"Can I open my eyes yet?"

Jameson chuckled. His warm, roughly calloused hands rested on my waist as he led me down a small flight of stone steps.

We'd been in Tuscany for thirteen days, including today, which meant tomorrow was our last. And out of all the dreamy locations I'd pictured for our honeymoon, Italy was certainly the best.

Jameson had a vacation home here, and he'd been dying to show me around. One wedding and two plane tickets later, here we were on our last day.

"Just a few more steps, Heiress." Jameson guided me over what I assumed was a cobblestone road. There seemed to be a lot of those around here. "Alright — you can open them."

My eyes fluttered, first captured by the ardent sun. After my irises had adjusted to the light, however, they dilated at the sight of several sprawling buildings wedging the street.

They stretched into the sky, and from our standpoint, appeared to spear several of the fleece-lined clouds. Ivy crawled up the brick, their naturally intricacies offset by massive oval windows.

Jameson smirked as my jaw dropped in wonder. "I hate to break it to you, Heiress," he said, "but the scenery isn't my surprise."

"Then what is?" I asked, refusing to lower my gaze from the beauty. Since Jameson had a vacation home here — the one we'd had all to ourselves for two weeks — I knew we'd visit again.

Even so, I felt the urge to inhale each detail and record it in my mind.

A warm finger tilted my chin down. "Right here."

My gaze dropped first to his hand, and afterward to an array of metal automotive parts fitted for only two.

"A motorcycle?" I guessed.

"A Vespa," Jameson corrected, nudging me forward. "Try out the back seat."

A warm breeze whistled down the narrow street, prodding my loose hair as I climbed onto the bike.

"Okay?" Jameson murmured.

Succeeding my nod, he crouched near the Vespa's stand and collected two helmets. I reached for the slightly smaller one, but my husband simply grinned and lowered it onto my head himself.

"Safety precautions," he murmured, fastening the clasps under my chin.

I laughed. "Who are you?"

"I may be self-destructive, Heiress, but I certainly won't let my wife be."

Wife.

The word still made my smile. It was a thrilling term. One that guaranteed endless sleepovers, stolen kisses at any hour of the day, maybe even kids on the horizon . . .

There were unlimited possibilities.

After his little speech, I made sure Jameson wore his helmet. Although him driving a Vespa was new to me, I did know he had a bad habit of speeding.

"Put your arms around my waist," Jameson murmured to me after we'd both secured ourselves.

I scooted as close forward as my seat allowed and complied. I sighed pleasantly.

This was as close to heaven as I'd ever get.

"Ready?" Jameson asked me, preceding my nod.

"More than ready."

I caught a glimpse of a crooked smile in his side mirrors, and I couldn't help but notice just how good he looked in that black helmet.

"Hold on," was Jameson's only advice as the Vespa kicked to life and careered down the narrow alleyway.

The speedometer quickly passed one hundred. My arms tightened around his torso.

"Want me to slow down?" my husband murmured.

"No," I said. After all, I'd married Jameson Winchester Hawthorne. And clearly, his thrill-seeking instincts were rubbing off on me.

Grinning, Jameson hastened the wind. He paused only twice to allow pedestrians to cross. Luckily for us, autumn was nearing and tourists were beginning to head home. And with the addition that it was barely past sunrise, we didn't encounter many faces.

We passed a collection of beautiful, ivory-toned buildings, their stones adjourned by vines and pastel flowers crawling towards the sky. An Italian restaurant, where Jameson had taken me for "real pizza" — as he'd coined it — the night before, was doused in aromas of savory spices and every topping I could imagine.

As we passed, I smiled, making sure to capture each detail so I would remember it perfectly.

Tossing me another grin, Jameson whizzed by several of our favorite places — hot springs, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, crystal blue lakes blurred by colorful motorboats.

Everything was perfect.

Our honeymoon had been perfect.

When nostalgia began nipping at my emotions, I pushed it back — but Jameson noticed my facial expression through his rear-view mirrors. He slowed the Vespa to a crawl and eventually stopped just before an enormous bridge stretching across the Arno River.

"Not getting sick back there, are you, Heiress?" Jameson climbed off his vehicle, quirking an eyebrow at me.

I shook my head, scrubbing at the traitorous tears in my eyes. Brow furrowing, Jameson helped me off, unbuckling my helmet before doing the same with his own.

"You've got to tell me what's wrong," Jameson murmured, lifting my chin as he dropped his keys into the pocket of his Armani pants. "I've heard this whole communication thing is important in marriage."

A smile twitched on my lips. "It is."

"Spill, then."

I sighed, closing my eyes tightly. "Everything has just been so wonderful . . . I guess I'm not ready to go home."

Jameson smiled. "I must've picked the right place, huh?"

I nodded.

Gathering me into his arms, Jameson lowered his lips to my ear. "You're a billionaire, Avery Hawthorne. I hope you realize that you can travel practically whenever you want."

"It's not the place," I admitted. "It's the memories."

Jameson grinned, pulling me into a sweet but firm kiss. "Then I guess it's good that wherever you go, I'll be there to make new ones with you."