“Aren’t the architectural details stunning?” Carson gapes.
“This is unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” I admit, taking in the beautiful city of Milan before us.
“Have I ever told you I was a history major in college?” he asks.
“No, I didn’t know that. It makes sense why you’re so good with dates and rattling off fun facts though.”
“I don’t think I would’ve done anything with my degree had I finished college; I was more so picking a subject that interested me.”
“What would you do if you weren’t a professional hockey player?”
“I’d be a pro golfer.”
I snort. “Well, I’ve yet to receive my golf lessons, so you still owe me.”
“I remember.” He chews the inside of his cheek, before continuing, “Is it ridiculous of me to say that if I weren’t a professional hockey player, I think I’d want to be a youth coach, or maybe run a camp some day?”
Vulnerability bleeds through his question.
“Not at all,” I assure him.
“I wouldn’t have a fancy degree or a profound profession, but I know it would fill me with joy to watch kids have the opportunity to play and advance in the sport they love.”
“That sounds amazing, Carson.”
“I’ve been playing around with the idea of approaching Griff and Mack to open a youth camp by where our parents’ cabin is. My thought is that we could open a summer camp for hockey, volleyball, and maybe even golf. The kids would not only get to further develop their skills on the ice, court, or course, but they’d also get to do fun summer activities out on the water while meeting new friends.”
I’m stunned speechless at the thought he has put into this.
Carson does the thing where he claps his hands in front of him and hangs his head. “You know what, I’ve barely thought it through, I’d probably be in way over my head. And Mack is already so busy with volleyball and finishing school, she probably would think I’m crazy for even suggesting it.”
Placing my hands on his, I stop his nervous fidgeting. “Carson, stop doubting yourself. I think it’s an incredible idea. It honestly sounds like a place I wish I could’ve gone growing up.”
He lifts his head, hope shining in his eyes. “Yeah? You don’t think I’m crazy?”
I let out a soft chuckle. “I wouldn’t go that far. But your idea is definitely not crazy,” I jest.
Carson scoops me into a hug before tickling my ribs and making me squeal like an idiot. I’m sure people are looking at us as if we’re insane, but I honestly couldn’t care less. Because on a rooftop in one of the most romantic countries in the world, I just realized that I’m irrefutably falling for my golden boy.
Once we finished touring the cathedral, we went shopping at Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, one of the world’s oldest and most iconic shopping centers. The roof is stunning, made of glass and iron, and the mosaic floors lead us to some of the most esteemed fashion and jewelry brands. We walk in and out of the shops for Cartier, Gucci, Prada, and Louis Vuitton.
I was just forced to try on a dress in the Versace store that I could never afford. I’ll never admit it out loud, but the corseted black midi dress fits me better than any dress ever has, especially considering my petite frame. But the fact that Kenna and Carson are currently fighting over who is going to buy the dress for me has me putting my foot down. “Please do not buy that dress for me. I don’t need it. And if you didn’t remember, I have plenty of dresses in the two suitcases I packed.”
Kenna’s shoulders sink in defeat. “Ugh, fine. But for what it’s worth, you looked gorgeous in that dress.”
“She always looks gorgeous, no matter what she’s wearing,” Carson clarifies and then turns to me. “I’m sorry, Austin. It wasn’t my intention to upset you, I just wanted to spoil you a little.”
“Why don’t you spoil me with some gelato instead? We passed a shop down the street,” I suggest.
“It’s your funeral,” Carson replies with a devilish glint in his eyes. I narrow my eyes, confused at his remark.
The confusion is quickly cleared up the moment I watch him glide his tongue, far slower than is necessary by the way, along the edge of his cone of gelato. When he changes up the pace of his tongue strokes to lap up the melting gelato, I can’t stop myself from groaning. “Oh, come on. That’s completely unnecessary,” I remark.
“First cornbread, now gelato?” He tsks, shaking his head at me. “I’m beginning to think you have a food fetish, Austin.”
I’m beginning to realize I just have a fetish for anything and everything to do with Carson Wilder.
20
