on my phone and scout hotels. It doesn’t take long to find accommodations. I swing out of the car just as Nick ends his call.
“If it makes you feel better,” he says, “My grandmother totally gets why newlyweds would want to spend their first night in Italy alone.”
Newlyweds. Hotel. My stomach flutters with girly butterflies.
After a short rail ride up the cliff, we’re standing at the front desk of a hotel in the historic center of town, a stone’s throw from one of Italy’s most remarkable cathedrals.
Nick introduces me as his wife. The word “honeymoon” flows out of his mouth and suddenly my legs go wobbly.
I tell myself I’m not seriously weak in the knees at the thought of sharing a bed with this man. It’s merely a symptom of jet lag.
I snap out of my daze long enough to accept the enthusiastic “Congratulazioni!” from Signor Colombo. His English is far better than my Italian, but I manage a few courteous words in his native tongue before Nick graciously begs our leave.
Next thing I know I’m standing in a lovely, eclectic room, staring at a double bed.
“You go first,” Nick says.
After I drag my mind out of the gutter I realize he’s talking about the shower.
“I’ll be out on the terrace returning a couple of calls,” he says, then disappears.
Right.
I schlep myself into the bathroom, contemplating his very un-newlywed behavior. Why not seduce me into bed or join me in the shower?
Right now, I certainly wouldn’t mind being his weekend wife in every sense of the words.
Chapter 16
SHOWERED AND DRESSED in fresh clothes, we indulge in the crisp wine and the rustic bruschetta I’ve been craving along with a platter of cheeses. Umbrian appetizers are as satisfying to me as enthusiastic applause.
Lingering at an outdoor table of the small trattoria in the duomo piazza, Nick and I people watch while flirting with culinary nirvana. I sense he could sit here for hours, but I’m antsy—unhinged by my growing attraction to this man—so I’m pleased when he voices interest in the city’s highlights.
We start with the Orvieto Underground—a series of endless caves and tunnels used for millennia by locals for various purposes. After that we explore cobblestone alleys and charming shops, admiring the work of local artisans. All the while, I’m thinking this is the kind of adventure that revs me the most. Experiencing culture as opposed to hair-raising stunts.
And that, according to Ben, is why I fell out of favor with a younger demographic.
Only Nick doesn’t seem bored. He seems somewhat fascinated by the town’s cultural aspects. It fuels my enthusiasm as we move on to Duomo di Orvieto—a Gothic cathedral featuring an astonishing façade. A cathedral that stirs my soul.
Once inside, I fixate on Signorelli’s spectacular fresco of The Last Judgment. Majestic figures on a monumental scale. An apocalyptic masterpiece. Breathtaking and, at times, horrific.
Armed with pertinent details and in reverent awe, I spew narrative regarding this artist’s depiction of the end of the world.
As Nick and I turn to the third scene of the fresco—“The Resurrection of the Flesh”—my former thoughts of doom and gloom turn to the aspects of change and hope.
I
can’t explain the rush of adrenaline, the overwhelming emotions. I temper my reaction by gushing history. “Rumor has it, Michelangelo was so inspired by Signorelli’s fresco that it influenced his own work at the Sistine Chapel.”
As we leave the church and descend the stairs, I’m aware of the change of weather. Lower temps and cloudy skies. I’m also suddenly and embarrassingly conscious of my incessant talking. Pausing in the cobbled square, I palm my heated cheeks. “For the love of God, Nick. Tell me to shut up.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I’ve been talking nonstop for almost three hours. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Passion?” Nick narrows his eyes and studies me in a way that heightens my blush. “Television doesn’t do you justice, Meg. You’re fascinating. Electrifying. I don’t know why those studio execs let you go, but their loss. Epic loss.”
My heart bumps to my throat. For the first time since we left the room, I’m speechless.
Staring down at me with something close to adoration, Nick tucks wayward curls behind my ear.
My skin tingles.
Kiss me.
I’m paralyzed by his touch, his gaze. The anticipation…
I have no problem being the aggressor. So what’s holding me back?
Fear of rejection? Fear of fumbling?
The wind whips and thunder rumbles, accelerating my erratic pulse.
“Are you hungry?” Nick asks.
It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about dinner. The window for kissing, instinctively, naturally, is closed.
“Sure,” I lie. Food is the last thing on my mind.
Chapter 17
I COULD HAVE steered us to one of the two incredible trattorias I dined at as part of my working on Epic Adventure, but I’m 99 percent sure the staff would remember me. I don’t want the focus on me (a rarity). I want to focus on Nick.
