I wondered if I’d ever lose that giddy feeling that I got last night when he told me he loved me. It was something that we’d never said the first go around, but we knew it. I felt it in every fiber of me then and now. Maybe it was the universe throwing us back together as part of some cosmic plot, or perhaps I was just the luckiest person alive, but I was hell-bent on not making the same mistakes I did the first time.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked sleepily. His eyes remained closed, lips fighting back a grin. Leaning forward, I kissed the tip of his nose before pressing my lips to his.

“I’m wondering if it’s possible to love you more than I do right now.”

His hand slid down my back, over my rear, and squeezed. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“Your family is in the house,” I admonished, throwing my head back when his lips traced a path down my neck.

“Then you must be very quiet, tesoro . . .”

* * *

AFTER OUR SURPRISE MORNING TANGLE, he’d tried to get me to sneak into the shower with him. I’d firmly put my foot down on that one, already feeling guilty about doing the naughty in his family’s home. So while he showered, I explored the room I’d be staying in for the weekend.

I’d thought—in fact prepared myself ahead of time—that we wouldn’t be sharing a bedroom while we stayed with his family. Old Italian mother, severely Catholic—it didn’t take a genius to figure out that boy/girl cohabitation wasn’t going to fly. But that’s the thing about preconceived notions, you just never know when you’re going to be surprised. Marcello’s parents were very forward thinking—hip was the word his mother had used when she ushered us down the long central hall and into a large guest room after dinner. “You two, you sleep together here, si?” she’d said.

Blushing, I’d nodded, standing just behind and almost out of sight of Marcello, mortified that she knew what we’d likely be up to under her roof. Marcello laughed out loud as I stammered my good night to his mother, in my best broken Italian accent. Once she headed back down the hall, I’d yanked him inside and buried my red face in the nearest corner of the room.

When Marcello took advantage of this angle by standing directly behind me and wrapping his arms around me while placing wet, openmouthed kisses along the back of my neck, I’d quickly forgotten my embarrassment and let him pull me down into the mess of pillows.

Now, with a clearer head and Marcello and his roving hands safely half a house away in the shower, I looked around a bit. It was a beautiful room.

With a wide window overlooking the hillside below, a cozy yet comfortable bed piled high with pillows and a thick mattress, and soft plush rugs underfoot, it was heaven after a long night of eating, laughing, talking, drinking, and more eating. A heaven I’d sunk back into for a few more minutes of relaxed country snoozing when Marcello reappeared, somewhat dressed and still a bit damp from his shower.

“You should get dressed, Avery. The family leaves for the festival in thirty minutes,” he said, grabbing a shirt out of the closet. “And the games begin as soon as everyone is there.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said, smoothing his crisp white shirt over his shoulders. “It’s like the bocce game that I see the little old men play near the apartment back in Rome, but instead of balls, they play with discs of hard cheese?”

Nodding, he finished tying his black shoes. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, hair damp, and he seemed antsy, his leg bouncing nervously. He, along with one of his older brothers and some neighbors, were part of one of the six teams that would compete in the Piazza Pio in town. Dressed in black pants and the green-and-white scarf he was tying around his neck, he looked like he had stepped out of another time.

“I’m expecting some manly bouts of strength.”

“You will be disappointed. I will flex my muscles for you, though,” he teased, giving me a quick kiss and a swat on the behind as I scrambled out of bed, needing to get ready myself.

Twenty-five minutes later, hair swept back and body poured into a kelly-green summer dress, I was caught by a handsy Italian before we left the bedroom. Taking my hands, he pinned them over the door before sweeping me up in a kiss.

“What’s gotten into you? Not that I’m complaining, but it took me twenty minutes to cover up the love bites you left me yesterday.”

He rested his head in the crook of my shoulder. “Being here, at my family home with you . . . it means a lot.”

“To me, too,” I told him, cupping his face.

When we joined the others outside, the families were all piled into vans. We decided to take the Alfa because why the hell not. Winding Italian roads, hot Italian man, and incredible Italian car, no-brainer. Once on the road and following the others, I turned to him.

“Will you explain the festival now?”

He looked pleased that I’d asked. “It’s simple, traditional. The Il Gioco del Cacio al Fuso has been around for hundreds of years.

“The architect Rossellino rebuilt my town and designed the square as a dedication to Pope Pius. In the center, there is the brick pattern, with a design created with a ring of marble. At the core there is a spindle, and rings drawn around the bricks in chalk. Each ring is worth certain points. We roll the cheese wheel to try and win.”

“But why cheese?”

“Pienza is known for its pecorino. The game used to be played in yards as a pastime for peasant families, but then it became more of a town sport and celebration. Each section of the town participates. I hope you think it is fun.” He loved talking about it, and I enjoyed hearing him explain it. Not just because it was interesting to hear how modern-day families kept alive the old traditions, but because he got excited like a child with a new toy discussing it.