As we drive along the two-lane road in a sweet red convertible, I let go of any reservations as the dry wind cuts through the car. My hair flows freely around my face, creating an insane mess. In true Tuscan style, Giovanni's relatives are surrounded by color. The rolling hills of vibrant green, dozens of flora scattered along the sides of the road, stalks of harvesting corn, houses, and villas that blend in with the blue sky or the endless towering olive trees.

I've never seen anything like it, other than in movies. I always imagined they'd played up the splendor, trying to attract tourism with big, showy movies. However, it's all true to life.

I'm unable to conceal my disbelief, my wonder, as we pass by the wide countryside, having already made it out of the crowded town. I listen eagerly as Giovanni's cousins fill me in on the history of their neighbors, constantly corrected by Giovanni, who seems to know more about the history than either of them.

"You have to make a trip to one of the beaches before you leave," Marco says, only one hand on the wheel as he takes a curve, his head turned towards us. I can't help but eye the road worriedly– and I live in New York, so that's saying something.

"There are no beaches near. That would be an overnight trip," Giovanni says, comfortably easing his slender fingers between my own. "Scar, what do you think? You up for a trip, or do you want to stay?"

"I'm down for anything, whatever you want to show me."

With a sudden sharp turn, we're suddenly on a paved road, blocked by a high gate, crazed with gorgeous overgrown vines and flower weeds. I smile, realizing it's the same one in Giovanni's photo. We're here.

Luca jumps over the car door without opening it, running to the gate to pull them open. When we drive through, dropping a few inches onto a dirt road, we're shaded by perfect columns of trees on either side of us. The branches, packed full of leaves, extend strangely over the driveway.

I'm positive my face is splitting stupidly in awe. I don't even try to conceal it when Giovanni helps me from the car. My gaze is on the large olive green villa overlooking an angelic landscape. The second floor has a panoramic terrace, and that is where a woman stands, waving down at us.

"Giovanni!"

Giovanni grins, squinting up at the woman's flailing arms. She immediately disappears from sight. "Zia!"

When she emerges from the wide double door entrance, I smile wider, shocked to discover that I pictured her perfectly. She's younger than Giovanni's mother and dressed head to toe in pastel tie-dye. Her pants flow against her small frame as she jumps down the steps and into Giovanni's arms. Marco and Luca grab our bags, taking them around the villa to where I'm guessing the apartment Giovanni spoke of is.

Her long, black hair hangs down to her waist, so black it's nearly blue. The straw hat she was wearing is now on the ground. She pulls back, pressing kisses to Giovanni's cheeks, and I marvel at how many features they have in common.

"Zia, Zia, this is Scarlett."

She lets go of his cheeks, twisting to me. She smiles brightly, her eyes crinkling, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

"The famous girl," she says, with a thick accent. "I hoped I'd get to meet you one day. It's a rare thing you did, getting my nephew to land that steamy kiss in front of everyone."

"I take no credit for that. That was his idea," I reply, shocked when she leans in, embracing me tightly. Giovanni chuckles, gazing at us fondly when we ease back.

"Well, you are something then. He is rarely so open, my nephew."

Giovanni flicks his head to me. "She's even less so, so don't expect to give her a rundown."

Her lips curve. "You forget you're here for a week."

I hear my chuckle strain with theirs, nervously. Rundown?

"Don't be fearful, darling," she hums, wrapping an arm around my waist to usher me inside. I glance at Giovanni, who is trying hard not to laugh. "You are very pretty. Giovanni, she's very pretty."

"I know," he replies, definitely laughing now.

Marco and Luca reappear. "Your bags are in the apartment, cugino."

"I'm sure you're exhausted from your trip. We can chat later," Maria says, clasping her hands together. I think it's the only way she won't reach out and touch Giovanni. She clearly adores him.

"It's nice to meet you." My farewell is polite but weak as Giovanni guides me out of the doorway into the foyer. There are two staircases curved up to the second floor, made of serene stone. The terracotta floors give the rustic charm you expect to see when traveling through Italy. We pass through, and I marvel at how many staterooms there are, how many hidden hallways. The kitchen, which is the width of two rooms in one, has its own fireplace. The walls are decorated in colorful tiles; the counters lined up with fragrant spices.

There is someone cooking over the stove. They are wearing a uniform, so I'm guessing they have been hired to cook.

"Ciao," Giovanni says when the woman turns to us as we pass.

"Ciao."

The rooms are complemented by rich furnishings, the interior walls decorated in vibrant wallpapers. No wonder Giovanni is enamored by this place. There isn't a thing in New York that could hold a candle to it.

We exit onto a ground terrace, and the smell of meat roasting wafts around us as we move through the set of patio tables and chairs, headed toward a pool of crystal clear water. The scent makes sense when I notice someone cooking over a big grill.

"Do you like it?"

I actually sputter before admitting anything coherent. "This is magical."

We come upon a pathway, and a small apartment on stilts is at the end of it. It's the same color as the villa, perfectly unkempt. My sandals make crinkle sounds against the leaves as we gravitate toward the stairs. The moment Giovanni opens the door, I'm bone-weary tired, my adrenaline plummeting. He encloses us in the A/C, and I hear a large sigh come from him.

"I don't think I've ever been so tired."

I smile, already removing my shoes and plane clothes as I take in this loft's sweet comparisons to the main house. Every room in the apartment is connected by garden doors framed by white-wash wood. The rooms fragrantly smell of fresh flowers, as they are placed in vases– everywhere.

My head shakes. "I mean, has there been anything as beautiful as this place? I don't think so."

The corner of his mouth lifts as he unbuttons his shirt. "I can think of something."

I look at him pointedly. "You're funny, Giovanni. So funny."

He grins and removes his shirt, dropping the material onto a chair, and begins toward me, earning my undivided attention. A chuckle leaves my lips.

"Funny? I'm funny?"

My face is on fire. "If you're comparing my looks to that of the Italian countryside, yes."

"Come here."

"You're forgetting what you said when we met. What was it? 'You've got to be kidding me?'"

Both of our grins mirror each other. "I recall asking you to have lunch nearly right after that."

"Yeah, but that was only after I won you over with my clever speech."

"You called me out on my bullshit," he recalls, placing both hands on my cheeks. His dark eyes move over my face. "I remember I wanted to fuck you into the next day– and then some."

My cheeks have to be burning his palms. "Is that so?"

He nods, pressing his lips together. When his thumb begins to trace my features, his gaze drifting into a harder, more intense expression, the air between us shifts out of its playful nature.

My breath hitches against his thumb as he moves against my lip slowly. He's barely touched me, we haven't slept in God knows how long, and yet, I'm shivering beneath his touch.

"Do you want to know what you've done to me?" he whispers, heat in his voice. All I can do is nod lamely. I've lost all sense of humor.

"I walk through rooms of naked women and don't see them. I spend my days, nearly every minute, thinking about you. I do it so much that even my clothing has begun to mirror you... You've removed the possibility of anyone else, Scarlett."

I reach up, clasping onto his forearms weakly. My heart has doubled in size, now excruciatingly tight against my chest as he traces the lines and dips of my face. Even with my eyes closed, I feel his gaze just inches away.

"You don't need to be compared to anything." His fingers have stopped their tracing. My eyes reopen with a delicate reluctance. I'm stunned by what I see in his eyes. "You shouldn't be because there is nothing that can compare to you. You are everything."

There's nothing to say. I don't think I could even if I even tried.

I'm on the tips of my toes, and my mouth finds his within seconds, desperate with a need for him that never dulls. His grip tightens, his mouth seeking mine with just as much vigor. I throw my arms around him, gasping loudly against his lips as he heaves me off my feet into the air.

And just like that, sleep is a secondary thought.