Page 45 of Drive Me Crazy
“God, I’m jealous,” she says when I turn the camera back on my own face. “Eating gelato, drinking wine like it’s water, drooling over Italian men. You’re doing all my favorite things without me!”
“I’ll try to have a miserable time while doing them,” I tease. “Don’t worry.”
“Is one of the things you’re doing a private tour of Blake’s naked body?”
Poppy’s not shy about letting me know I should get rid of my qualms regarding casual, meaningless sex and follow the instructions of the customized condoms: ride a driver.
“Nope! My tour guide couldn’t fit that in today’s list of activities.” I pause before waggling my eyebrows. “Although we did have an interesting night together.”
The scream that filters through my earbuds temporarily deafens me. I may be the journalist, but Poppy starts asking questions like she’s fucking Diane Sawyer.Ugh.I meet her dissecting gaze with a glare, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.
“You had a chance to seduce Blake and you slept in a men’s extra-large sweatshirt,” Poppy states with a groan. “What is wrong with you?”
“Idon’t own lingerie.” I roll my eyes. “And even if I did, I wouldn’t have worn it. I’m not trying to sleep with him, Pop.”
“You’re unbelievably stubborn.” She shakes her head at me. Being scolded by Poppy, even through a phone, is never fun. “And you’re saying Blake cooking for you in one of the most romantic cities in the world isn’t a date? You spend pretty much every day together whether you’re working or not, Ella. It’s definitely a date.”
I’m seriously regretting ever telling her about our “deal.”
“He’s only cooking for me if I can keep my cool during the race,” I huff. “It’s purely platonic.”
Blake has no way to check if I’m nervous or not while he’s racing, which kind of makes it seem more like a date, but nope, not going there.
“I need more platonic friends like yours, then. None of mine offer to make me dinner or willingly travel to tourist traps in every city.”
She’s got a point, but I refuse to let her inside my head. If I can sleep in a bed with Blake without anything sexual happening, I’m sure I can handle a dinner with him.
TWENTY
Ella
BLAKE not only places first in Italy, but he beats his own fastest lap time. I worry the entire race, but how’s he supposed to know that when he’s driving 250 mph on the circuit and I’m watching from the comfort of the pit garage? As far as he knows, I was cool as a cucumber. It looks like we both won.
I know it’s not an official date, even though it sort of may be, but knowing this still doesn’t do much to calm the butterflies having a rave in my stomach. And when he opens the door to his car for me and tells me I look beautiful, the butterflies decide to snort cocaine or something because they are losing their fucking minds.
I spend the drive with my face pressed up against the window, taking in the rolling hills dotted with cypress trees and vineyards. Thirty-five minutes later, we pull up in front of a rustic villa. It’s exactly the type of home you imagine in the Italian countryside—exposed stone walls interrupted by pietra serena frames, a classic terracotta roof, and lush gardens over-looking a never-ending sea of towering trees.
Blake seems pleased by my reaction. “Pretty, right?”
Pretty is the absolute bare minimum of how I’d describethis place. I step out of the car and slowly turn, taking in my surroundings. “Who lives here?”
“You know Rossi? The pasta?”
I manage a brief nod. Everyone knows Rossi Pasta. It lines the shelves at every grocery store boasting its claim of being the number one Italian pasta and ready-to-eat sauce brand. As much as I’d love to say I handmake my pasta, let’s be real; waiting for the water to boil takes enough time as it is. I’ve been using Rossi spaghetti for as long as I can remember.
“Their grandson lives here,” he says casually.
“Okay.” I’m still confused, which Blake seems to be thoroughly enjoying. “And we’re doing what here?”
“We’re having dinner.” Everything about his voice saysduh.
“But I thought you were cooking.”
“I am.” He grins in not-so-secret triumph. “I’m just getting a little help.”
Cool, cool, cool.So, apparently, the heir of Rossi pasta is helping him cook me dinner. That’s completely unexpected, but somehow very on-brand for Blake.
As if on cue, a man in his mid-thirties comes out the door with arms wide open. His longish black hair is slicked back, he sports a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and his olive-colored skin is sun-kissed. Everything about him screams that he enjoys the finer things in life, as would I if I had enough money to live in an Italian castle.
