Page 44 of Cinderella-ish
“No more fancy limodriver?”
“Nope. I like to drive myself when at all possible. They have cars to rent here so I reserved aMaserati.”
A fucking Maserati? Why am I not at allsurprised?
The valet pulls up in a white Maserati, gets out, and tosses Antonio the keys. “La Sua auto,Signore.”
“Grazie, amico mio, lo apprezzo.” Antonio walks over to the luxury car and opens the passenger door, looking straight at me. “Come on, Miss Personal Assistant. Time to head to thefactory.”
It’s the week before what’s known as “fashion week”, yet the streets of Milan are already satiated with sartorial perfection. As Antonio maneuvers his sporty rental car through the busy intersections of Milan, I spot model-types prancing about the famous shopping district, bedecked in everything from flappy dress suits to eye-popping print dresses. There are photographers abound, feverishly snapping away at unsuspecting and equally suspectingpassersby.
This is indeed everything I dreamed Milan would be—andmore.
We finally make it to a main highway leading toward Northern Italy—a place called Bergamo—where his uncle’s small factoryis.
“Sit back and relax, Daniella. We’ve got an hour’s drive ahead of us, at least,” Antonio informs, looking over to me, his blue eyes much darker than normal. Besides that, I also noticed his voice sounds slightly different. Moreauthentic.
“You’re speaking with a slight Italian accent. Did you knowthat?”
He laughs with cheeks dusted a light coat of red, much like an embarrassed young boy. “Oh, yes. Seems as though once I begin speaking Italian, an accent pops up. I can’t helpit.”
I shrug. “I suppose it’s much like when I visit Texas. My Texas drawl prominentlysurfaces.”
“Exactly. Then you can totallyrelate.”
I steal a lengthy glance, not long enough to call it a stare, but just enough to capture him in a moment of vulnerability as he keeps his eyes on the open road—seemingly deep inthought.
My mind is saturated with a bazillion questions as I feel compelled to know more about what makes Antonio Michaelstick.
“How did you learn to speak Italian?” I say, disrupting the momentarysilence.
“My grandma. She’s Italian and speaks English too, but having raised me, she thought I should know Italian as well.” His eyes narrow as the sun beams into thecar.
“So you’reItalian?”
He chuckles. “Is that a statement or aquestion?”
“I’m sorry.” I giggle. “It was meant to be a question—mainly because I get the sense it’s a little more thanItalian.”
“Very intuitive. I’m a mutt—a mix of Italian on my mother’s side and French-American on my father’sside.”
I knew I picked up on that mixture when we collided on theMetro.
“Very complementarymix.”
“I suppose. And you?” He turns to me, his lips forming a half-smirk, half-smile that could probably charm the panties off any woman hemeets.
“I’m not too sure.” I begin to fidget and shift my gaze out the window. “I’ve heard I have Latin roots on my mom’s side, which is probably where I get my mostly tanned skintone.”
“There are many ladies who pay good money to look as naturally tan as you do, you know. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful,Daniella.”
I feel my entire face—well, actually—my entire body heatup.
And now what am I supposed tosay?
“Thank you, Antonio,” I mutter, still internallybeaming.
The rest of the drive, Antonio explains more about what we will be doing this week and also provides details about what I should expect the following week. According to him, the closer Fashion Week approaches, the crazier it willget.
