Hey guys. :) I just decided to skip the breakfast chapter; I was getting bored and wanted to move on, and besides, I don't have the sufficient research on international cuisine. xD

I think you were just being too kind, pizzachic. :) But thanks anyway. ^-^

Note a change in Ch.3, fellows! A brand new idea for blushing coming up! xD And sorry for the details, Mere, but I wanted to describe her room. xD


Chapter Eight

Beautiful Porto Corsa presents itself as a grand yet humble town; a perfect tourist spot at the city of Genoa that was home to the Italian Riviera. clean, pristine beaches, large and grand casinos, and the beautiful and natural countryside are just three of the best things to see at Porto Corsa, Italy.

The aim for the day was to show the others close and common places for meals, as well as groceries and convenience stores, though it didn't take up the entire day. Marlene and Sally had agreed to stay at the Bernoulli home to tend to the children. Soon, the friends were done before the clock had even struck two in the afternoon. Francesco then decided to advance the tour of a small part of Porto Corsa to that day, but they first stopped to have a small snack.

"Don't you have work, Margo?" Jeff asked out of nowhere. "Just asking; I don't mean to offend."

The A7 chuckled. "None taken," she replied. "But I told the company I'd have a two-week vacation to entertain guests." Her face turned a little sad then. "My staff wasn't so happy about that."

"You work as…?"

"As a supervisor. But I pitch in when I can."

Max stared at her. "So all those tips you gave me…."

She nodded. "They're all my experience."

Miguel was only mildly interested. Engineering hadn't really been his thing.

"Well, any suggestions about what part we should head next?" Francesco asked.

There were murmurs, but no definite answers.

"Well, I'd like to go him," Margo called. "Not to put a damper on your day," she added as they stared at her, "but I've been up all night last night and all morning long."

Miguel blinked, confused. She'd been lively all morn, talking to the racers and offering conversation. But as he took a closer look at her, which he'd been avoiding since he first saw her at the Bernoulli home, he realized how haggard she looked in the early afternoon light. He felt sorry for her; she'd been working probably since before the party, and maybe well before he got up that morn.

When he arrived at Francesco's for the sponsored morning meal, he found her setting up the table that soon filled with breakfast dishes from all over the world. Soon after he and his friends had arrived, more of the racers filed in with mutual friends. As well as the rest of the family that came together over three years ago, he too had enjoyed tasting every morsel of the several dishes set in front of the cars. He figured it had been Francesco who did all the work, but it was not so.

"Well, even if I can cook, I couldn't do it with my cousin-in-law; she was the one who did most of the dishes," he told them. "Even if it was under my—ahem—leadership," he chuckled, and others did the same She ducked her front shyly, brown eyes glittering with pride at the same time.

Everyone murmured consent, and she looked to Francesco, who nodded. She smiled at everyone else as they bid her good-by. She then drove out of the shop.

Suddenly, without thinking, Miguel's mind thought up of a way to get out of here before anything else. "Francesco," he called, approaching the Formula car, "I'm not feeling too well. May I retreat to the hotel?"

Francesco's eyes were wide with surprise. "How long have you been feeling that way?" he asked.

"Since this morning," Miguel replied quickly. He itched to get past Francesco's scrutinizing stare. "It must have been something I had last night." He wouldn't blame the morning meal this time.

Francesco blinked, still bewildered, but gave his consent as well, and Miguel slid past the group.

"Smooth," Raoul murmured with a grin, and the tourer only shrugged it away with a snort.

When he was past the shop's windows, he raced away to catch up to her. "Hey," he huffed as he sided by the A7. She stared at him, startled, as she stopped. He halted alongside her. "Is there anything wrong?

"Didn't you want to join them?" she asked.

"Francesco wanted me to make sure you were alright; I've seen Porto Corsa enough times." At least, the major parts, anyway, but what does that matter? he added silently.

"Oh." She looked startled as ever. "I'm fine, really." She sounded flustered. "You don't have to do anything."

Fro some reason, he liked how she sounded: worried. Worried about him, that is, about if he should exert effort over such a girl like her. Barely anyone ever cared what effort Miguel put into his activities.

But, being the typical male he was, he would contradict her, trying to impress. "No, I don't mind," he replied smilingly.

She blinked at him for a few moments before speaking. "Alright." Her tone was soft, almost inviting, and his head swam with a sort of happiness he couldn't explain. She moved on, and he sided quietly by her.

"It's nice, you know, in the autumn," she murmured. "Warm and sunny."

"Not in the summer?"

"Not really," she replied, "but it still is better than living near the equator."

"How so?"

"Out of the sun, it's a freakishly hot thirty-two degrees Centigrade," she said. "But in the sun, it can reach a whopping forty-two."

"What!" he exclaimed. It was that hot?

"At least, that's at around May." She paused for a moment, glancing upwards thoughtfully. "Then the rainy season stats, and the temperature drops to twenty-seven." She resumed driving.

"Really?"

"Yes." She glanced away. "Which may well be one of the other reasons I moved to Italy."

He blinked. "Why did you move to Italy, anyway?" She frowned suddenly, and his eyes widened. "I didn't mean to offend!" he put in quickly.

"No, I just…I don't think I'm ready to share that yet," she told him sadly.

"No, that's alright," he replied, fighting to keep the dismay from his tone. "I don't mind."

She smiled gratefully, and they drove in awkward silence.

Say something, you fool! a small voice sounded in his ears.

"Erm, I haven't formally thanked you for such a good breakfast," he blurted out randomly. "I enjoyed it." He smiled as she glanced at him.

She smiled back. "You're welcome," she replied.

He felt something flare in his chest at her soft brown gaze, but he couldn't put a name on it.

As they rounded the corner to the secluded Bernoulli home a heartbeat later, she turned so she can thank him for the escort and tell him he could go, but instead of what she thought to say, her lips were twitching instead at the sight before her. He blinked in confusion.

"What's so funny?" he asked her.

It was like she struggled not to laugh. "Your headlights are on," she said in a restrained voice.

He glanced down to find his brand-new LED lights glowing, even in the day, and fought to shut them off. Her lips had formed a small smile as he glanced back at her. The more he stared at her, the harder it was to keep his lights shut.

"You're cute when you flush," she told him.

"I do not!" he defended, but his headlights glowed slightly at his release of words, effectively once more as he looked quite put out.

"Don't be so offended," she told him quickly. "A lot of cars do that."

He stared at her, unsure. "Really?"

"Yeah. Even I've been known to do that," she told him shamelessly. "Everyone has limitations, Miguel. Even me."

His gaze was more grateful now than sad or other, and he was able to smile again.

She turned around to open the doors of the home, and she was greeted by the family butler.

"Giacomo," she nodded.

Giacomo's head bowed. "Signorina," he replied formally, quietly. "Signore Camino."

Miguel only nodded in reply as he followed her in. "Are you sure I can come in?"

She paused, her earlier statement forgotten completely by his stunt. "Er, of course," she replied just as Marlene appeared.

"Margo, you—oh." The lady of the home stared at Miguel, surprised. "What's he…?"

"Francesco sent him to escort me here," she replied casually. "Although he really didn't feel like going on with the tour because he's seen much of it."

He glanced at her in surprise. How on earth did she know about that, he wondered to himself. Is she a mind reader?

Marlene blinked, also surprised, but said nothing. "And you?"

"I've exhausted myself," Margo said simply.

The older cousin smirked gently. "You always were willing to help when you can."

Margo only shrugged smilingly. "It's a habit."

Marlene sighted. "Go on upstairs and rest; you've earned it. I'll handle our guest down here."

"If I may speak out, Señora," he started, "I'd like to see her to her room."

Both women were startled by this, Margo even more so, and slightly inched back as she saw her LED daytime running lights reflecting dimly off the marble floor. Marlene, however, was then as startled as her cousin as Audi's signature DRL's lit upon the A& front, and Marlene's eyes widened slightly.

At the awkward pause, Miguel backtracked, and realized how wrong his statement sounded. He panicked slightly. "I mean, I just wanted to make sure she's alright."

Signora Bernoulli blinked sympathetically, gaze softening. "Alright."

The A7's panicked brown gaze flicked to Marlene's, hidden from Miguel's view. But the mother-cousin didn't see it.

"You may go," Marlene said, dismissing them, and she turned to leave.

Miguel then headed for the grand staircase. "Come on, he encouraged, turning to her slightly, expecting to meed lively brown, only to find her eyes wide with shock and in thought. Worry slunk on to his chassis as he approached her slowly. HE was about to say something, but her lit light-emitting diodes caught his attention. Suddenly, the phrase in his mind was gone, and he blurted out, "Your headlights are on."

She glanced at him, eyes still worried, but it was only for a split-second. She smiled sheepishly soon after. "I told you I was known to do that," she told him weakly.

He chuckled softly as he moved forward to touch his corner bumper to hers. Her gaze softened, and her lights started to fade. She yawned though, and he chuckled again.

"Come on," he urged, and he led her upstairs, yet, he didn't know which room was hers.

It was her turn to laugh as she led the way to her room, murmuring a number that struck him hard.

"One-six-five-two," she whispered before the wooden panel slid open, to his amazement.

"It's pass-protected for a reason, but only when I want it locked. They don't know what the number is," she added in a murmur, and he chuckled, knowing she must love her privacy. "Although Francesco preferred a traditional swinging door, I wanted traditional and modern styles in a mix." She smiled. "A result of engineering, you might say."

He chuckled as they entered, the sliding door slipping shut. His mouth popped open slightly as he stared around.

The ceiling was just about half the height of the walls and windows that stretched from the ground floor to the second floor, and made the room just over bigger than the average home's. The walls were of the same homely, yet lively, soft ecru. Along the length of one wall, though, was shelf after shelf of books, the books filling every space available in a well-arranged way. The tops of the wooden bookcases were roughly a few feet lower than the ceiling, although it looked more like just a few inches. He wondered how she could reach all of those when he spotted a robotic-like arm and a beam that stretched along the length of the bookcases. To the shelves' left was a balcony that faced the west, the curtained threshold just opposite the door.

To another wall was a modernized desk, with a full-blown desktop—a central processing unit, a liquid crystal display monitor, a wireless mouse, a digital subscriber line, a Bluetooth mouse and an ergonomic keyboard—and a bunch of office supplies such as pens and papers, all arranged neatly on the pale cherry wood. A tall lamp was to the side with its bulb hovering over the workspace.

Opposite the desk though, was her bed, placed in a corner. But that wasn't the highlight of that nook.

Posters dominated the walls. The ones just above the headboard caught his eyes first, and the pictures ranged from favorite singers and bands to supported teams in motorsport, Formula One being the most dominant. He chuckled as he recognized a few teams: Mercedes-McLaren, Red Bull Racing, and Ferrari. With each racing team were their racers, and he didn't know she honored Fernando Alonso. To the wall at the side of her bed though, were dynamic, dramatic photos, posters and postcards about various countries, but what dominated the crazy collage were those of his homeland, Spain.

He stared in awe as he caught sight of many familiar must-sees, like Madrid, Barcelona, Catalunya and Valencia, but these seemed to just be in the background. Images of the traditional Sanfermínes festival, the three stages of Spanish-style bullfighting, as well as a few famous modern matadors. And a few of them, including at least two medium-sized posters, were of him.

He hadn't known she would be a fan of his. She didn't look like a fan of his, nor did she talk like one.

He surveyed the rest of the room, and noted a bedside table containing a small lamp and a simple clock-radio.

A voice shook him from his thoughts. "Is there anything wrong?" she asked.

He glanced at her. "Hm? No, I was just…looking."

He heard her chuckle as she sided by him. "Any which one you preferred?"

"That one," he replied, leaning towards her as he stared at one of her posters smilingly.

"Really?" she murmured. "Mine, too."

He grinned sheepishly. "I…I hadn't realized you were a fan." He almost added, that you liked me.

She chuckled once, shyly. "I'd only found out months ago," she told him. "And, well…I caught on, I guess." There was painful silence, though. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not," he replied quickly.

She smiled gratefully, and he reversed out of the space. She was surprised and worried, but the feelings faded as she caught him staring up at her bookshelves. She sided by him once more.

"Damn," he murmured. "You have a lot of books."

"I loved to read as a child," she put in. "That side is for textbooks," she gestured to the left, "and those are reading books: fiction, nonfiction, you name it." She gestured to the right.

"Wow," he mouthed. "Any genre you preferred?"

"Romance, but I'll try anything once."

So she's a romantic, he concluded. Is that why she's being so sweet with me?

"So you believe there's someone out there for you?"

"Well, yes," she said guiltily. "Isn't that what all romantics think?"

He blinked. "Maybe."

"…do you?" she shot back smilingly.

"Do I what?"

"Do you believe there's someone out there for you?"

He glanced at her smilingly. "Maybe."

She chuckled softly before deviating from his gaze.

"How would you know," he started, and her gaze returned to his, "if that car is the one for you?"

"Well," she started, unsure, "I think it's because there's something about that car that struck you the most, something about her that changed your life or something like that." She paused. "I mean, how can you love someone if there's nothing special about them?"

Miguel blinked, and his thoughts flashed back to the past. What, really, did he like about Pearle? Oh, that was right: she was incessantly beautiful to him, at least. She was sweet, the way she talked; caring when she was worried. But how did she worry about him? Oh, that was right: she worried dramatically, more squeaky than gently. Was that a good thing?he wondered.

"Miguel?" a soft voice shook him from his thoughts, and he stared into dark brown.

The way she called him, it seemed right. It resonated in his ears, making his head float away in bliss. It showed concern than just catching his attention. At this realization, he wondered if what he was feeling is love.

"I'm sorry, what?" he said as he blinked at her, now out of his trance.

"You…you stared at me like you were…."

"Like I was what?"

"Like you were in a trance," she continued. "You alright?"

"Yes, I am," he told her slightly. "Why?" Why do you care? he added silently.

"I thought something's gone wrong," she replied. In their closeness, he could feel her tremble as she closed her eyes for a moment.

He pressed his side to hers. "You don't have to be," he murmured.

She looked at him once before pressing against him and closing her eyes.

A rush of affection surged through him, and he sighed quietly, staring at her with a softened gaze and a relatively blank mind. All there was in his thoughts was her.

Yet, soon enough, her breathing turned regular, and a soft snore escaped from deep within her throat. He chuckled, and let his own eyes rest as he was reassured by the closed door.

The next time he opened his eyes it was already late afternoon. Golden sunlight filtered through the open doors of the west balcony, the white sheer curtains flowing with the incoming breeze. He glanced around for a watch, and someone beside him moved.

He stilled. He usually did someone at night and left in the morning; why is it late afternoon?

He stole a glance down at the girl. A pale silver executive car. But then, why should he choose an executive car?

But, as he faced the shelf after shelf of books in front of him, he remembered, and sighed sadly. He can't think of her that way, he just can't!

Yet, how can he not as her peaceful form lent serenity to his heart? He slid out of reach slowly, quietly, and glanced at her clock-radio. Five-thirty in the evening. Perhaps it was time for dinner.

He sided by her again, and his tire nudged hers gently. Then he swallowed. It was hard enough to think about her name, let alone pronounce it; both actions stirred many emotions and a round of lightning LED's. But he just had to call her to wake her up.

"Margo," he called softly. "Margo, wake up."

She moaned softly, and her silver lids fluttered open. She glanced at him, brown eyes clouded with sleep, having flashed with alarm, confusion and worry, relaxed with minimal confusion. "What time is it?" she asked as she blinked sleep from her eyes.

"Five-thirty," he replied gently.

"Has anyone…?"

"I don't think so."

She breathed in relief. "Thank goodness."

"Why? What's wrong?" he asked out of curiosity. Might as well confirm what Rip's told me.

She stared at him for a quick moment. "Nothing" was her casual reply. "I better get going," she told him, reversing out of her place. "Francesco will wonder where I am."

"What's next for the day, at any rate?" he asked her.

"A group dinner," she said, then a kind of 'relaxing-by-the-fire' thing, you know, group and private conversations with a few drinks."

He only nodded. He can't catch her alone tonight. But maybe, just maybe...no. He'll ask her tomorrow.

Though dinner was lively and engaging, Miguel was quiet all throughout. Everyone's places earlier that morning: the McQueens and Bernoullis at one end of the table, the rest of the racers filing in random seats, Margo and Miguel seated just across each other at the opposite end, with Rip and Raoul seated beside them both. The A7 was fighting to keep her headlights off and her feelings down by joining the conversation. Miguel was the same, but only smiled through the conversation. But he knew he couldn't possibly escape his two friends.

As soon as everyone gathered in the so-called living room—which was, to others' disbelief, the size of a regular living room, with cushioned couches, a carpet and a glass coffee table—with a true fireplace, Raoul and Rip ambushed their friend.

"So, what happened?" Rip asked sweetly.

"What happened?" Miguel replied coolly, but inwardly, the Spaniard was afraid what his friends would ask.

"What happened to you and Margo, silly," Raoul continued. "We didn't see you at the hotel, so we figured you'd fool—"

"—you'd be at the Bernoulli home," Rip growled the continuation at his friend, glaring openly. "And we were wondering what happened to you both."

"Nothing 'happened'," Miguel snapped, the last word dripping with suggestion. "We just…slept together," he said softly.

"We knew it!" the two shouted ecstatically before shutting their mouths and glancing around to see everyone staring their way.

"Literally," Miguel continued flatly, eyes narrowed. "And don't assume next time."

"Alright, fine," Rip shrugged, waving his tire away.

As Miguel glanced elsewhere for a moment, forest colors met, and Miguel found Margo smiling at him, tapping her glass lightly in a slight toast. He smiled back, tapping his own glass to return the favor. His friends saw though.

"Ooh, someone's flirting!" Rip teased softly, and he and Raoul burst in laughter. Miguel's hiss only made them laugh louder.

But the grand tourer couldn't help thinking, was he really flirting with her? Did he allow her to flirt with him? Did she really like him?

At the moment, he didn't know the answers, but he had the gut feeling he'd know.


Whew, finally done! 8D I hope 3k+ words are worth the wait! xD