It’s not happening.
It’s impossible, in fact.
I decide this twenty-eight minutes later as I stare into the mirror.
I do, and always will until the end of time, look like the girl next door. It is my curse. My eternal fate. They’re probably going to put it on my tombstone.
Here lies Reece Ellis, the cute little girl next door.
There’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve tried a thousand times to be a bombshell, but it’s just not going to work for me.
My blonde hair is a pretty color with high and low lights, but it’s not sleek and sophisticated and doesn’t even have sexy round curls by any stretch of the imagination. It’s wavy. Just wavy. Like it couldn’t make up its mind what it wanted to be. And for lack of something better or more creative, it’s clipped back in a barrette right now. My hair straightener is in my checked luggage which is still being held at Schiphol airport. I only have what I was carrying in my carry-on.
And it’s true that my eyes are a pretty blue. But they always seem to sparkle, which makes me seem young. And pair that trait with the smattering of light freckles on my nose, and I will forever be the dreaded girl next door, not a glamorous Marilyn Monroe type of girl. I sigh. Oh well. I’ll just have to resign myself to being more like Doris Day. That’s okay. There are worse things in the world, probably.
And why am I comparing myself to classic movie stars, anyway?
A knock on my door interrupts my ridiculous musings.
He’s here. Right on time. Right outside my door, actually. My heart picks up again as I open my door and then I inhale deeply, trying not to hyperventilate.
Dante is more beautiful than he was before and he practically fills my doorframe. Was he this tall yesterday? He’s wearing a pair of khaki shorts, a white t-shirt and a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
He’s casual and smooth and sophisticated, everything that I want to be but am not. I’m a farm girl, born and raised and I have never been more aware of that fact than I am right now. I fight the urge to stuff my hands in my pockets to hide my peeling purple nail polish.
“Good morning,” Dante tells me again. His smile is radiant and dazzling and my knees literally grow weak from staring at it.
Trembly knees, much?
“Good morning,” I smile what I hope is a confident smile.
“You look lovely,” he announces, his blue eyes warm. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a baby,” I lie.
He cocks his head and the light catches the gold in his hair.
“Do you know that saying that would actually indicate that you slept horribly? Babies wake up a million times in the night. It’s the same thing as when people say that they eat like a bird when they mean to convey that they don’t eat much. It’s not accurate. Birds actually eat half their body weight every day. They have such a high metabolism that they need all of those calories.”
I stare at him.
“Thank you, Encyclopedia Brown,” I tell him with a smile. He is a refreshing change. Where I come from, guys don’t think it’s cool to be that smart.
“Who?”
I’m astounded for a second, then remember that kids might not read the same books in Caberra as I did growing up.
“A fictional character,” I answer. “He was a kid who was super smart and solved mysteries. Never mind.”
Dante looks amused. “Do you think I’m super-smart, or are you making fun of me? American humor is sometimes lost on me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of making fun of you,” I exaggerate as I grab my purse. “Unless you do something truly hilarious.”
He looks amused again. “I’ll take that under advisement.” The corner of his lip twitches. “Just for clarification, though, how would you define ‘truly hilarious’?”
I consider that.
“Um. If your drawers fell off while speaking to the Prime Minister of Britain, maybe. That would be pretty hilarious, especially if it was televised. Or if you accidentally texted your mom a private text meant for your girlfriend. That would be hi-lar-ious too.”
Nice. I’m probing to see if he has a girlfriend and he won’t even realize it. I’m the definition of smooth operator. Not.
He rolls his eyes.
“Well, there’s a couple of problems. First, I don’t wear drawers. I wear underwear. I wear trousers. I wear pants. But drawers? You Americans and your crazy-talk.” He pauses to grin. “Second, I don’t have a mom. Or not anymore, I mean. She died when I was a baby. But even still. You seriously think those things are funny? You’re a mean-spirited little thing.”
He smiles and nudges me, but I am appalled. His mother is dead and I made a joke about him accidentally sexting her? Did I say that I was a smooth operator? Not hardly. More like WorldClassFreakingIdiot.
Before I can apologize or say anything at all, he continues.
“Now then. Are you ready for a day on the most beautiful beach in the world?”
He smiles his gorgeous smile and I nod mutely, like the WorldClassFreakingIdiot that I am.
Dante holds his elbow out for me to take and I realize once again that boys are different here. They have manners. Real manners. Not just the “I’ll hold the obligatory door for you so that I can get into your pants later” manners like the boys do back home. I grip his elbow lightly and we wind our way through the Old Palace. I try not to act overwhelmed at its size and fanciness again today.
I’m casually aloof.
I think.
As we spill out onto the cobblestone sidewalk in front of the palace, I look around for a car.
“Did you lose something?” Dante asks in concern.
I shake my head. “I was just wondering where your car is.”
He stares at me for a second, then smiles. “We don’t need a car today. The beach isn’t far. But first, I thought we’d stop and get a gelato on the way. It’s the best in the world here, better than even Italy. You’re going to die.”
“Gelato for breakfast?” I quickly scan my memory for what gelato actually is. It’s clearly something Italian.
“Why not?” Dante shrugs. “I think we should always eat dessert first.”
So gelato is dessert. Got it. I make a mental note.
We wind our way casually along the busy sidewalks of Valese. I can’t help but notice that women literally stop what they are doing to gawk at Dante. Then they stare at me curiously, probably wondering who the heck I am. I can hear pictures being snapped and I realize that Dante is a celebrity here.
Gulp. I slightly tighten my hold on his arm.
So, to recap, Dante is a gorgeous, beautiful son of a Prime Minister who happens to be a billionaire. And these things combine to make him a local celebrity. He’s like the Caberran version of Princess William or Harry.
Good Lord.
I am so over my head here.
Breathe, I silently instruct my lungs. I suck in a mouthful of sea air. It smells really good here. Like salt, sun and…something else. I can’t put my finger on it.
“Have you ever been clam digging?” Dante asks conversationally as we cross the street. Traffic literally stops for him. We don’t even have to watch where we’re going. They are watching for us. I shake my head.
“No. I’m from the heartland of America. There are no oceans where I’m from, trust me. Just fields and fields of wheat and some sunflowers. They’re the only things hearty enough to survive the soul-sucking heat.”
“That sounds charming,” Dante laughs. “You paint a lovely picture of your home.” He speaks in Caberran to a street vendor, who scoops two scoops of fluorescent fuchsia-colored gelato into two bowls and hands them to us.
I study mine.
“I’m pretty sure ice cream isn’t supposed to be this color,” I announce to Dante.
He rolls his eyes again. “It’s gelato, not ice cream. Try it. You might faint from the sheer deliciousness. Trust me. Prepare yourself.”
He scoops a huge spoonful
into his mouth and I hear more pictures being snapped of him. Dante seems oblivious to it as he stares at me, waiting for me to try the unnaturally colored ice cream.
I will never let it be said that I am a chicken so I take a tentative bite. And Dante was right. I almost swoon from the sheer deliciousness.
“Holy cow,” I breathe as I stick another huge bite into my mouth and savor the explosion of cold flavor as it melts on my tongue. It’s like a little frozen piece of fruity heaven. In my mouth.
“How have I lived seventeen years without gelato?”
Dante laughs and we continue walking, looking into quaint shop windows and dodging the people who keep stopping directly in our path to stare.
“Do you ever get tired of that?” I ask quietly as we round the side of a store and walk down a worn path toward the beautiful sandy beach. The ocean yawns huge and blue in front of us. I kneel for a quick second to pick up a perfect white seashell.
“Get tired of what?” Dante glances at me as he scrapes the bottom of his bowl with his spoon already, before tossing it into a nearby receptacle.
“That,” I motion behind us at the people still clustered in groups watching our backs. “They watch you and take pictures of you.”
“Oh, that,” he shrugs. “It’s been that way since my father was appointed PM. I guess it just comes with the territory.”
I glance over my shoulder. “Do they follow you?”
He looks pained. “Sometimes.”
But right now, they aren’t. They are still staring though, as we descend into a sand dune and out of their sight. I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s slightly unnerving to have so many people watching. I stoop down and slip my sandals off. Walking on the soft sand feels wonderful on my feet. Plus, it might exfoliate my rough soles. Bonus.
As I look around, I realize something. All of a sudden, we are alone. Truly alone. This beach is empty. It stretches out like a long, silvery ribbon and I turn to Dante.
“Where is everyone?” I ask curiously. “It’s beautiful here. Shouldn’t there be surfers out or something?”
“They don’t use this beach,” he tells me. “There are too many sharks out here by this coral reef. There are better surfing spots on the other side of the island.”
Sharks?
I freeze and Dante notices the instant fear on my face, put there as a result of seeing Jaws at a very young age. He picks up my hand and holds it, letting our adjoined hands dangle loosely between us. The jolting sensation of his skin against mine is an effective distraction.
“Don’t worry,” he assures me. “I’ll never let a shark get you. While you are here with me in Caberra, I give you my word that nothing bad will happen to you.”
Not two minutes after his promise, I step on a jellyfish.
Chapter Five
Within five minutes, my calf has swollen to five times its normal size. Apparently, I’m very allergic to jellyfish. But seriously, how would I have known this before? Being from Kansas, it has never been on my list of life experiences until now.
And now I look like I have some strange version of Elephantiasis.
And the most beautiful boy in the world is carrying me back to a bench.
And I am mortified. Utterly mortified.
Omigosh. Just kill me now.
Right now.
“Are you feeling alright?” Dante asks and his breathing is only slightly labored even though he’s been carrying me for five minutes already. I weigh 124 pounds. I am no feather. But he’s not even breaking a sweat. Impressive.
“I feel fine. Except for my leg. Why do you ask?”
But even as the words exit my mouth, I feel the waves of nausea coming on. I am instantly overwhelmed by sickness, by the uncontrollable need to vomit. Saliva pools in my mouth and I know it is coming.
“Put me down. Oh my gosh. Put me down,” I practically claw at his arms and he sets me quickly down. I drop onto my hands and knees and before I even know it, I am puking at his feet. Not on them, thankfully, but at them.
I retch until there’s nothing left in my belly. A horrible, bright fuchsia-colored vomit. Even when there is nothing left to vomit, I dry-heave over and over until I am resting limply on the sand.
And now I really want to die.
Right here.
Right now.
I can’t even bring myself to look up at Dante, but as my wits slowly return to me, I realize that he has been holding my hair back for me.
OhMyGosh.
JustLetMedie.
“I want to die,” I moan, not looking at him. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Dante asks incredulously. “Sorry for getting sick after you got stung by a jellyfish? Um, that’s a natural reaction. That’s why I asked how you were feeling. Don’t feel bad. I know that it hurts like a bitch. Come on,” he pulls me to my feet. “We really need to have a doctor look at you, just to make sure you’re okay. Are you having trouble breathing?”
Of course the second that he says that, I imagine my throat swelling closed and I clutch at it, sucking in air like a crazy person.
Dante’s gaze flickers over me in concern and he strokes my back lightly.
“Calm down,” he instructs softly. “Relax. I think you’re fine. Just relax.”
I realize that he’s right as I take deep, slow breaths. I can breathe. I am just overreacting as I often do. My throat is not swelling closed. I am not dying, after all.
I take four more shaking breaths and then nod.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
Unless a person can die of embarrassment. And if that’s the case, then I’m at death’s door.
“This is so embarrassing,” I groan.
Dante grins.
“Hmm. This is probably Karma’s way of getting back at you for thinking that it would be hilarious if I lost my trousers in front of the PM of Britain. Just sayin’.”
I feel too sick to smile, but he’s funny. Really funny.
“And just for the record, I don’t think it’s hilarious that you’re having an allergic reaction to a jellyfish.”
He’s sweet, too.
Dante wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into his side so that I am leaning heavily on him as we walk. It’s a protective gesture that instantly makes my heart go pitty-pat.
But my leg still hurts and I still look like the Elephant Man’s long lost sister.
And I probably smell like vomit.
We slowly make our way back up the beach until we reach the quaint stretch of shops once again. People are still staring, even more so now that Dante is with such a freak. I try not to look anyone in the eye. Maybe if I can’t see them, they can’t see me either. The click of cameras, though, lets me know that I’m delusional. Not only can they see me, but they are documenting my swollen and bloated look for posterity’s sake. Fabulous.
And just when I think that this morning can’t get any worse, a fake voice so sugary-sweet that it could practically be used to bake cookies with floats down the sidewalk.
“Dante Giliberti! You were supposed to call me the instant that you were back in town.”
I know even before I turn to look that the owner of the voice is gorgeous. The level of confidence that it contains betrays that fact because only the beautiful sound so sure of themselves. Dante is grinning like he’s just won the lottery so I reluctantly turn to see who we are dealing with.
It’s Miss America.
Or, Miss Caberra, rather. I’m sure of it. She has to be.
Perfect russet colored hair, not red, but not quite brown, flows perfectly down her back. Her legs are two miles long, her skin lightly tanned to a golden sheen, her teeth are brilliantly white, and her face. Oh, her face. Michelangelo himself could have used her as a model. She is perfection personified, there’s no doubt about that.
Her deep emerald green eyes assess me thoroughly and shrewdly for a moment, evaluating any threat that I might pose to her. After all, I’m clutching Dante’s arm. Her eyes fl
icker down to my swollen, grotesque leg and then back up at my face. Is that amusement that I see in her face right before she dismisses me and turns back to speak with Dante?
Bitch.
Utter bitch. I can tell right now.
But Dante seems oblivious.
“Elena!” he smiles and releases my arm so that he can embrace Miss Perfect. She kisses him on both cheeks in what I have learned is a European custom. I try not to seethe with jealousy. He turns to me.
“Reece, this is Elena Kontou. We’ve known each other since we were toddlers. Her father is my father’s best friend. They live on the estate just south of Giliberti Olives.”
My stomach plummets into my toes. This is even worse than I had thought.
Miss Perfect has a long-standing claim to Dante. And I can see in her eyes that she’s not relinquishing it any time soon. She extends a slender, well-bred hand toward me. Her rings cut into my hand as she shakes it.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Reece. Are you here for an extended visit? Dante didn’t tell me that he was expecting company.”
She turns her beautiful green eyes toward Dante for an explanation which leaves me wondering how much they actually share with each other. Do they talk about everything?
Dante quickly gives her the run-down of what had happened in Amsterdam and I can see the instant she decides that I’m not a threat to her. Her face lightens right up.
“Oh!” she exclaims. “Then you’ve witnessed firsthand Dante’s heroic tendencies. He saved my life once. I fell off of his father’s yacht and I can’t swim. Dante dove right in and pulled me out of the ocean.”
“She should have been wearing a life-jacket,” Dante interjects, “But she didn’t want to mess up her tan.” He rolls his eyes good-naturedly and Elena nudges him.
“Who needs a life jacket when I have you?” She smiles up at him and bats her eyelashes and I want to throw up. And this time, my nausea has nothing to do with the jellyfish that just tried to kill me.
Elena turns to me. “How long will you be here?” she asks innocently. “I’ll have to show you around Valese. And what happened to your leg?”
Dante's Girl (The Paradise Diaries) Page 4