"Is this your car?" Lauren stops behind the silver Maserati when it automatically unlocks on our approach.

After walking past her, I pop the trunk. "Yes, unless I take someone else's keys by mistake this morning," I say, putting her bags next to mine.

When I look back, her smile gets even bigger than it already was. It's good she is a fan of my stupid jokes. "Can I drive?" she asks.

I should have seen that coming. "Not even all Italians can handle the traffic in Roma," I say, internally cringing at the thought of my practically-just-out-of-the-salon Alfieri getting as much as a scratch, while I go to open the car door for her.

She pouts a little—it's one of my favorite expressions from her—but silently follows, the soft fabric of her army green dress bouncing around her thighs. If that wasn't enough of a 'get a good look at what you can't have' middle finger from the universe, she has to squeeze past me to slide into the passenger seat thanks to the Opel parked on the line next to me. I swear to god she's doing it more deliberately than she has to, pressing her body against mine for a quick second while adjusting the ridiculously large, wool scarf around her neck.

Damn, she's pretty. Lauren really is a unicorn in a paddock full of stallions. The mental image makes me smile, and noticing, she pauses with one foot in the car.

"What?" she asks with a suspicious look.

I want to scoop her up in my arms so bad, but with my luck, Nicola would probably pop out from between two sedans and clock me with her mobile or something.

Pressing my lips together, I shake my head. "Nothing."

She shrugs and slips into the seat before swinging her long, tan legs—wrapped in high boots—inside. Only her bare knees are visible between the fabric and the leather.

"You can close the door now if you'd like," she says with a giggle.

Shit. Have I been staring?

Shutting the door, I walk around the back to the driver's side and adjust myself when I'm out view. Every. Damn. Time.

"So what did you want to talk about?" she asks when I get behind the wheel.

"Nothing. Everything. It was more to spend time with you. Is that okay?" I respond while starting the car.

"Oh, of course it is. But I thought maybe you also wanted to talk about yesterday," she says as the four hundred fifty horsepower engine roars to life.

Yesterday? Does she think we made a mistake by fooling around in those tunnels? Is there a need for us to talk to figure out how to get past it without things getting weird? I was just going to let things play out naturally—or however Lauren wanted—but if she thinks there is a need to talk . . ..

"Yesterday was nice," I say, easing into the conversation as I glance into the rear view mirror before looking back at her. She can take it from here, whichever way this is going to go.

Lauren wets her lips with the tip of her tongue and looks down at my mouth. "Yesterday was nice," she repeats quietly.

My hand freezes on the wheel. I don't think she regrets letting me kiss her. I think she may want to do it again. Well, I mean as long as there's no one around . . .. I lean in slowly, and Lauren starts to meet me half way. My heart is thumping in my ear, and there's only a small gap between us when another car pulls into the spot in front of me.

Fucking hell.

Lauren notices too because we both jump apart like someone threw a grenade between us.

"We go now?" I ask, begrudgingly putting the car into reverse before something else goes wrong.

Lauren laughs. "Yeah, we go now."

We don't talk again for a long time (how do you follow that up with random chit-chat), but I think Lauren's too focused on the scenery, anyway.

I've made this trip dozens of times, but even I still have a soft spot for the incredible landscape. There's something magical about how the Roman plains turn into the rolling Tuscan hills with their sky-high Mediterranean cypress trees and endless olive groves. From the highway, we can also see a bunch of centuries old towns with their fortified walls and distinctive bell towers. I wouldn't mind coming back with Lauren some day soon to explore their ancient secrets, and with the way she's pointing out every one of these places as we fly by at one-sixty kilometers per hour, she'd probably like that, too.

About two hours into the trip—just outside the town of Montepulciano—I pull into the packed-dirt lot in front of a trattoria. I know this place, too. It's part of a vineyard, and we have to duck through the gift shop filled with local wines, homemade pasta, and canned jams to get to the rustic, family-style restaurant in the back. I recommend just getting the day's lunch specials, and we sip sparkling water while we wait for the first course.

"What are those on the tree? Surely you don't have oranges here." Lauren eyes the round, bright fruits hanging between the brown leaves on the branches outside the window.

"No, that is cachi. Persimmons, I think you call them in English," I say, also looking out at the orchard. The temperature dipped as we made our way north, and a veil of low-lying fog now covers the valley in the distance. The low, autumn sun envelops the hillside in a warm glow, accidentally making it a perfectly romantic spot for our meal.

"What the heck is a persimmon?" she asks.

I lean forward, elbows on the table. "You do not have them in America?"

"I don't know." She shrugs. "Can you eat them?"

"For sure. It is like a very sweet tomato mixed with a plum. They are all over here in Toscana, but those will not be good for another few weeks," I say.

"That's too bad," she says with a frown. "The California race will be over by then, and I don't know when I'll have a chance to come back to Italy again."

She's right. Unless Nigel makes her contract permanent or another team signs her for next year, Lauren wouldn't have much of a reason to return. The only way the first can happen is if Austin ends up not coming back—which is unlikely—or if my contract isn't renewed. And even if I go somewhere else, there's no way Nigel would have two Americans at Cadmium. So yeah, I'm pretty much hoping she'll get a ride with another team, for both our sakes.

"I will buy you a jar of the preserves after lunch so you can taste it," I offer as a consolation.

She laughs. "Ooh. I've never had a boy buy me jam before. Watch out Mr. Bianchi. This is getting quite serious."

I could listen to her laugh all day, but a black-vested, graying man—different from the waiter who took our order—steps between us and places two delicate, little glasses filled with a yellow liquid on the table. "On the house," he says in Italian.

"Grazie mille," I manage to say before the gift-bearer disappears as fast as he came.

"Did you order this?" Lauren asks, reaching for the stem of the closest glass.

I take the other. "No."

She slowly swirls the opaque drink against the frosted sides. "So people just randomly bring you things?"

I hold back a smile. "It is not my first time here."

"Oh, sorry. Sometimes I forget how famous you are." She grins while lifting the glass to her nose. "Hmm. Lemony."

"We are less than two hours from the track and just a little farther from Bologna. This is Ducati country, and Italians love motorsport." I drag my thumb along the glass, wiping a streak into the condensation.

Lauren dangles her drink in front of her. "So what is this exactly?"

"Limoncello," I say.

She smirks. "But it's alcohol."

"Yes." I nod. "It is usually a digestive for after the meal, but of course we cannot drink and drive."

She sets the glass down, but keeps her hand on the stem. "I don't know if I can risk a repeat of Germany."

"I can think of worse things." I wink, but she rolls her eyes. Too soon? I probably shouldn't be making fun of that night just yet. "I am kidding. But it is rude not to taste it, no?"

She fingers the stem as she thinks, raising the glass again with a sigh. "Well, I don't want to be rude. Salute, right?"

"Salute." We both take a sip. The ice-cold liqueur is sweet and tart at the same time. "My mother, she loves this drink," I say.

"I can see why. It's yummy," Lauren says over the top of the rim before putting the glass down. "Speaking of your mom—will your parents be at the race?"

It's a logical question, so why did my chest tense up all of a sudden? I met her dad pretty much on day one, but of course that was when Lauren and I hardly knew each other. Is that why this feels different? My parents don't listen to gossip and as far as they are concerned, my relationship with Lauren is the same as it had been with Austin. Do I want to tell them any different? They're going to guess the truth as soon as they see us together. Shit. At least I still have a few days to think about how to do this.

"Yes. They come up on Thursday, I think." I brush an invisible crumb off the white tablecloth.

"Can you tell me what they're like?" she asks.

I lean back. People often ask about my family, but they rarely sound as sincere. "My father is a helicopter pilot with the Carabinieri. That is like a national police here in Italy."

"Oh, cool," she says, leaning her elbow on the table and placing her chin in her palm. "If he looks anything like you, I bet he's dashing in the uniform."

Yup. If Lauren acts like this in front of them, they'll definitely know something is up. But the roundabout compliment still makes me smile. "We have the same light hair and eyes, but my mother say my big nose and mouth are from her side of the family."

She laughs. "What? They're not big at all."

Her simple comment makes me blush. I really need to steer this conversation in another direction. "Well, my mother is definitely more beautiful than me," I say, meaning every word. "She is very smart, too. For many years she was an actress on a popular romantic drama called Amare. Now she is a top television presenter on the weekly news show L'italia Adesso."

"Brave, adventurous, intelligent, and entertaining. You definitely had great traits to inherit from." Lauren pulls her finger around the rim of her water glass. Stopping, she looks up. "You know, it's funny. My father flew helicopters, too. In the Navy."

I lean forward. "I thought you said Marcus was a programmer."

"He is." She clears her throat. "But I meant my real father."

I do a little mental math to make sense of this information. Sure, they don't look alike, but there was nothing in their relationship to second-guess biology. "Marcus is not your father?"

"I'm adopted," she says a little too matter-of-factly before smiling. "But I do like to think I still inherited his impeccable fashion sense."

How am I just now finding out something so big? "Your parents give you up?" I ask.

She shakes her head, and it may just be me, but her eyes appear a little glossier than before. "No, they died when I was five. I thought you knew that."

"How would I?" While I feel somewhat of a fool for my ignorance, her assumption makes it sound like this is a well-known fact.

"Didn't you Google me?" she asks back.

I felt bad enough cyber-stalking her when she was on the extended break in America. Digging into her past never even crossed my mind. "No. Did you Google me?"

"Of course not." She picks up her liqueur glass, but it's not enough to hide the redness creeping into her cheeks. Clearing her throat again, Lauren takes a sip. "This stuff is going to get me in trouble. What was it called again? Lemoncelli?"

I laugh—anything to lighten the moment—and hold my glass out for another toast. "Limoncello." I clink it against hers. "To your parents."

"To all our families," she adds. "For putting up with us."

The drink is only about thirty percent alcohol, but finishing the shot emboldens me to prod. "May I ask how they died? Or should I just check the web?"

"No, it's okay. I can tell you myself." She puts her glass down, focusing her gaze on the herringbone weave of the tablecloth. "They were killed in a terrorist bombing at the airport on the way back from their tenth anniversary trip."

Damn. "I am very sorry, Lauren." I reach across the table and put my hand on hers.

She weaves her fingers through mine and looks up. "Thank you." After forcing a smile, she lets go and sits back. "I was lucky that they had such a great friend in my dad—Marcus—and they assigned him guardianship in their will in case anything happened to them."

Suddenly her eyes become even more watery, and she sniffles. I should have just kept my fat mouth shut. Now I've stirred up all the old memories of such a horrible event. While I'd gladly be her shoulder to cry on any time she needs, I hate to see her in pain. This conversation really needs to do a one-eighty, stat. "Did you ride bikes before . . . before they died?"

"No, I didn't." She wipes the corner of her eye with her hand. "I was still little, but Dad signed me up for every extracurricular activity you can think of just to try to help me get my mind off losing them. I did the usual ballet and girl scouts, soccer, ice-skating, community theater and even karate. Living an hour away from the Laguna Seca raceway, motorcycles were always just around. I tried pocket bikes one day at this riding event in Salinas and for some reason that's the one that stuck with me. Maybe because my biological dad used to ride, too. His Hayabusa is still in our garage, unridden for the last twelve years."

Wow. That's a heavy legacy to live with. No wonder she's so determined to persevere. "So you ride for him? Your real father?"

As soon as I ask, the server arrives with our first course. Lauren waits for the Ribollita to be placed in front of her before answering.

"I guess in a way. But I love it for myself, too. And of course Dad has been so supportive," she says, picking up her spoon and stirring the hearty vegetable soup. "Our house is on fifteen acres and he even built a dirt track out back for me. I can't wait to show it to you when you come to California in a few weeks."

She smiles at me, and I can hardly wait for her to show me, either.