by Karina Halle
Ow. My damn head.
I sit up slowly, the room spinning slightly, and tap my phone on the side table.
Nine-thirty.
I’ve slept in.
“Grace,” Claudio’s voice comes again, soft, supple.
I could listen to that man say my name all day long.
I clear my throat. “I-I’m awake.”
There is a long pause, long enough for my ears to pick up on the beat of my heart in my head, and then, “Time to get up.”
I hear the floors creak outside the door as he moves away, and my stomach growls at the thought. I sure had a lot to drink last night, though at least I remember everything.
I turn my hands over in my lap. Red clay is caked under my nails, while there are smudges of it on my arms, the clay having dried to a shade of rust.
That clay is from his fingers.
They are memories of his touch, imprinted on my skin.
I don’t want to wash them off.
If I do, I might forget what it felt like to have his arms around me, to have his calloused hands hold me.
Good lord, last night was a doozy.
After our attempt at recreating the pottery scene from Ghost, we drank the rest of the wine and continued to work on our own stuff separately. I have to admit, it was still a lot of fun. We just talked about everything, Claudio coming through with his wicked sense of humor. We stayed up until midnight, at least, and at the end we both had created and smashed about four different works of art.
Well, at least his were all works of art. Mine were blobs and they never turned out as good as when he had his palms pressed against my hands, guiding me. Perhaps I wasn’t able to let go the same way, perhaps I could only do so when he was holding on to me.
I close my eyes, my mind drifting back to how it felt. When was the last time I had someone touch me like that? I’ve been starved for affection for far too long. Now that I’ve had a taste of it, I’m craving it.
I’m craving him.
This isn’t good.
I get up, slip on joggers and a t-shirt, not bothering with a bra, and then head down stairs. I’m bleary-eyed by the time I get to the bottom floor, almost running right into Claudio who is standing in the middle of the room, wearing a fucking Speedo, holding a couple of towels.
“Catch,” he says, throwing a towel at me.
The towel whacks me in the face and falls to the floor. I’m too stunned by the Speedo, to be honest. I mean, it’s black and it looks fucking amazing on him, something I never thought was possible, but also, what the fuck?
“We’re going swimming,” he says.
I blink at him, finally snapping out of it enough to bend down and pick up the towel. “What?”
“Come on.” He nods to the front door.
I wave at the back door to the patio. “But breakfast?”
He grins, shrugs like he doesn’t make the rules. “I slept in and missed my swim. I can’t start breakfast until I go swimming. That’s the schedule.”
“But why do I have to go?”
“What do you have against swimming? I saw you do it before.”
I ignore that. “Besides,” he adds, “it will make you feel better. I know you’re hungover, too. You got me drunk last night.”
My eyes bug out. “I did not! You got me drunk!”
Another sly grin, another quick shrug. “Whatever you say, naked girl.”
“Naked girl? Is that my nickname now?”
“If you keep it up, maybe?”
I groan. “Let me go get my bathing suit.”
“Go in your underwear.”
“I’m not wearing a bra.”
His eyes move to my chest. He raises a brow. “That’s not a problem. One step closer to naked girl.”
“I’m going to go get my suit.”
He gives me a wry smile. “I’ll be by the pool.”
He turns and walks to the front door, and I take a millisecond to appreciate his damn fine arse, before I go running up the stairs to my room. I quickly slip on my bikini, a red high-waisted one, then go back down and outside.
Claudio is already in the pool, doing laps back and forth in the crystalline blue water. The birds are chirping softly from the trees, the morning sun soft and hot, the air fragrant with the opening roses.
I throw my towel down on the lawn chair beside his and sit down on the edge of it, watching his body cut through the water. The muscles in his back and arms are strong and rippling, his skin looks extra dark against the crisp light blue, and he moves like a shark, smooth and calculated. The way he slices through the water reminds me of the way he is out of water, both at ease and in control.
Eventually he pulls up at the end of the pool and looks at me, water dripping down his face. “What are you doing?”
“Watching you,” I admit.
His face lights up playfully. “Is that so?” He starts swimming toward me and pauses at the edge right in front of my chair, a lock of black hair stuck to his forehead. “And do you like what you see?”
Oh, how do I answer this?
I could tell him yes.
But that would be too bold, too bare. I don’t have it in me.
I decide to hedge it. “You look like a professional. Did you ever swim on a team?”
His eyes narrow thoughtfully at me and he spits out water. “No. But I did spend my youth swimming off of Elba. My parents’ house is right on the beach. The water is beautiful.” He pauses, licking his lips. “I should take you there.”
My heart feels like it stutters. I swallow. “To Elba?”
“Yes. You can meet my parents.”
Oh shit.
“They would love to meet an author,” he goes on.
“I should probably stay here and write,” I manage to say even though there’s a voice buried deep inside me that’s yelling at me, that I should say yes, that oh my god, why am I passing this up?
“I see.” He gives me a small smile but it’s not hard to see that he’s disappointed. “I suppose if I’m already dragging you to a concert, then gallery night, that’s a lot of time spent with me. I can’t blame you for being sick of me.”
“I’m not sick of you,” I say quickly. “Not even a little.”
He seems skeptical. “Are you sure? I do realize that when you planned to come here, you weren’t planning on being around someone else all the time. I more than understand that you need space.”
“I don’t need space.” I mean, I kind of do, because I need to write, but shit, I also want to be around him too. I need it.
I’m a mess.
All I know is if I go away with him somewhere … I don’t know. Here, I’m barely holding on. It feels like I’m constantly skirting the edge, and one wrong turn and right look and I’m going to go over. He’s making it hard to breathe properly, to think properly, and I barely have my wits about me. The only thing I have is this villa, a sense of structure. If I go away with him, I’m afraid I’ll fully let go.
You’re assuming he wants to sleep with you, the voice tells me. He’s Italian. He might be that way with everyone. You might be getting the entirely wrong idea, and then how embarrassed are you going to be when you throw yourself at him?
“Grace,” Claudio says. “Get in the pool.”
I realize I’ve been staring at him like an idiot the whole time my mind has been tripping over itself and going in circles. Suddenly the pool seems too small for the both of us.
“Grace,” he says again, a warning tone. He lifts himself out of the pool with ease, the water sliding off his body, and walks toward me, his hand out. “Get in the pool.”
I stare up at him. “I-I’m fine.”
“You’re doing that thing again,” he says, shaking his head in disapproval. “The thing with the thoughts. What did I tell you about letting go?”
Don’t let go, don’t let go.
He reaches down and grabs me around the waist.
I yelp, and before I know what’s happening, he’s
hoisting me up and carrying me over to the edge of the pool, my legs dangling in the air.
“Oh my god, Claudio!” I yell, laughing at the same time. “Put me down!”
“Okay,” he says simply.
With one easy motion he throws me in the pool. I hit the water with a giant splash, then hear Claudio diving into the water next to me.
I burst through the surface, gasping for breath, and see him treading water, grinning at me.
“You arse!” I yell, doing a haphazard swim toward him, splashing water.
He raises his hand to shield himself from the splashes, laughing. “Arse! That’s a new one. I have been called an ass before, never an arse. I am honored.”
“You shouldn’t be!” I splash him again. “I could have drowned.”
“I would have rescued you.”
“I don’t need rescuing,” I tell him, the words coming out harsher than I meant. I swallow. “I’m going to get you back for this.”
His right eyebrow raises. How does he do that? “Hmmm,” he muses. “You are a murder mystery writer, perhaps I should be worried.”
“Aye, you should be. Lock your door when you go to sleep tonight.”
I turn around and swim for the shallow end until I feel the bottom beneath my feet, then twist so I’m facing him.
He stays where he is, treading water, and damn it, I wish he didn’t look so damn sexy right now. “I will lock my door, but not because of you. We have guests tonight.”
I stare. This is the first I’m hearing of this.
“My sisters,” he goes on. “I just talked to them this morning. Giada and Veronica, they live in Rome. They’re driving up today to see Maria. All three will come over here for dinner when Maria brings Vanni back. They’ll be staying overnight, but as you can see, there is plenty of room.”
He must read the anxious look on my face because he adds, “Don’t worry, you’ll like them. They are very nice. I mean, they will be nice to you. Not to me. See, I am the youngest, the baby, and they never let me forget that.”
I smile at the idea of Claudio being bossed around by three older sisters.
“Ah, see,” he says, splashing water toward me. “I told you you’d like them. I have no doubt the four of you will gang up on me. Even Vanni won’t come to my side.”
“I’m sure you can handle yourself just fine,” I tell him.
He starts swimming past me for the stairs and pulls himself up. “Sure, but that is a given,” he says. He picks up a towel and starts toweling himself off, patting it over his thick, muscular thighs, his rippled abs, his sculpted shoulders.
And I do the pervy thing and watch him do it.
Fuck it.
If he’s going to look like that, then my leering gaze is what he’s going to get. It’s only when my eyes start focusing on the thin quality of his Speedo and the flattering outline of his dick, that I realize it might be a bit much.
He stands at the edge of the pool and gazes down at me through heavy lids. “Do you still like what you see?” he asks me. There’s a husky quality to his voice, all playfulness fading away.
This time he means it.
I just stare up at him for a moment.
I’m sure I’m saying it all with my eyes.
Then I dive under the water and swim nearly the whole length of the pool holding my breath.
When I pop back up, he’s gone.
The day passes by slowly. After the swim, and breakfast, Claudio locked himself in the studio, the door closed. I took that as a sign to leave him alone and try to get my own head on straight. So I took my laptop to the study, wanting zero distractions. Writing outside is lovely, but too many times I find my attention being stolen by the birds or the smell of flowers and that pull to just wander through the rose garden, marveling at things.
Today I really wanted to put in the work. And though it was hard at first to push Claudio out of my mind, I did. I tackled the scenes with my heroine, made her face her mother’s death, and cried my eyes out. It was hard, and my soul felt like it was bled and smeared on the computer screen, but in the end I felt like a weight had lifted. It was cathartic, and more than that, it gave me confidence. If I could write that difficult scene, then surely I could tackle the rest.
Lunch was quick, and Claudio was both jovial and serious, his moods flitting between both. We had minestrone soup and crusty bread with olive oil, nothing too fancy, but satisfying all the same. Then we both went our separate ways for a few hours until I heard a bunch of shouting reverberating through the house, and I knew his sisters and Vanni had arrived.
I smile to myself. It was only me growing up, so I missed out on having that big family with lots of siblings. When my father remarried and had a daughter with his new wife, I thought things would change. But my half-sister Beth doesn’t want anything to do with me, no matter how hard I try, so that didn’t work out the way I hoped it would. I still have faith that when she’s older (she’s thirteen and going through stuff) that we’ll finally have a chance to connect.
Regardless, I’m excited for the new distractions. Things got kind of weird at the pool, so the more people in the house, the better.
Especially people who know Claudio well. I want to learn everything there is about him, what he was like growing up, if there is indeed something that magic man can’t do. I want the dirt. I want to know it all.
I get off my bed where I was working through some plot holes in my notebook, and get dressed. I pick—surprise—another dress, this one white with short sleeves, buttons down the middle, and oranges printed on it. I pull my hair back into a low ponytail, then slide on an orange headband. I’ve got this 60’s Italian chic thing going on, so I play that up with my makeup, a wee bit of winged liner and mascara, a touch of blush. I look half-decent, even with my lemon face.
Of course, there’s no point in denying that I’m not only looking good for Claudio, but for his sisters. I want them to say “who is that girl?” although that might be pointless considering the women that Claudio dates. I know he said he doesn’t have time to date anymore, but that woman, the ex of his, Marika, was stunning. Perhaps he’s known for dating tall, tanned and leggy blondes, basically everything I’m not.
Well you’re not dating him, so why does it even matter? I tell myself.
The thing is, I can tell myself things, but it doesn’t mean I’ll believe it.
Even if Claudio tells me things.
Even if he says that I’m beautiful.
The thought makes something flicker deep inside me.
Hope, maybe.
I head out of the room and down the stairs, the yelling getting louder and louder.
“Grace! Ciao, ciao!” Vanni yells at me as he turns the corner on the second floor, racing past me on the stairs with his backpack. He’s followed by a blonde girl in a pink romper, who gives me a shy look while running up the stairs after him. I’m assuming that’s his cousin.
They disappear up the steps and I steel myself for the rest of my journey. As much as I want to meet his sisters, I do tend to get all awkward when I meet new people, and the yelling is throwing me off. I can’t tell if they’re actually angry or that’s just how they talk.
When I get to the bottom floor, the bar looks like it’s been ransacked and raucous laughter is coming from the patio. Okay, laughter. That’s a good sign.
I take in a deep breath and turn the corner.
Three female versions of Claudio are sitting at the table, all three of their heads swiveling to look at me. I don’t see Claudio anywhere.
Gulp.
“Chi è questa?” one of them exclaims. She’s wearing cat-eye sunglasses.
“Ooooh,” another one says, this one wearing a stunning shade of red lipstick. “L’autrice!”
Another one, the shortest, the most petite, also wearing red lipstick, gives them both a dirty look. “Inglese!” she scolds them.
Then she eyes me, a brow raised. Wow. Perfectly shaped eyebrows that move independently f
rom each other must run in the family. “I apologize for my sisters being so rude. You must be Grace.”
I raise my hand slightly. “That’s me.”
She points to herself with a red fingernail, the polish chipped. “I am Maria. This is Giada.” She flicks her nails toward the one in sunglasses, who looks to be the oldest out of all of them. Then she points at the other sister. “That is Veronica. We are Claudio’s sisters.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I tell them, feeling awkward on my feet. Do I do the whole kiss them on each cheek thing? Would that be too informal? I’ll just stay here.
“Oh, come now,” Maria says, getting to her feet. In seconds she’s grabbed me by the shoulders, engulfed me in a cloud of lemony perfume, leaving lipstick marks on my cheeks. She pulls back and inspects me closely. “You are a beautiful woman.”
Wow. Do all the Romanos throw compliments around like confetti?
Of course, I blush at that.
“Thank you. Grazie.”
“Ah yes, Vanni told me he was teaching you Italian.”
“He’s trying. I’m not the best student at the moment.”
“Of course not. You are writing, yes?”
She takes me by the hand and leads me to the table, sitting me down beside her.
“Ciao,” Giada and Veronica say in unison.
“You must forgive,” Giada continues. “My English is not so good.”
“It’s better than my Italian,” I tell her, giving her an encouraging smile. It’s then I notice they all have mineral waters, as well as espresso. “Where is Claudio?”
“Ah,” Maria says. “We sent him off for some lemons.”
Veronica frowns and mutters something under her breath, gesturing to her coffee.
“She is saying his espresso machine is not good enough,” Maria translates. “And that normally he has the lemons all cut up for us.”
“Is good for our blood,” Giada explains, splaying her palms.
I can see why Claudio said they all picked on him. They just got here and already they’re bossing him around. I have a feeling they were doing most of the yelling.
“Ah, you found her,” Claudio’s melodic voice booms. I look up to see him walking across the lawn, yellow lemons cradled in his hands. He pauses behind Giada, his eyes brightening as he looks at me. “I hope they’ve been kind.”