*Bianca*
America was not like Italy at all. Unlike the ancient stonework of my home country, the history that descendants have built upon generation after generation, everything in America was shiny–bright and flashy, with neon signs proclaiming what their products could or could not do. Everything felt loud and obnoxious like every store and sign was trying to capture the world’s attention simultaneously.
Even the buildings were too tall and brand new in a way that made my skin crawl.
I liked America well enough, but it felt different than before.
Now, I was returning here all alone.
Though, not completely alone, I thought, sneaking a glance at the burly man to my side. Leo drove casually, his eyes hidden behind dark shades, only one hand on the wheel but completely in control at the same time.
His muscles flexed as he rotated the wheel, and I couldn’t stop the small feeling of heat that crept up my body. He was attractive, I had to admit.
