“So you seem to know a lot about bees,” Leo said, unwrapping the foil casing around his food to peel it down far enough to bite at the top portion.
“My uncle is a beekeeper and I worked as a bee smoker for him the summer when I was twelve.”
Around a mouthful of food, Leo asked, “And what is a bee smoker?”
I tried taking a bite of my lunch, but I was sure there was actual glue inside. “They’re responsible for calming the bees. Smoke masks the pheromone the guard bees release, so you can actually get in there while their defenses are down.”
“That sounds like a pretty interesting job.” How he was able to devour half of his tortilla-wrapped paste, I had no idea. But he continued eating like it was actually made from ingredients belonging to a real food group.
“It was a great time, but didn’t last long. I was fired after three weeks.”
“Why’s that?”
“I figured the same thing might go for guys, you know? So I stole my uncle’s cigarette pack and hiked down to Bobby Dean’s house at the end of the road and lit one up, hoping it might tear down his defenses and I could at least steal my first kiss from him.”
Leo’s mouth twitched and I could tell he was trying to control it from turning into a full-fledged grin. “How’d that work out for you?”
“I burnt his house down.”
Food/glue shot out of Leo’s mouth and onto my dress.
Quickly, obviously without thinking because that was often the case for things that happened quickly, Leo smothered my chest with his huge napkin-cloaked hand, rubbing the stain away frantically. I, however, reacted quickly while also thinking and arched my back just enough to make my B-cup more like a C, so at the very least he might be a little impressed with my rack.
“Oh God, Julie. I’m so sorry.” His hand retracted like I was on fire and his eyes almost fell out of his head.
“For the projectile spitting? Or the boob grabbing?”
“Both.” He looked down at his lap, his fingers wrapped together so tightly I could see the white of his knuckles pressing through the transparent skin. It was like he was scolding them or they were in time out. Bad, bad boys. “You’re not gonna file a sexual harassment report or anything?” he joked, eyes still cast downward.
“Trust me, you weren’t harassing them...er, me. It’s all good.” It was unreal how cute he was when he was embarrassed. “You’re not gonna report me to the authorities for arson, are you?”
“You didn’t get caught?”
“No. It ended up being documented as a pellet stove mishap. I felt a little guilty at first, but I also ended up getting that kiss from Bobby Dean and it was hands down one of the worst experiences of my life, so I sorta felt justified in the whole house incinerating incident.”
“Man, tough break for Bobby. That’s a pretty bad punishment for being a bad kisser.”
“Aren’t they all, though?” We were finally back to making eye contact. “First kisses, I mean. Aren’t they always awful? Even each first kiss with a new person, it’s almost always a train wreck.”
Oh man, his lips went all pouty in a way that could only make me think of slamming mine against his and ravaging him on our pallet/table.
“I think maybe you’ve been kissing the wrong people.”
My insides just cooked themselves, it had gotten so hot in here. Sweat dripped from my palms and I could feel it gathering in my armpits, too. My nerves turned liquid, seeping out of me in perspiration. “I think maybe you picked the wrong restaurant,” I stammered. “Not only do they serve school supplies in place of food, but they’re clearly trying double as a Hot Yoga studio and I’m sure that breaks all kinds of permit laws.”
He had no idea what I was saying, which wasn’t odd because I hardly knew what I was saying. I wanted to flip over my pail-chair and hide inside it. It was big enough for that.
“You’re right, this isn’t my best choice. Make it up to you in Tuscany?”
He was good.
“Well, that’s hardly fair because eating off of a bathroom floor in an Italian petrol station is still better than any restaurant you can find in the U.S.” That was pretty close to the truth, for me at least. Everything was better when done Italian-style.
“Well then, to level the playing field, how about I make it up to you by cooking you an authentic Italian dinner at our vineyard?”
I laughed. “That’s not leveling the playing field. That’s completely obliterating the playing field.”
“You haven’t tried my cooking.”
No, he was right, I hadn’t. But just spending a morning’s worth of time with him proved to me that Leo Carducci was unlike any other man I’d ever met. Maybe he’d called me original, but God pulled out all the stops when He’d made Leo.
And it seemed as though Leo was about to pull out all the stops, too, in the form of a nonstop flight to the Italian countryside.
“Florence or bust?” He lifted a half disintegrated cup into the air.
“Florence or bust.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
You’d think after packing for international travel at least a dozen times before that it would be something that was sort of second nature. Do in your sleep kind of thing.
But it wasn’t for me, so naturally, I asked Eva over to help rummage through my closet. She was by far the most stylish girl I knew, and I’d been meaning to catch up with her this past week but never got the chance. Tonight was a good opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.
“What about this?” I held up a cowl neck sweater by its wire hanger. It was purple and the cable knit was too thick and I think my grandma might have even made it, but who knew? Neon and tie-die made unexpected comebacks. Maybe old lady sweaters were next to make the rounds.
“That’s hot.”
“Really? ‘Cause it kinda seems a little outdated.”
Eva laughed. “No, I mean it’s too hot. Remember, it’s almost summer. You’ll sweat to death in that.”
Well, I’d probably sweat to death in a string bikini. Leo got me all hot and bothered.
“Right.”
Scooting past me, she pulled out six different outfits in one movement and tossed them onto the bed, the hangers clattering against each other. Floral and stripes and patterned materials twisted together in a fabric work of abstract art. “That should do.”
“Looks good to me.” Without bothering to peruse through her selections, I stuffed them into my suitcase and dropped down onto the mattress, tucking my legs up to my chest. “So, I’ve been meaning to catch up with you—”
“We’re moving, Miss Thornton,” Eva interjected. The way she desperately said it made me feel as though this had to be the worst-case scenario for her life, and I tried to remember back to when I was a teenager in an attempt to relate. But honestly, had my parents told me we were moving from our rural North Dakota ranch to anywhere else in the country, I probably would have done a back handspring and double layout, and I was a girl that never even mastered the simple art of cartwheeling. Honestly, I couldn’t even somersault without feeling like I might snap my neck in two.
“You’re moving? Where to?”
“Mom’s not sure where we’ll go yet, but we have to get out of our apartment by the end of the week. She’s got a friend that offered a room starting next month. But that’s over three weeks away.”
I’d only met Eva’s mom once before, but I remember instantly thinking she was the type of mom any young artist would want to have. Supportive and encouraging. Motherly, but just hip enough that you wanted her around and weren’t embarrassed to have her meet your friends. And I knew she was also an artist and at one time ran her own pottery studio.
“Well,” I began, taking Eva’s slender fingers into mine. Sometimes actual contact could help emphasize words, like placing physical italics on them through touch. “I’d have to clear it with Ian first, but I happen to know of a bedroom that’s going to need some inhabitants for the next few weeks.”
“Doesn’t sound like a problem to me. In fact, it sounds like the perfect scenario. While I’m gone, I’ll need someone to help out at the co-op, and I can’t think of a better person for that than your mom. Think of it as payment for rent, if you want.”
I didn’t mean to make her cry, but something in my offer started the deluge of what I hoped were happy tears. “Miss Thornton, I can’t. I mean, I don’t know how to...”
“Have your mom call me. I’ll talk it over with Ian, but I’m sure he’ll be fine with it.”
“Fine with what?” Ian’s sharp voice interjected like a blade into our conversation as he entered my room. His messenger bag crossed over his chest and he ran his fingers up and down the strap. I could tell he’d just come from class. The way his shirt was half-tucked into his low-rise jeans also made me wonder if he’d actually been recruited for more modeling. That was definitely a haphazard rush-to-get-dressed look.
“With sharing the apartment with Eva and her mom while I’m in Italy.”
I hadn’t even told Ian about my plans to board a plane tomorrow morning and fly halfway across the world. And here I was springing an entirely new living situation on him. Luckily, he loved me, otherwise he would have every right to be royally pissed.
“No can do. I can’t share.”
Well, I supposed it really wasn’t right of me to ask him in front of Eva. This had quickly become all kinds of uncomfortable, and I’d had a root canal three times, so I was well acquainted with uncomfortable.
“I can’t share, because I won’t be here.” Ian shifted his weight to the tips of his toes and bounced like he had something in him that wanted to burst out, sticks of dynamite trapped in his shoes. “I won’t be here, because I’ll be there.” He flicked a finger out the window, but that really didn’t help to clarify at all. “In Italy with you, Jules.”
“What?” I think I screamed that. I did scream that, because poor Eva jolted upright like I’d just electrocuted her. “You’re going to Italy?”
“Yep. Apparently they were so impressed with my photos that they’ve hired me to document Leo’s travels and the whole process of rebranding his business.”
Well, this day was turning into all kinds of wonderful.
I’d quite accidentally gotten to second base with Leo, helped find a home for a displaced family, and now I was heading to Italy with not only the hottest bachelor in Manhattan, but also with the very best friend I’d ever known.
This was a banner day if ever I’d had one.
“So not only can you and your mother have Jules’ room, but you’re welcome to the whole apartment.” The trickle turned into full-fledged whimpering and the appreciation was evident not only on Eva’s face, but in her tears.
“I don’t know how to thank you.” She shoved her hands to her eyes to dry them.
“No thanks necessary.” With his two strong arms, Ian wrapped her into his chest, his chin resting on top of her head, the way a dad hugs his daughter. “That’s what friends are for.”
***
But I’d had it all wrong this whole time.
Ian was no friend of mine.
“Damn.”
His gaping reflection stared over mine in the bathroom mirror; two eyes wide enough that they had their own reflection shining on their glassy surfaces.
“I know, right?” I gritted my teeth so hard my brain hurt. But my brain had been hurting for the past hour, so I supposed this just added to that persistent, steady dullness. “This doesn’t look right.” I pulled up the app on my phone once more for comparison. “Something went wrong.”
Ian choked on a laugh that he tried to trap within him with about as much success as one has in stopping a sneeze from barreling out. “Why do you look like that?”
I needed more clarification because I wasn’t sure what it was that I looked like. “Like a clown?”
“I was going to say drag queen. But sure, yeah, a clown.” He swiped the phone from my grip and scrolled his finger down the webpage quickly. Maybe he could help me pinpoint what went wrong. “This isn’t paint by number, Jules.”
“Actually, it sorta was. I was supposed to put the highlighting shadow right here where the number one is.” I pointed to the shadow-caked eyelid of the woman in the image with the tip of my nail. “And that darker color where the three is.”
“For a girl that is a fine arts major, I find it not only hysterical, but utterly appalling that you cannot even apply makeup without suspiciously resembling Ru Paul.”
I smiled because saying I looked as good as Ru Paul right now was very generous of him.
“I thought those Pinterest images I pinned for you would make it easier.”
“Nothing on Pinterest is easy, Ian. Pinterest is the virtual playground for overachievers.” Gathering my mascara brush between my fingers, I popped open my mouth and bugged out my eyes, assuming the natural mascara-applying position. “I can’t hang on that playground. I don’t even belong at that park. I’m like Makeup For Dummies status.” Well, now I had two black spiders for eyelashes, and they were so clumpy they look like they’d pooped on them. “Pinterest exists solely for the purpose of reminding those that have no creative bone in their bodies that they totally suck. Then it takes said bone and beats them over the head with it.” My eyelids were glued shut and I started to panic because I really didn’t want this makeup attempt to result in me being blinded. I kind of liked being able to see, especially since lately I had something pretty damn hot to look at. “It’s a brutal, unfair web of reality checks, and they dole out those checks in the form of feelings of failure and inadequacy.”
“The thing is, Jules, you’re incredibly creative when it comes to the arts. It’s when it comes to the basic necessities of life that you fail miserably.”
“True.” Thumbing my chin, I nodded in agreement, because he was absolutely right. This was a total fail. “But I think they have a word for that. It’s called genius.”
“Okay, genius. How about I help you look human again, and then we go take those headshots?”
That’s what started this whole makeup mishap. Apparently not only was Ian supposed to take images of Leo for the upcoming magazine spread, but now I had somehow worked my way into the story. I wasn’t certain if this was Ian’s or Leo’s idea, but it didn’t matter much because I was just relieved that they were veering away from the whole bachelor looking for love spin. If they wanted to move toward documenting their marketing strategy of rebranding, then so be it, even if that was slightly boring and probably wouldn’t sell more than a handful of issues to people that were obligated to buy them like my parents and Ian and Joshua if I could successfully sucker him into it.
“Do you think we can do the headshots another day? I’m not really sure I can scrub this off without leaving a mark.” Bracketing my hands over the counter’s ledge, I leaned toward the mirror to examine the damage.
There was no way this was all coming off. It seriously looked like I’d taken permanent marker to my face, closed my eyes, and scribbled to my heart’s content like a three-year old finger painting. I’d be lucky if some of this wore off by next week. My ineptitude was tattooed all over my face in bright, glittery embarrassment.
“You’re right. We should hold off. Plus, I kinda want to spend some time with Joshua before I leave for three weeks. He wasn’t so thrilled when I broke the news.”
“I bet.”
The whole time Ian had been watching me, his face was strained so much he looked like he was either extremely constipated or had an ingrown toenail. Maybe both. I didn’t like that looking at my face appeared to be a painful experience. He should go see Joshua. I put him through too much misery for one night already. He needed a break and I needed some solitude as I attempted to pressure-wash this disaster off.
After twenty minutes, I gave up, because I was a quitter like
that.
Apparently makeup removal was a full contact sport, and I’d developed a terrible case of tennis elbow, as well as what looked like a black eye due to all of the vigorous scrubbing. I had yet to determine if what resembled bruising was actually that, or if I’d somehow failed at applying normal makeup, but had alternately discovered the hidden talent of making myself look like a post-apocalyptic zombie. I could probably make big bucks for this type of work on a Hollywood movie set. It really was quite convincing.
As I contemplated relocating to Los Angeles to begin a new career in the field of horror-film makeup, someone knocked at the door. Two respectable thunks—not too loud and eager, not too quick to go unnoticed.
But I wanted to ignore it, because it was more than likely Ian. That guy forgot his keys more than anyone I knew. It was as though he actually repelled them because once I’d found them in the garbage disposal of our sink (scared the living daylights out of me when it went all Exorcist as I flicked the switch), and on another occasion they were buried in his cat’s litter box under a week’s worth of kitty crap.
A few weekends ago, I actually took the time to sew little spare-key pockets onto the inside of each pair of his jeans, figuring he wouldn’t leave the house without his pants. But his recent affinity for nude modeling might thwart those attempts to help him keep track. He was officially on his own.
Two more knocks at the front door.
I made my way through the apartment, flung open the door and said, “Did you check in your pants?” all too soon.
Well, I wasn’t sure if there was ever a good time to say that. But as a general rule of thumb, you should probably be 100% sure who it was that you were asking about the contents of their pants before you asked it.
“Is there something missing in my pants?” Leo still had his hand raised and balled up in a fist as though readying for another knock. “Because I’m pretty sure everything is there.”
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