Free Monza 3 (Formula Men #3) by Pamela Ann

Thankfully, I had grown out of that.
    I could relate to him now and see through his odd way of being. Not all fathers were created equal. Mine just happened to be unconventional and showed his love in different ways, like giving his support even though I shouldn’t have it. Though he wasn’t normally vocal about anything regarding personal matters, when he did address them, I understood it was important. I hoped I could do the same for my son.
    As a matter of fact, the other night, Kimberly and I had discussed how I would react if Gian Luca later on revealed he wasn’t straight and was playing for the other field. Would I accept him then? Would I continue to love him unconditionally? Her question had made me pause. I mean, what if that did happen? In this new generation, men and women expressed themselves freely. Gone were the days of repression.
    I admitted it was a daunting prospect to consider as a parent, but I supposed, if that ever happened, nothing would truly change. Sure, it might take some time to get used to the fact, but I doubted it would diminish my love for him.
    When I had made that vow that I would forever love and support my child/children, I had meant every word of it. The promise was engraved in my soul, in my heart, where it counted the most. Of course, I would prefer it didn’t come to that, because most folks here lived and breathed the church and could easily see him as a sacrilege.
    Italian machismo didn’t stem from nowhere. It had quite a history, based upon centuries upon centuries of barbaric displays of strength, skills, and insurmountable acts of bravery, be it on the battlefield, at the arena, or on a mission. This country, after all, had produced gladiators and taken part in the Knights of the Templar and The Sixth Legion. There was an undying stigma for those who didn’t follow that lifestyle.
    Here in Italy, we looked at things in a different perspective. Italian men were a breed of their own. Life and driving in our male populace went hand in hand. So everything we compared ourselves with would be in reference to dominant male animals or any of our well-renowned cars. Just like a traffic light, green meant go , yellow meant keep going, and red meant it’s just a suggestion . It was just how things were around here. We lived to love and loved to live.
    Nevertheless, men in general were creatures of pattern. We stuck to what we knew and what worked. That was why the mere idea of abolishing siesta was truly criminal.
    +++
    When I announced that my parents were joining us for lunch, Kimberly wasn’t even fazed or surprised by it. She received my announcement as if she had expected it and simply shrugged and smiled at me then stated we had better have a good menu planned out.
    Instead of trying to figure her out, I resumed work after checking in on the vigorous little one. Each time he and I were together, his grip on my hand became tighter until I wondered if he didn’t want me to leave him at all. Parting from him, even if it was a short walking distance downstairs, could prove to be difficult at times, most especially if he used those eyes and the tiny, heart-melting yawn. He sure knew how to play me.
    Lunchtime approached, and as expected, my parents came. The four of us—for the very first time, mind you—actually sat down like civilized folks as we ate our meal outside on the veranda. It was odd at first, but Kimberly’s willingness to keep reaching out to them and engage with them—most especially my father—helped to lighten the mood. I wasn’t particularly much help. I barely engaged unless provoked, and then I would respond with a dicey word or two.
    “Are you planning to go back to the track soon?” my father casually threw the question, piquing both my mother and Kimberly’s curiosity.
    She and I hadn’t really discussed much of anything about the outside world and the commitment I’d had prior. We were simply living in the moment. I supposed it was high time I