Page 44 of Drive Me Crazy
He laughs, clasping his hands under his head, looking casually comfortable and incredibly irresistible. “How’d you sleep?”
“Besides your boner poking my back every other hour? Fantastically.”
He has the decency to look mildly embarrassed until I canno longer keep a straight face. He throws a pillow at me, missing by a solid two feet.
“You look hot,” Blake comments, raising his eyebrows.
Heat travels from my head to my toes. “Uh … what?”
“Your sweatshirt,” he clarifies with a flick of his hand. “Isn’t it making you warm?”
Oh. Of course. My sweatshirt, not me. I shrug. “Not really.”
Blake squints as he gives me a once-over. I wish I could disappear into the fabric. “You’re almost drowning in that thing, love.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my sweatshirt. “It’s comfortable.”
Blake nods and I take the pause in conversation to change the topic. “How do you feel?”
His voice is raspy and tired. “Like I got hit by a car.”
“Too soon.” I peer at him to make sure there are no obvious injuries. “I’m already nervous enough about the Monza circuit.”
The thought of him crashing like that, waiting helplessly as the safety car comes to rescue him … nope. Not something I want to see again anytime soon.
“How about we make a deal?” He looks positively beside himself, like he’s just had a stroke of genius. “If you don’t stress about Italy, and I mean it, not even a line of worry on your forehead, I’ll … cook for you.”
I’ve never gotten Botox before, but I’m wondering if there’s anywhere close by that can take me for a last-minute appointment. Not a line of worry? My forehead’s going to look like a fucking maze with all the worry lines. I also don’t even know if Blake can cook. He has a full-time chef, for God’s sake. His idea of cooking could mean heating up a frozen pizza or making boxed mac and cheese—both of which are perfectly acceptable, but not for this kind of deal.
Isigh dramatically. “What kind of food?”
“I’ll cook you an Italian feast,” he decides, clapping his hands together.
“Okay, love the enthusiasm here,” I say slowly. “And not to burst your bubble or anything, but I feel like maybe we should eat Italian food cooked by, I don’t know, Italian people in Italy?”
Blake points to the door. “I’m kicking you out.”
I stick my tongue out. “Fine! An Italian feast in Italy.”
All I have to do is stay chill in Monza, hope that Blake doesn’t spin out in his car again, and he’ll cook me dinner. I can do that. I can at leasttryto do that.Hopefully.
JOSIE and I drive the thirty minutes from Monza to Milan and spend the morning at the Pinacoteca di Brera, one of Italy’s renowned galleries. I’ve never been huge on art. Blake’s blue painting that cost an arm and a leg is a perfect example. Why isthatconsidered art? It’s not that I don’t respect it, but I don’t necessarily understand it. Neither does Josie, so we decide to do a guided tour.
“It’s larger than I expected,” Jos whispers as we circle a marble statue of Napoleon Bonaparte.
I stifle a laugh behind my hand. “Poor guy kickstarted the Napoleon complex when he could’ve originated big dick energy instead.”
We walk around for another hour before splitting up. Josie has meetings all afternoon, but I stay in Milan to do some more exploring. I find myself at the nearby Brera Botanical Garden. Located behind the austere Palazzo di Brera, it offers a slice of peace and quiet in an otherwise bumbling city. I FaceTime Poppy while I relax on one of the benches over-looking the garden.
Ican hear cars honking outside her 35th Street apartment the second she answers.
“Elly Bean!” Poppy greets me with a raspy voice. She sounds just as hungover as she looks with her black hair in a messy bun and last night’s lipstick staining her mouth.
“Hello to you, too, Popcorn.”
She laughs, snuggling into her comforter. “Where are you today?”
Flipping my camera so she can see my view, I smile at her appreciative “oohs” and “aahs.” Each place I’ve traveled to with McAllister has gorgeous views worthy of one of the many postcards Blake sends.
