Chapter 14

I haven't seenLorenzo since the storm two days ago. I've looked for him around the farm, but decided it's foolish of me to indulge in a one-sided obsession with my boss. But every time the bell above the door rings, I can't help but hope it's him. It's been ages since I've had a crush like this. I haven't even kissed the man, but I'm obsessed with his scent, his smile, and the sound of his voice. I'm a lovesick fool and it's pathetic.

I'm finishing up with a group of American tourists who keep raving about the fresh-pressed olive oil and how they'll have to make a trip back next year to pick and press their own.

"Have you done it yet, Summer?" Kira, the bubbly brunette from Georgia, asks me. "We didn't get to press olives, but we got to try some right out of the stainless-steel vats. It was incredible."

"No, I haven't had a chance to see the mill yet. We've been so busy with tastings and tours." I smile and slice more fresh-baked bread for them. It's nice to talk to people from the States. I didn't realize how much I missed the connection of familiarity. Everyone in Italy has been incredibly kind, but hearing an American accent is oddly comforting.

"Well, make a point of getting over there. It's so much fun."

I smile, dishing out some olive tapenade for them. "I will."

"Chuck, we need to buy a vat of this stuff!" Kira shouts to her husband, who holds up two fingers to me. I giggle and write down their order.

After chatting with them a bit longer, I walk their group over to the gift shop and convince them to stay for a late lunch, because Fiore's cooking is out of this world. I decide to head over to the mill on my break, and Stella happily gives me directions. I choose to walk instead of taking a golf cart, enjoying the late-afternoon breeze.

The air is cool and earthy as I enter an old stone building flagged with terracotta floors and bricked archways. There's a large stone fireplace and an ancient-looking round contraption of wood and stone that looks like a firepit with a crank handle and press. This equipment looks antique. I can't imagine this old stone wheel cranking out thousands of bottles of olive oil. I bend down and pick up an old woven basket.

"Looking for something, randagia?"

I pop up at the sound of his voice, my heart pounding at being caught snooping. "Jesus, you're like a ninja."

He shakes his head and grins. "I'll be sure to announce myself next time. Do you need something?"

"I was looking for the mill, but I have a feeling this isn't it."

He rubs his hand along his jaw, his eyes dancing. "Well, this used to be the mill. The donkey would walk in a circle, turning the stone that would grind the olives to a pulp. But when he died, we upgraded."

I look back at the mill. "Poor donkey," I whisper.

"Don't worry, that donkey was spoiled rotten by Nonno Rossi and did not die tragically walking in circles here. He was retired out to the pastures where he lived out many years under the blue Tuscan skies. We still have his descendants out in the back paddock." He winks at me, causing my heart to do double-time. "I can show you the new and improved mill."

"Oh, I know you're busy. You can just point the way."

"No offense, Summer, but I can't have you wandering around the mill aimlessly. One of my guys will call me and tell me there's a bella ragazza Americana lost in the mill. I have some time."

My stomach does a quick flip over him calling me beautiful. "Thank you, that's very generous of you."

We walk outside of the old mill to a large contemporary warehouse behind the ancient stone building I saw on my first day here. He hasn't mentioned the storm and I'm beginning to wonder if the other night really was just a dream. A figment of my overzealous imagination. He's all business talking to me as if I were a stranger touring the facility. We step inside and he hands me a paper hairnet, jacket, and gloves. He puts on his own gear, and the jerk still looks hot as sin.

"Okay, so this is where we send the olives after they've been washed." He guides me over to a conveyor belt. "Once they're done here, they go into this machine called the melaxer, which crushes them and mixes the paste. Then it goes into a centrifuge where the oil is separated from the paste."

"Why aren't the machines running now?"

"Olives have to be pressed right after they're picked. We can't store the olives and press them whenever we want. They lose their flavor and antioxidants. This place is a hive of activity in the fall."

"But I thought you stored olives underneath?"

"Sí, we store those underneath the farmhouse for the tapenade and lower-grade oil. You were paying attention." Smiling, he places his hand on my lower back, guiding me over to a row of floor-to-ceiling stainless-steel drums. "This is where we store the olive oil." He grabs a glass and draws fresh olive oil, handing it to me. "Olio nuovo."

I take a sip of the golden-green liquid, and my eyes roll back in my head. "Wow, this is incredible. It's fruity, earthy, spicy, and…indescribable!"

Lorenzo laughs and takes the glass from me, taking a small sip. "Mmm, molto buono." He hands the glass back to me, his eyes sparkling. "I wish you could be here for harvest season. The farm is alive with excitement. Vieni, I want to show you what we use for tourists."

His fingers brush against mine as we pass by where they bottle and label the oil. A thrilling jolt makes my insides tingle. I stop and take a video to send to Cara, enthralled with how fast the bottles are labeled and capped. We enter another building which looks similar to the old stone building I first came upon. Following Lorenzo's lead, I rip off my paper hat, jacket, and gloves and stuff them in a trash can.

"This is where the tourists who have picked some olives come and press with a stone press machine."

"So, the whole donkey thing was just for show?"

"No, no, we used the donkey, but this replaced him, and then as we grew, the machinery in the main building replaced this. Fiore and I had the idea of olive-picking tours where you press and drink the oil you harvested. That's usually in late August to September before it gets busy here."

I run my hand along the cold stone wheel and marvel over the history of this place. "Grazie, Lorenzo, for showing me all of this."

"Grazie, Summer, for wanting to learn about it." He lifts my hand, threading his fingers with mine. My breath catches at the intimate gesture, but I don't pull away. Relief floods through me. The other night was real. I try to quickly conjure up a pros and cons list in my head for having an Italian summer fling with Lorenzo Rossi, but I'm struggling to piece anything together.

All reasoning goes right out the window when he steps closer, his hand sliding to my waist. I'm positive he can hear my heartbeat thudding against my ribcage. He places the hand he was holding on to his shoulder and my fingers automatically slide into the silky hair at his nape. His hazel eyes turn to smoke, his lip curling into a sexy grin. I can barely breathe, my head spinning from our proximity.

"Summer, voglio baciarti."

"I…I don't know what that means," I stutter, desire racing through my blood. My tongue darts out to wet my lips.

"Voglio baciarti…I want to kiss you."

Hell yes, I want him to kiss me. It takes all my self-control not to rip his shirt off and pull him to me. My eyes close and my breath hitches in anticipation. His warm breath skates over my lips before his nose glides along my jaw. It's deliciously torturous. I arch into him, tilting my head, granting him better access. But the kiss doesn't happen. His lips never touch my skin. I open my eyes, my toes curled in anticipation.

His jaw clenches and his hands squeeze my waist as if he's fighting some internal battle to contain himself from ripping off my dress. Permission granted, Ren. Rip this sucker off.

"Il tuo profumo mi fa impazzire," he whispers next to my ear. His lips skim my neck and I shiver. I'm in serious trouble if this man is driving me wild with just a puff of breath along my skin and some Italian words. Hell, he's barely touched me, and I'm calculating how fast he can sit me up on the ledge of this stone press and have his wicked way with me.

Lorenzo's phone buzzes, and he growls in response. He drops his hands from my waist and takes a step back, pulling it from his pocket. My body screams in protest and my chest heaves, like I just sprinted for the last gelato cone at the stand. His molten stare burns a hole right through my panties while he says something rapidly in Italian to the person on the line.

He shakes his head, driving his fingers through his hair before hanging up. He takes a deep breath and turns from me. "I'm sorry, Summer, that shouldn't have happened. Mi dispiace, I don't know what came over me."

"Oh…" It's all I can manage as disappointment strangles any last vestiges of simmering desire.

"I'll walk you back." He smiles, but it's perfunctory. Something's off. The hunger I saw in his eyes a few minutes ago is replaced with cold disinterest.

I hang back, my fist rubbing over my chest. "Um, Ren? What was that…I mean, what the hell just—?" I point between us.

His cheeks flush adorably, and he hangs his head sheepishly, stuffing his hands in his trousers. "Mi hai stregato."

"English please."

His eyes meet mine, and they are liquid smoke. "You bewitch me, Summer Andrews, but I shouldn't have done that. I got carried away at the one place I'm supposed to be in total control. Being CEO of Rossi Olive Oil is my priority, and I lost focus for a moment. I'm sorry."

"I…bewitch you?" I want to kick myself for sounding so breathless. I bewitch him? He was right to stop whatever was about to happen between us. He's my boss and we're out in public where anyone could have walked in on us. But I can't help the looney smile from spreading across my face.

I, Summer Andrews, have put the oh-so-hot Lorenzo Rossi under a spell. I am a bewitching badass.

He takes my hand and leads me out of the mill. "Come on. Nina will be pacing, wondering where you are."

"I doubt that. She's probably hoping I'll get lost in the olive grove and can't find my way out."

"She'll soften, randagia. She's just trying to throw her weight around since you're new."

"Hmm, maybe." We walk in silence for a moment. "Can I ask a favor?"

"Of course, anything."

"Can you find another name for me besides randagia? It just doesn't seem very…um, friendly."

"Are we friends now?"

I glance over and the glint in his eye is teasing. He squeezes my hand.

"Well, we've spooned during a thunderstorm…" And you mauled me with your sexy eyes a minute ago. I shrug as heat crawls up my neck, feeling vulnerable under his stare.

"Siamo amici."

"Siamo amici." I test the words out as they roll over my tongue. We're friends. I should be happy he said them, but the little butterfly fluttering around in my stomach back in the old mill breaks a wing and takes a sudden nosedive. I'm so confused. Does he want to be friends or more? What do I want? I think I want more, but I want him to be all-in with me.

"What should I call you, then?" he asks, pulling me out of my funk.

"Huh?"

"You said you don't want me to call you randagia. You need an Italian nickname. What should I call you?"

"Hmm…how about something feminine and pretty, like rainbow or moonbeam?"

"I'll think of something." He chuckles. "Let's go this way. I want to show you one more thing." We veer to the left down into a grove of olive trees.

"I was kidding about getting lost in the trees, you know."

He lets go of my hand, and I immediately miss the connection. He steps up to a gnarled tree, the trunk twisted and aged. "See this tree? It was the first tree planted on Rossi Farms. It's over four hundred years old."

"Really? That's incredible it's survived so long." I run my hand along the gnarled wooden trunk. "Imagine what it has seen in those four hundred years."

"Sí. I come and sit under this tree when I need to think, or I'm having a bad day. Its ancient wisdom brings me solace." He peers up into the leaves, lost in his thoughts.

"It's beautiful, Ren. I hope it lives for four hundred more."

"Under my care, it will," he says wistfully, taking my hand and threading my fingers with his as we stand under the canopy of the tree. Late-afternoon sun dapples through the silver-green leaves, kissing our skin with sun and shadow. He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, a tender expression in his eyes. I want him to kiss me, but he just smiles and leads me out of the grove. I kick myself for letting my heart go there. Siamo amici after all.