I don't even have to ask him again if I can drive; Seb just opens the car door and nods for me to slip behind the wheel after we leave the restaurant. Considering the slight downturn in our lunchtime conversation after I'd brought up my biological parents, he may be feeling a little guilty. While that was never my intention, what am I going to do? Refuse to take the Maserati for a spin? Hell to the no!

Traffic on the A1 highway leading up to Florence is sporadic, giving me the perfect chance to test this beast's limits (and break multiple road rules in the process). After tapping the paddle shifter into the sixth—and final—gear, I punch the gas. I catch sight of the digital speedometer: two hundred and thirty kilometers per hour and still rising.

Holy crap. The ride is so smooth I didn't think we were going so fast. The landscape passes by in a blur, and I scale it back to just above the legal limit of one thirty. Speed like this is dangerous enough on a closed track, let alone on an open highway where any idiot could pull out in front of me.

Seb doesn't make a peep even when I occasionally floor it again, only bracing his arms against the dashboard in a silent plea for me to dial it back. It's the most fun I've had on four wheels in a while, and we're also making great time—thirty minutes ahead of schedule per the GPS—until we exit toward Barberino onto a rural highway.

Rural is probably a misnomer in European standards, given the smooth surface and clear markings. The Italian infrastructure even in out-of-the-way spots like this is probably better than in many major American cities. The single lane in either direction does make speeding more difficult, but I overtake every chance I have. As we near our destination, I eventually get stuck behind a wide, agricultural harvester in a no-passing zone.

"This is not good," Seb says, pointing outside his window. There, a freshly plowed field is covered in dozens of large, black birds. "Crows mean bad luck."

I scoff. My teammate is apparently a little old lady. I wonder if he also has a rabbit's foot or if he avoids the number thirteen. "Or maybe it just means they're being resourceful and looking for worms the machines just turned up. Anyway, I didn't realize you were so superstitious."

"I am not. It is just something my grandmother used to say." He shrugs.

Oh, great. Are we about to head into dead relative territory again? I'm afraid to ask.

"Well, I won't argue either way since I can't even tell the difference between a crow and a raven," I admit.

"Ravens are more big, and they fly alone or in pairs. Crows like groups," he says.

"Well, aren't you a useful source of odd facts?" I tease. "Tell me something else interesting."

"In general or about myself?" he asks.

I would have been okay with general, but if he's offering . . .. "Yourself, of course."

He pauses, and then sighs as if preparing to reveal a big secret. "I like cats more than dogs."

"Me too!" I exclaim. It's usually an unpopular opinion, so it's great to finally find someone who thinks the same. "Any particular reason?"

"A dog bite me when I was four." He points to the center of his upper lip and leans closer. "See? It was a small, stupid dog, too. Not serious, but . . . I don't know." He shrugs again, dismissing the event that left a barely visible scar.

"It was apparently enough to hold a grudge for fifteen years," I say, turning my attention back to the road, but nothing has changed. We're still staring at the business end of the huge-ass farm equipment.

Seb laughs. "Yes."

"That's hard core. Remind me not to ever make you mad at me." I turn onto a tree-lined side road as the GPS instructs, finally having a clear road again.

"Only if you bite me." Seb pauses, his lips turning into a mischievous grin when I glance at him. "But maybe that would be okay," he mumbles a little more quietly.

A rush of warmth spreads from my chest to the rest of my body as I remember that kiss in the Coliseum. I could be down with some biting.

My face flushes as my—excitement, surprise, or happiness, even—reaches my cheeks. I'm tempted to just pull over and take him up on his offer, but there's another car behind us. So we do the next best thing: continue to act like middle schoolers and awkwardly scope each other out from the corner of our eyes until a Tuscan farmhouse with a red terra-cotta roof comes into view.

"We are here," Seb says as we reach the looming brick building that's almost castle-like with its turrets and parapets.

"This is our hotel?" I ask. Even if it wasn't actually built in medieval times, it definitely looks like it could have been.

"Yes. There are many places like this in the area. Agroturismo," he says as we approach the end of the driveway.

"Viva l'Italia. I'm not sure I'd want to leave," I say. "Remind me to thank whoever—"

"Merda!" Seb cuts me off, and if there's something my growing Italian vocabulary doesn't lack, it's curse words. This is one of the better ones, so he's definitely upset about something.

"What's wrong?" I ask, pulling into an unmarked parking spot next to a black Range Rover.

He shakes his head with a frown and points outside his window. "I know this car."

I shut off the engine. "Oh, yeah? Who . . .?" I don't finish. I don't have to. A man who looks just like my teammate, but about twenty or so years older steps out the front door.

"Come," Seb says, already getting out.

"Sebi!" his father yells, embracing him as the two meet half way. "You do not look happy to see me."

"Hai detto che saresti qui giovedì," Seb responds in Italian.

"Giovedi? Abbiamo detto lunedì." His dad also switches languages, but I catch the words for Monday and Thursday, so I'm guessing they're discussing why we thought they'd only be coming later in the week.

"He never listens to anything we say." The elder Bianchi slaps his son on the back one more time and addresses me as I join them. Holding out his hand, he smiles. "I am Rafael. And you are Lauren?"

"Yes. It's great to finally meet you," I say, a little bit weirded-out by how much he looks like his son. Or rather, how much Seb looks like him. While Rafael's dark blonde stubble is peppered with gray, his ice-blue eyes—and his buff build—are equally youthful. From far away, they could be brothers.

"You, as well. And I see my son even let you drive his car? Not even Nadia get this honor," he says looking at Seb, and I swear my teammate's face lightens by two shades of tan.

Nadia? I only know one Nadia, and if she and Seb—

"Ciao, Mamma." Seb greets his mom as she also exits the hotel, and for better or worse, I don't finish that thought, either.

I don't know what I expected from Mom OfSeb, but what I get is a Mediterranean Audrey Hepburn, complete with oversized, designer sunglasses and slicked-back hair in an elegant bun. Rail thin and impeccably dressed—black jeans, tight t-shirt and fitted blazer—she oozes confidence and authority. I wonder if it comes naturally or if it has anything to do with her background in acting.

When she makes it to me, I have to wipe the sweat from my free palm (in the other, I'm still clutching my newly acquired jar of persimmon jam) on my dress before shaking hands. "Hello, Mrs. Bianchi."

"Gabriella per favore," she says, pushing her shades up with a smile, and my heart melts. Seb was right. He does have his mother's mouth. "You come with us to an early dinner, no?"

"We just eat, Mamma," Seb says as he goes to get our bags from the trunk, and I've never been so sorry to have to decline an invitation. These two beautiful people are responsible for creating the guy who's quickly becoming my most favorite human ever, and I bet they're just as fascinating as they appear.

Gabriella looks at me for confirmation, but as much as I'd like to accept, I don't want to go against Seb. "Yeah, sorry. We'll definitely talk later this week, okay? It was so great to finally meet you both." I barely get to say goodbye before Seb is pushing me toward the entry door.

"So, do you want to tell me about Nadia?" I ask as we step into the lobby, unsure if I really want to know.

"Not really." He adjusts the oversized duffel on his shoulder. "Anyway, I thought she already tell you since you are friends."

I almost laugh at the assumption. We've spoken twice, tops. "We're not exactly friends."

Stopping at the small reception desk, Seb asks for our rooms. Luckily, Nigel and Nicola have pre-emptively checked us all in so the woman quickly hands him two iron keys dangling from wooden tabs. One reads two hundred two, the other two hundred fifteen.

Seb passes me a key, but I'm still waiting for an answer so I give him a nod to go on.

"There is very little to the story," he says, heading for the stairs.

Now I really want to know. "Can I be the judge of that?" I ask.

He sighs as we climb the steps to the second level. "Nadia had a marketing internship last year for Vasteras team. That is how we meet. We got together, and it was okay. At the end of the season in November, she go back to university in Tallin. When she returned in Spring after graduation, she was already with Reid."

"Wow. That's pretty shitty," I say as we get to the top, stopping in the hallway leading an equal distance in either direction. What Seb said back in Germany about Nadia picking her boyfriends based on how many wins they had suddenly takes on a new meaning.

Seb frowns. "It happens." Tilting his head to the right, he shrugs. "My room is this way."

I look at my key, but the number on the hand-carved tag is unchanged from what I'd remembered. "Yeah, and I'm down here."

As I walk to my room, it hits me.

No, not just the stream of sneezes that comes out of nowhere. I mean a realization that probably has been at the back of my mind for a while, but one that I haven't wanted to face.

Seb and I have no future together.

For one, I can't keep someone I truly care about a secret. But equally importantly, his bad on-track performance seems to line up with the timing of Nadia's disappearance from his life. Here I've been thinking my teammate improved after Austin left, but what if his fling with Nadia had been more serious than he cares to admit and that led to his issues in the first place? Their breakup and her quick rebound with another rider must have been a huge distraction, even if he plays it off as no big deal. And the last thing I want to do is mess up his comeback, even if it means going back to a state of quiet indifference we shared in those first few weeks.

It's the sensible, mature thing to do. So then why does it feel so wrong?