by A. Constanza
Let Me Fall in Love
Copyright ©2020 A. Constanza. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Germancreative
Editing: Kathy Bosman, Indie Editing Chick
Beta Readers: Kelly Lord, Niccole Tom, Alicia Maggiore
Dedication
This book is dedicated to those who want to give love a second chance.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THRITY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
ONE
Estella
Past
Something about the tune took me back. I couldn’t place it—an original maybe—but it didn’t matter. The mellow feel of the piano solo, note melting into note, moved me to a simpler time. Men wore tuxedos, and ladies wore pearls and fancy dresses, and waiters in red vests swept between candlelit tables while jazz filled the air, inspiring couples to look fondly at each other. The girls and I were very under-dressed and under-aged for the occasion.
We all wanted to celebrate our first night in Paris as official students of the University of Paris, but this wasn’t what the girls had in mind. Everyone came from different regions of the United States, and we only had one semester to study abroad in the city of love. Everyone ached to have their first wild night with some hot stranger, but I didn’t care too much for that.
“We’ve been here for an hour, and it’s so dead. Everyone’s either old or married”.” Juliet threw a balled-up napkin onto the table.
“I heard some other girls talking about a nightclub twenty minutes from the university. The night is still young; we can catch a cab,” Lucille said.
A nightclub didn’t sound like the most ideal night. The loud, electronic dance music, the intoxicated, raving people, and all the pressing bodies sounded more like torture. I didn’t mind being seated in a closed-off booth and listening to the piano solo. This was one of those places where the music became more subdued over time and you left in the early morning.
Cream-colored tablecloths, ebony furnishings, only the clarinet and a subdued piano, a pair of waiters clearing out the abandoned tables—this place was real. I wished the rest of the group had the ability to appreciate the beauty of this hidden gem.
“I’m in,” Charlotte replied with a shrug.
“I’ll ask the hostess to call us a cab,” Lucille said, exiting the booth.
Everyone took their last sips and munched on the few pieces of calamari. I was still trying to muster up the courage to tell them that I wasn’t going to tag along. It wouldn’t be ideal to be out on my own, but I preferred solitude over a chaotic dance club.
Lucille returned, retrieving a red lipstick from her purse. “It’ll be here in five minutes. I’m going to the bathroom to touch up; anyone want to join?”
Juliet and Charlotte eagerly scooted out of the booth. “Coming?” they asked, noticing that I hadn’t moved a muscle.
“I’m going to stay. You all go on and have fun.” I offered a small smile.
Everyone exchanged awkward glances and walked away, not paying me any more mind.
The concept of time was nonexistent for me that night. Little by little, the tables were cleared up, and I could see companions bidding farewell to each other and sauntering out to the waiting station to hail a cab. I remained in the booth, alone, doodling on the scrunched-up napkin that Juliet had thrown down earlier.
I tried not to look around, to become oblivious that the place was closing down for the night because I had been spellbound to the violin’s lulling notes. The seduction of the beautiful instrument and my thoughts were all I needed that night.
As much as I wanted to stay, I couldn’t keep the musicians and workers waiting. They clearly weren’t going to dismiss me; I had to do it myself. That’s when I saw a tall, lean figure with his back toward me and his front to the stage. He caught the eye of the musicians and nodded as they played the last, lingering note of the enchanting piece, cuing them to put away their sheet music.
It was my time to go.
I reluctantly pushed away the drawing that I had made and surveyed the room one last time. At the same time, the dark figure had turned around and he had caught my eye. Our gaze lingered a second or two—not long, but unusually pleasant. Everything about him was beautiful: dark, chocolate-brown curly hair, cognac-colored eyes behind tortoise-shell glasses, sun-kissed skin, and an inviting smirk. He made his way over to the booth, sliding his hands into his pants.
“Well, you certainly seemed to have been enjoying the music,” he said. His words had a slight accent—Italian maybe. He reached over and grabbed the singular peony from the vase, handing it to me.
Had he been watching me or was it a justified assumption considering that I was the only other person in the room?
“It was beautiful; how could I not?” I responded, fiddling with the flower.
He sat across from me, not giving it another thought. I smiled in approval, acknowledging his audacity with only a sideways glance.
“It’s very nice,” he said, looking at the sketch I had drawn on the napkin.
Insecurity crept in, and my fingers scurried over to the thin cloth, pulling it away from his sight. It was a silly drawing of a faceless woman with an array of instruments swirling around her.
“Nothing of real talent,” I played off.
A waiter, with his vest half-buttoned, popped into the main area. “Sir, I’m the last one out. Would you like me to lock up?”
The man looked at me. “Do you have far to go?”
“I’ll have to catch a cab,” I said, noticing the time on my phone. “If there is one this late on a Monday at 1 a.m.,” I whispered, doubtfully.
“Sir?” the waiter called.
“You go home,” the mysterious man responded. “I’ll do it.”
The waiter bowed his head and disappeared.
“I’d be glad to drive you. Walking in this rain wouldn’t be too fun.” He spoke sincerely and without hesitation. “I’ll just need to get my keys from upstairs.” He smiled kindly, and after a polite objection, polite insistence in return, we were walking together between the tables.
“Well, before I go with you…”
“Only for my keys.” He chuckled.
&nbs
p; “Nevertheless, what is your name?” I asked.
“Lorenzo,” he said. “And yours?”
“Estella,” I responded.
“What is an American doing in Paris?”
“I’m studying abroad for the semester.”
“What are you studying?” he asked as he led me to the mahogany-lined elevator.
“I’m still figuring it out,” I said honestly. “I came for an adventure, and I’m not sure what I’ll end up with.”
“Paris has a lot to offer,” he said.
“You seem like you’re speaking from experience.”
“I have a lot.” He chuckled.
“How can I trust you?” I asked playfully but concerned that I made the decision to retrieve keys with a complete stranger. He looked older than me by five years or so.
“I wouldn’t want to hurt you,” he said, seeming genuine.
Just then, the elevator opened, and he placed his hand over the frame of the elevator to allow me into the elevator. He pressed the only other number on the keypad, and the door closed.
“You’re lucky to live above the restaurant, to hear beautiful music play every night. Most of my nights are spent listening to typical party music.” It was obvious that my taste in music differed from everyone else in the dormitory.
The elevator opened its doors in direct access to his studio. There’s wasn’t much but a king-sized bed at the end of the room draped with a plush, blue comforter, half a kitchen, a gray couch, a wall lined with books, and a…
“Grand piano,” I whispered in awe.
“Ah, yes, my prized possession. All of it really; it’s my getaway,” he said. “It was why I had bought this place, so that I could lie in bed at night and listen to the muted sounds of the jazz orchestras as I drifted off to sleep on those much-needed nights.”
My gaze didn’t part from the beautiful, glisten-black Fazioli piano. It was considered the best grand piano of all time. I’ve always wanted to run my fingers across the inviting keys. My papa refined pianos and knew how to play well—nothing like a composer but with the skill of a true enthusiast. The piano reminded me of him. I had been so mesmerized by his playing skills that I decided to take on piano.
“You can try it out,” Lorenzo suggested, giving me a convincing smile.
“Are you sure?” I hesitated.
“Yes.” He nodded.
I wasn’t going to have him tell me again—along with not wanting the offer to be retracted—I eagerly sat on the accompanied black bench and absorbed the view of the glorious keys. Elation was all I felt just by sitting in plain view of the piano. The music which would be created from the piano would be nothing short of magical.
My finger hovered over one of the keys, and I gasped when he opened his mouth. “I’m going to lock up until we are ready to go,” he said.
Lorenzo was willing to offer some privacy which I appreciated. A man with a piano this high-end had to have been a piano master which meant being scrutinized. With Lorenzo’s absence, I found it easier to gain the courage to play.
It was easy for me to lose all concept of time whenever I played the piano, but I was certain that Lorenzo had been gone longer than needed. I lifted away from the piano bench and made my way to the elevator when it slowly came into sight.
“I’m sorry, I had to take a phone call. You play very well,” he said.
I could feel all the blood rush to my cheeks. A handsome gentleman who, I presumed, could play well complimenting me? I was in disbelief.
“Do you mind if I show you some techniques?” Lorenzo offered, rolling his sleeves up and unbuttoning the first two buttons of his navy-blue dress shirt. He reminded me of a relaxed man that waltzed out of a painting depicting the 1960s. All he needed was a cigarette.
Lorenzo sat at the edge of the bench, his posture straight and upright, his arms relaxed and in front of him. His long fingers immediately lost themselves in the sea of ivory keys. They darted back and forth with so much poise. Lorenzo was undoubtedly classically trained; even his style of music was a mixture between romantic classical and meditative.
I couldn’t recall the piece he was playing, but it would have been no surprise if it was an original. Lorenzo had my undivided attention as he played the rest of the wistful piece. The music ended, and his hands landed on top of mine, guiding them over to the keys. His touch felt like fire, and it burned me so beautifully.
Lorenzo spent the early morning hours showing me how to perfect a piece that I had written. It wasn’t easy for me to open up to people, especially male strangers, but I shot him trusting gazes to which he took as a personal compliment. Playing the piano to anyone else but an empty seat made me feel vulnerable—naked even. Over time, I became more confident in our playing. In us playing together.
The muscles in his forearm and arms twitched as he extended them out to reach the high keys. His arm brushed against my breasts, and it created a whirlwind in my chest. Along with the scent of his cologne, it was difficult to pay attention, but I tried my best.
I didn’t want to physically show that I had been defeated by all our playing, but we all had our breaking points. I lifted my face upward, stretching my neck as I leaned back, feeling the strain on my shoulders that managed to support my frame for so long.
Lorenzo removed himself from the bench and ended up behind me. “I’ve forgotten the toll playing for endless hours can have on a person,” he said. “I thoroughly enjoyed helping with your piece. Your talent is a gift.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, trying to conceal my schoolgirl smile. “Honestly, I feel like I should pay you to thank you for allowing me to use your piano and the upscale lessons.”
“I believe it was more of a pleasure for me,” he said. “I’ve never met a girl who enjoyed the piano as much as me.” He gave me a look that made my insides squirm, rendering me useless. “Well, I know it’s longer than you probably intended, but could I take you home?” he asked, extending his corded arm out.
“Of course,” I said, taking his hand.
I wasn’t sure if it was the lack of sleep, or if it was a universal sign, but there was a surge of electricity that passed between us. I made sure it didn’t physically alter me, but it didn’t leave my mind.
As I stood up, his face grew closer to mine, more of his shadow cast upon me. He towered over my five-four frame perhaps by a good eight inches. He watched me as my eyes slowly closed, my lips parted, my chin raised slightly toward him, and my soft palm slid along his arm to his shoulder. His palms were now upon my cheek, and his lips traveled to mine, kissing them.
I had kissed exactly three boys in my life, and it was clear that I had been kissing just that, boys. Lorenzo was not a boy but a man. A man in all its essence. Tall, athletically lean, gorgeous thick curls, a chiseled chin, mesmerizing eyes that could break my heart in a second.
I hadn’t imagined such soft, full lips, melding passionately with my own, his teeth gently nipping at mine and mine at his, and then his tongue colliding with mine in a passionate embrace. Being there with him didn’t feel real, but yet every part of me felt like I had been experiencing Heaven on Earth with him.
Cradling my head in his hands as he kissed me, guiding us away from the piano, he delicately pushed my body against the bed and drew away for a moment to confirm with another glance that this was really happening. It was my first sexual encounter with a man, and although my mind was uncertain about this situation, my legs parted for him which allowed him to go in between them.
The world felt simultaneously frenzied but calibrated. This was real. I was going to sleep with a man that I didn’t know yet made romantic music with through the early hours of the morning. We were going to finalize our piece by making it come to life with our bodies.
His fingers traveled up my legs in search of my underwear. He gently pulled them down, every second feeling like an eternity as he prepared to play his best piece yet. I knew then and there that he w
ould become the master of my melodic universe.
TWO
“Lorenzo”
Present
The waitress brought our freshly brewed coffee to the table and nodded her head before leaving us to discuss on the patio. I wasn’t one to drink much coffee, especially in the middle of the day, but it was much needed when all your best friend did was talk your ear off. He certainly didn’t need that extra kick of energy or else I would never be able to keep up with him.
At first, he spoke about one of his restaurants being forced to shut down temporarily due to an irresponsible employee, then proceeded to tell me about his most recent fight with his fiancée, and immediately asked for opinions of venues for his wedding. Marcelo had only dated Camilla for a couple of months until he decided to propose to her, and I personally thought it was one of the most reckless mistakes he had made in the whole twenty years I had known him.
I reached over for my freshly brewed coffee and placed the rim to my mouth, only to be greeted by a horrendous taste. It was a disappointment, and more so that Marcelo Moretti, a Michelin-star chef, had suggested the café. That, or I really hated coffee.
The coffee was as depressing as the new restaurant. The walls were beige, unadorned, the tables were bare, and although the patio had a fantastic view of the lake, it had no life to it. That was one aspect of Castel Nuovo, Italy that bothered me the wrong way: it was bland.
There was Castel Nuovo—where I resided—and Castel Vecchio—the heart of the city. Castel, Italy was a providence that had been separated into two towns, old and new, by a bridge. Castel Nuovo consisted of large villas, luxurious hotels with spas, and high-end shopping centers. Anyone with money lived on my side of the providence, but everything seemed so lifeless. As if being rich meant having no taste or eye for beauty.
Everything in Castel Vecchio looked small and uniformed from my view of the city, but I knew that once you were in it, it was lively and friendly. There were grandmothers selling homemade sweets, artists showcasing their finished products, restaurants with authentic Italian food, and genuine people. The only downfall was that they weren’t as tech-friendly and when you were the COO of the world’s most well-known international real estate and construction company, you couldn’t exactly go incognito. Especially, when your father was the catalyst of the separation of the cities to distinguish the poor from the rich.
