“Singing for money. That’s one of the reasons, I’m sure, that my mum taught me to play in the first place. The cute kid with the guitar, tugging at people’s heart and purse strings. Can’t do it anymore though.” A blush rises in her cheeks.
“Why?” She grabs a bread roll and breaks it up.
“My grandmother would have killed me. Shameful behavior.” She widens her eyes and drops her jaw, mimicking her grandmother’s distaste. I get it. My parents gave me the same look when I said I was going into construction. Looks like Caitlyn and I have more in common than we think.
We share our food and talk about musical tastes. Apparently, I don’t have any. She’s musing about seventies rock bands and nineties pop, and I’m here saying I liked Coldplay’s last song. She knows her stuff. The more time I spend with her, talking and sharing, the less I see her as just some girl I’d like to fuck.
I still want to bang her. My dick hasn’t dropped off since I saw her in that pink dress. Forbidding myself from getting involved with her is allowing me to get to know her and I’ve never done that before. Women have always been a friend or a sexual partner, never have the two things overlapped. Says a lot about the man I’ve become, I guess.
“You’re up next.” Mr. Lover-boy is back, guitar in hand, smiling in an over-friendly manner at Caitlyn. Stop ogling her.
She squeezes my arm, a nervous smile on her face. “Wish me luck.”
“Break a leg.” I take her hand in mine. She’s shaking. I wink at her and tighten my grip. “You’ve got this. Go bask or busk or whatever.”
“Okay.” She giggles, pulls away to grab the guitar from Mr. Seduction. My hand feels empty.
Please, please don’t be terrible.
After a couple of minutes tuning the guitar, she launches into a song. I’m nervous for her. Turns out she’s folksy, a little bit country. She serenades us with an Irish folk song, catching the audience’s attention after all the shouty crooners we’ve had to sit through up until now.
She handles the guitar like it’s part of her. What else can she do with those fingers? And her voice, not great, but raspy and soft and soothing. Like a mother singing a lullaby.
I’m enchanted by this woman. She’s not perfect; some things she excels at and others pass her by. Her camera and that guitar are handled with such ease and yet she drives like the road is going to jump out at her.
I’m sitting here watching her sing to a room full of strangers, but when it comes to taking down people’s names for photos, that’s my job. She hates it, gets nervous in crowds. She’s an enigma to me, a strange new being. All kinds of emotional shit is stirring inside of me and I don’t know what to do with it.
I think my relationship status just got changed to, it’s complicated.
Chapter Twelve
Hank
Growing up, my parents used religion constantly in reference to how good or bad my siblings and I were, but I’m not a churchgoer like them. I still pray when everything is going to shit and more often than not the big man’s name is used in vain, especially when I’m watching a Mets game, but I’m not one to worship.
“Why exactly are we going to a church?” I yawn and stretch in my seat, filling the car and making Caitlyn duck. Mornings are not my strong point.
“For its unique architectural structure.”
“Huh?” 5am is way too early for big words. “And why so early?”
“To catch the sunrise as it shines through the stained glass windows. A different perspective. A new day dawns on The Hamptons. Nobody is ever in a church at sunrise.”
“True. And why did I have to come?” This has to come under the category of, things she can do on her own. I need my beauty sleep.
“You didn’t. I thought it might make a change from sitting in the office twiddling your thumbs.”
“At 5am?” What’s the real reason?
Caitlyn sighs and waves her hand in exasperation. “I’ll buy you breakfast afterwards.”
She parks the car and grabs her camera. She hasn’t stopped fiddling with the thing since she found out I’d bought it for her. Money well spent.
“Oh, it’s the red building, I’ve been here before, well I’ve driven past this place. It’s a church?” It looks like a house. Houses are big around here. I guess the crosses on the spires should have given it away.
We get out and walk up to the front door. Caitlyn called in advance, bandied the Baresi name around and got them to leave a lockbox on the door for us. She’s only been working for me a couple of days and she’s already filled her calendar for the next two weeks. Like a little spitfire, always signing up to photograph some event or report on a new business that’s opened.
“The stained glass windows were made by Tiffany.” She is so excited about this, pointing them all out, running over and inspecting them individually. They’re impressive works of art. She sets up her tripod, positions her camera. The sun rises, beams shine through the windows, the place illuminates. It’s beautiful, humbling. You can’t fault her. She was right about how amazing it would be.
I perch on a pew, unsure if that’s allowed when there’s no service or you’re not in prayer. “There’s something so ethereal about these places.”
“Churches? I’ve only ever been in a church three times. Two funerals and a wedding.” She smiles wryly. “Sounds like a movie.”
“You’ve only ever been to a wedding once in your life?”
She laughs. “No, silly. I was only young when my mum died. The church was freezing. I remember being hugged by a lot of people I didn’t know and just wanting to leave. I didn’t go to churches after that. Got quite a reputation for only going to receptions and never sitting through the church ceremony. My grandmother would leave me outside in the car.”
“I’m sorry, about your mom.” There are very few women in my life, apart from family, who I’ve ever cared to know anything about. In the short time I’ve known her, she’s already shared so much about herself. She talks constantly, so a lot of it’s down to that, but there’s an ease between us, a sense of trust.
“It was a long time ago.”
“So who got married?” Please don’t let it be her.
“My father.” Caitlyn joins me on the pew, settling down next to me, her hands on her lap. “I got an invitation in the post. My grandmother insisted I had to go. I stood at the front of another cold church and watched my father marry a complete stranger, to me, not to him. Then I was hugged by a lot of people I didn’t know and I left.”
I grab her hand, instinctively, and she looks down at our fingers entwined and then back up at me. I realize now why I’d been dragged out of bed at an ungodly hour. She wanted company. “American churches are warm,” I say. My sentence is loaded with words unsaid.
“They are. I might try one sometime. Are you religious?”
“I’m Italian.” It’s probably written somewhere in Italian law that we all have to be catholic. Makes no sense otherwise. I certainly don’t know any Italians that aren’t at least baptized.
“True. But do you believe in the big man?” Good question.
“Dangerous question to ask in a church. What if he strikes me down if I say no?”
“Then logic dictates that you were wrong.” She winks at me. “I like to think there’s somewhere else. Something after all this. Maybe because in twenty-seven years, all of this has been a bit shit, really. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I just thought it would get a bit easier by now.”
“Maybe you needed to go to a place with warm churches.” My grip on her hand tightens; I gaze down into those beautiful brown eyes. “And warm hands.”
She giggles. “Enrico Baresi are you trying to seduce me in a church?” That accent, again, doing things to my gut.
“No.” Maybe. Am I?
Her smile drops, and she takes on a more serious tone. “You’re considering it, though, aren’t you? Seducing me.”
“Yes.” This place is so peaceful and calming it m
akes me want to sit here all day, flirting sweetly with Caitlyn, her hand in mine.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not allowed. He’s definitely going to strike you down now. It’s a shame; I was just starting to appreciate your company.” No man could be struck down for falling for Caitlyn.
It’s time to leave. I let go of her fingers, reluctantly. We gather our things and decide to get coffee. Caitlyn’s only been in my life a few days and I already know more about her than any other woman I’ve met.
It’s taken me by surprise. This constant attraction, every move she makes, every touch sending shockwaves to my groin. The desire to hold her hand, let her know I care. An overwhelming desire within me to protect and comfort her, above anything else.
Chapter Thirteen
Caitlyn
I peer out at the green fields surrounding us. Summer is approaching fast, but in the Hamptons the weather is already glorious. Spring in London is several degrees lower than it is here, on average, it’ll take a while to get used to the heat. At night, with the windows cracked open, I have the sea breeze to keep me cool. So reluctant to use the air-conditioning that everybody here loves so much.
I’d imagined living here for several years, investing in my work, but my contract is only for a year. Hank’s intentions to walk away from the magazine as soon as he can are going to cut short my stay. I choose to ignore the fear that it will all come crumbling down and the fact that I can’t get Hank out of my mind. It’ll happen when it happens, might as well enjoy it whilst it lasts.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been to a vineyard. Is it like a hop farm?”
He turns to me, inquisitive. “You don’t have vineyards in the UK?”
It takes a lot of self-control not to roll my eyes at him. “You’ve been to the UK right?”
“They have them in France, that’s only a few miles away.” The confusion on his face is charming.
“You’re lucky you’re handsome,” I reply with a grin. To an American, even one as well-traveled as Hank, France is just down the road on the right from England. You could fit both the UK and France in Texas. It’s all a matter of perspective.
“Are you calling me dumb?” He picks up the file I’d handed him when we got in the car and doesn’t look up at me. It’s not a joke, it sounds like it, he’s smiling, vaguely, but he’s serious.
Hank is smart, book smart and every day smart. He can make the perfect latté, fix a plug–fuck, he can even rewire a whole house–he can quote Shakespeare and Kerouac, but he has zero confidence in all of that knowledge as if none of it is important. The desire to hug him and explain how much his knowledge is valuable overwhelms me, tell him that the people who think he doesn’t matter because he didn’t finish college or doesn’t know all about the media industry don’t count.
But they are the people who are supposed to be closest to him. His family. Their opinion should count the most. I wish I counted more in his eyes so that I could let him know his worth. He is priceless and unique and so very clever. I want to, but it would sound trite. I’ve known the man a week; he’s hardly going to listen to me over the other people that love him.
I laugh. “Me? Never. I’m the epitome of tact.”
“Not a word out of place.” He replies, dismissively, without looking up from my notes about this afternoon’s activity. “So what’s so important that I gave up an afternoon of bathroom tiling?” I touched a nerve and I’m mad at myself for it.
“I don’t think you’re dumb.” I blurt it out, putting my hand over the file he’s reading, pushing it down so that he gives me his attention. It’s silly, childish, but I can’t bear the thought that he’s angry with me.
He tips his head, chuckles to himself. Lifting my hand off of the file, he keeps it in his, placing our joined hands between us, his knuckles grazing my thigh. “I know.”
It’s getting out of hand, this little game we’re playing. His hands on my shoulders whenever he passes my desk in the office, stealing each other’s coffee as we’re doing the morning briefing. It’s like we’re trying to convince ourselves that this is our new normal. I can’t have you, but I claim you anyway. I’m going to just lay my hand in yours and pretend that this is completely normal platonic behavior. It’s not. It’s physically and emotionally frustrating, and our bubble is going to pop.
He puts down the file and picks up his phone, one-handedly searching something about granite worktops. Hank’s commitment to getting his house finished and sold is admirable. He spends every waking hour, when he isn’t in the office or preparing Chad and Becky’s wedding, working on the renovations.
But word has spread to local businesses about the magazine and I can’t keep up with everything on my own. Today we’re off to enjoy the perks of the job with our very own driver, courtesy of Baresi Corp.
The car draws up in a very stately courtyard. The winery itself is an architectural masterpiece and the vineyard surrounding it is just stunning. Rows and rows of vines, with the sea as a backdrop. I take back my hand and ready my camera. This is cover-photo worthy.
“Mr. and Mrs. Walsh?” A very smartly dressed woman with a clipboard welcomes us at the front door. Hank and I look at each other.
“I didn’t expect you to take my name, but that’s very flattering, considering,” I say. Considering that yours got us the invite in the first place.
He blushes. “We’re uh, we’re not together. Caitlyn Walsh, Hank Baresi.” He holds out a hand and shakes hers. The look on her face, it’s a wonder she doesn’t curtsey.
It had been explained to me that there are specific reasons as to why they hadn’t hired a journalist from the US to work with Hank and I’m slowly starting to understand. He’s fricking royalty on this island. One of the princes of this realm. I chuckle to myself, thinking about my grandmother, how she would have laughed. My heart pinches, I haven’t yet mourned her. I pull myself together; I’m not going to do this now.
I pick at the fluff on my blouse and straighten my skirt. The woman and I are dressed almost identically, but my clothes are a size too small and I’m filling them with rather less grace than the person facing me.
She leads us through to an entrance hall. Hank turns to let me go first, placing a gentle hand on my back. My insides do a backflip. Prince Charming.
Inside it’s beautiful, very Moroccan in style, plastered walls, colorful tiling. Nothing like anything I’ve seen yet in my visits. I take the opportunity to start snapping away.
The quality of the workmanship is impressive. I let out a quiet little giggle; Hank’s influence on me is showing. I’ll be complimenting the condition of their grouting next.
Our guide, rattled by Hank’s presence, can hardly speak. “Mr. Uh, Mr. Baresi…”
“Oh please, call me Enrico.” I swear he rolled that R. Is he flirting with her?
A little tinge of green surges up inside of me. I am not okay with that. I have no ownership of this man. Why then do I hate this so much? Have I staked my claim? One kiss and a couple of cheeky conversations, if we don’t count what he doesn’t remember, and I have decided that he is mine.
“Enrico. Ms. Walsh ...” if she’s waiting for me to say ‘Call me Caitlyn’ we’ll be here a while, my hackles are up, “… my name is Caroline, please follow me. We’re going to start with a tour of the cellars and then we’ll move out onto the terrace for a tasting.
We follow her down a set of winding stairs to their perfectly chilled underground cellar. I shake my blouse, relieved to escape the heat. A storm is brewing both inside and out.
Caroline drones on about casks and aging, and I take photos and make notes. Hank just smiles flirtatiously and makes cheeky remarks about pumping and popping corks.
There’s only one thing that I hate about myself more than my big mouth and that is my jealous side. It doesn’t manifest like it would with, say, Becky, sharp-tongued or bitter. Quite the contrary, jealousy is the only thing that shuts me right up. I steam and boil inside like a kettle. I’m a sulker.
It’s a detestable trait.
“Well, that’s everything to do with the winemaking process, now on to the fun part.” We move out onto a terrace, climbing back up the stairs. This time Hank’s hand is on her back as we reach the top of the stairs.
“Ladies first,” he says, like a broken chivalrous record. I glance over, raise my eyebrows. He flashes me the perfect smile and lifts his eyebrows in reply. Am I missing something here?
The sky has darkened, and the air is thick. The heat has reached suffocation point, especially after the chill of the cellar. Warm droplets of sweat run down my back and I pull at my blouse in an attempt to disguise it. It’s too tight and is sticking to me, revealing the trace of my bra underneath. As sexy as it might sound, sweat-stained blouse is not a good look on me.
Caroline is still perfectly coiffed, but my hair is rising like uncooked bread. “Ooh, it’s so hot out here.” I put my hand to my chest. “Any chance of doing this somewhere with air-conditioning?” I have cracked. I am American now. Air-conditioning has won me over.
She flutters her eyelids. Taking in the sodden mess in front of her. “Oh, I’m sorry, you’re not from here, are you? Mr. Baresi, Enrico and I … we’re used to it.” She places a hand on his arm, rubbing it up and down, getting a good feel, a solid grip.
Holy shit. Whatever happened to female solidarity? I’ve never punched a woman, but I’m close. I ball my fists, my nails digging into my palms. “Fine.”
“Don’t worry, Caitlyn, a couple of glasses of rosé and we’ll soon be chilled right down,” said Hank. He’s still smiling at me. Is that a hint in some way? If he thinks I am going to stick around whilst he chats up this woman, he is sorely mistaken.
But I am, aren’t I? We’re not on a date here, we’re working. At least I’ll be getting free wine out of the experience.
Caroline takes us over to an outdoor bar, serves us each a glass of a dry white Chardonnay and sets out a plate of savory crackers. “Before you drink, just take a second to smell the distinctively strong aroma and tell me if you can capture the fruity essence of this particular wine.”
The Billionaire & the Princess Page 7