The drive back to the villa was quiet in the best way.
Windows down. Wind tugging at Ella's hair. Nicholas drove with one hand, the other resting over her thigh like he'd forgotten it was there—except he hadn't. Every so often, his thumb would shift, tracing idle circles over her bare skin, as if memorizing it all over again.
The countryside blurred past them in amber and green, hills rolling like soft breath. Ella leaned her head back against the seat, her fingers loosely curled in the cotton bag now carrying their souvenirs—the rolled painting, the little ceramic dish she couldn't resist, the small box with matching rings tucked safe inside.
She turned to look at him, smiling lazily.
"You know," she said, voice hushed with the kind of contentment that came only after a perfect afternoon, "that was kind of romantic."
"Which part?" he asked, glancing at her with a grin. "The painter who trapped us like a mythological siren, or the part where I made you buy rings with me?"
