Pia’s father, though, was quite pleased her boyfriend was present, and less so that I was.
He and Paolo spoke in Italian most of the night, no matter how much scolding the countess gave them.
I didn’t care. In fact, if neither said a word to me ever again, that would be perfectly okay by me.
I couldn’t say the same for Pia. The longer the meal stretched on, along with the more wine she drank, the longer the daggers became she shot in her boyfriend’s direction.
“Come with me,” she said, shortly after we finished eating the main course. She grabbed my hand and took off running through the vineyard, trailing me—the clambering elephant to Pia’s gazelle—behind her.
When we came out of the other side of the long row of grapevines, the setting sun cast first the shorter wavelengths of violet and blue and, within what seemed like seconds, the longer ones of red, yellow, and orange upon the pool of water in front of us.
“Do you know how to swim?” she asked, slowly unbuttoning the tiny beads on the front of her dress.
“Of course I do, but…”
“But…what?”
“I don’t have my togs.”
“Togs?”
“Swim trunks.”
“You English, so prosaici.”
I stepped closer and wrapped my hands around her wrists, stopping her from undressing further. I turned her in my arms so she faced away from me. “What’s going on, Pia? Is your boyfriend ignoring you?”
She struggled, but I held on tight.
“What do you think will happen if he finds us swimming together? Will he pay attention then?”
“Non so di che cosa stai parlando.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” I said, perhaps surprising her that I understood. I let her go, and she spun back around on me. Before she could speak, I grasped her arms. “Don’t use me to make him jealous.”
“Sei pazzo.”
I let her go and walked away. Instead of going in the direction of the villa, I turned toward the farmhouse, leaving the beautiful, breathtaking Pia standing alone in the rays of the setting sun.
“Where did you run off to last night?” my mum asked the next morning when I came downstairs.
“I didn’t feel well.”
She raised a brow. “You and Pia left at the same time.”
I loaded my plate with fruit and walked out to the terrazza where my father sat reading.
“Enjoying your time in Italy?” he asked, peering up at me with a smirk.
I shook my head and smiled, like him, noticing that Pia was headed our way.
2
Pia
With fists clenched, I stalked down the hillside to the farmhouse where Mylos was staying with his parents. Last night was the second time he’d walked away from me—dismissed me—and I was furiosa.
When my mamma told me an English family with a sixteen-year-old boy would be staying in the farmhouse for the summer, I never would’ve guessed Mylos was that boy.
He wasn’t. He was a man. I watched him that first day when he waited while his mother got ripped off by the merchants at the market. Believe me, once they left, I gave them a piece of my Deltetto mind.
“We will not look favorably on your cheating our friends,” I warned them. I hated imbroglioni—cheaters—which was why I’d reacted so badly when Mylos told me he saw Paolo in the village with “someone.”
I’d longed suspected he saw other girls even though he swore he didn’t. He said it was my own insecurity making me believe he’d cheat. That was true, at least in part.
We were children when we first met. My father and Paolo’s were friends, and he came with his parents to visit. I was a skinny, awkward kid, and he was handsome enough to be a movie star.
When we were older and he came to visit again, I was stunned when he asked me to go on a date with him.
In my mind, I was still the awkward kid and he the movie star. There were times I still wondered why he was interested in sixteen-year-old me—especially since I wouldn’t “put out” like he wanted me to.
But back to Mylos—he was always on my mind these days. In fact, Paolo and I had been arguing about him when he heard us shouting at each other. Paolo had caught me daydreaming, and when he asked if it was about the boy, I corrected him and said he was a man. Stupida, I know. He’d caught me off guard, and before Mylos was around, I was never off guard.
That first day, when he stood with his back to me, his arms folded on the roof of the Fiat his parents had rented, I felt a longing unlike any I’d ever known. I got lost in the way his tight, firm ass looked in his shorts. His legs were sinewy and muscular, and his back and shoulders were broad and chiseled.
When he turned around, I could see the outline of his taut abs through his t-shirt. Not to mention, I almost crossed myself when I lowered my eyes to the bulge between his legs. Santa Madre di Dio.
He didn’t notice, though. I couldn’t say whether I was relieved or disappointed. Instead, his smoldering, brown, deep-set eyes looked me up and down like I was a sweet, innocent Italian signorina in my little flowered dress.
It wasn’t like I was a puttana, but I wasn’t completely innocent either. The temptation I felt that day, looking at the man-boy who smiled at me, was shameful. When I went to bed that night, I imagined that Mylos was the man who would finally take my virginity, and I would take his. I don’t know how I knew he was still innocente, but I did. The idea of it fueled fantasies so intense, I nearly called out his name when my fingers brought me to release.
I could see him now on the terrazza with his father. He came out, set a plate on the table, and then watched me as I walked toward him. Even at only sixteen, he was taller than Paolo. The stubble covering his chin was dark like his hair and made him look older.
There was nothing about Mylos that screamed ragazzo. He was all sculpted, strapping, hard uomo.
“Good morning, Pia,” he said with a smirk when I approached.
“Buongiorno, Mylos, Signore Stone.” His father waved before standing, picking up his plate, and going inside.
“Would you like some fruit?” Mylos asked, motioning to his plate.
“Sì.” I reached over and took a handful of grapes. “Grazie.”
“Why are you here, Pia?”
“You were wrong last night.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Was I?”
“Paolo and I…he doesn’t own me.”
Mylos pulled out a chair and motioned for me to sit. When I did, so did he.
“We are dating. That is all.”
He bent his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. “What you do, or don’t do, is none of my business.”
“You wouldn’t swim with me last night.”
“No. I wouldn’t. Not like that.”
“Not like that. What does that mean?”
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He was close enough that I could reach out and touch his face.
“Tell me the truth, Pia. If your boyfriend hadn’t been talking to your father all night, would you still have pulled me away from dinner to go swimming?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
He sat back and laughed. “You’re a liar.”
I should be offended, but he was right. I was lying. When I didn’t say anything, he leaned forward again. This time, he touched my arm with his fingertip.
“If you want to swim with me, then invite me, but not because you’re trying to make another guy jealous. Do it because you want to spend time with me.”
“Do you have a brother?”
His eyes scrunched. “No. Why?”
I shook my head and looked out over the vineyard. “It is impossible that you are sixteen.”
He laughed, but it didn’t bother me. Not like it did when Paolo laughed at me.
“Go swimming with me,” I blurted.
“I’d like that. When?”
His gentle touch on my arm gave me chills. I shuddered a
nd moved away from him. “Tonight, at sunset.”
“No Paolo?”
“No.”
He grabbed my hand before I could move farther away. It felt so good, so strong. I longed for him to pull me into his arms and kiss me. I wouldn’t have cared who saw, even Paolo.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
My cheeks flushed; I could feel them. “Why?”
“Because I think I’d like whatever it is.”
I shook my head, pulled my hand from his, and walked away.
“Ci vediamo presto, Mylos.”
“Quando il sole tramonta, Pia.”
“Sì, when the sun sets.”
The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. I checked the time again and again while I worked in the winery office. It took almost a year after the first time I’d asked, for my father to allow me to help. It was only after I showed him how our computers could spit out reports in minutes, instead of the hours he spent poring through handwritten journals, that he finally consented.
Now, though, he expected the reports no later than noon each day and sometimes additional ones at closing time. I’d created a monster, but I loved every minute I spent working here, whether it was doing things like running reports or being in the winery itself, recording the readings on the fermentation tanks.
I pulled the papers from the printer and looked them over. Sales for the vintages we’d just released were strong; my father would be pleased. Perhaps it would soften him up enough that he wouldn’t scold me for spending time with Mylos.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Dio mio, Georgio! You scared me.”
“You’re lost in thought.”
I turned my chair to face him. Georgio and I had been friends since we were ragazzi. His mamma was our cook. Nonna Bella, as everyone called her, and Georgio lived in a piccola casa on the estate.
Lucia, the third in our band of makeshift musketeers, was the daughter of Elio and Carina Cesare. Her father was the head winemaker for Valentini, and her mother was our housekeeper. Her family didn’t live on the estate, so she wasn’t around as much as Georgio. Since none of us had brothers or sisters, we’d become like siblings to one another.
I bent my elbow on the desk and rested my chin in my hand. “I’m going to break up with Paolo.”
“Good. È un lecchino—always kissing up to your papà.”
I shrugged. Georgio was right. However, my father was as much to blame.
Paolo’s family owned an estate and winery in Chianti bigger than ours. While he was the second son and unable to inherit, my parents saw him as a good match for me. Something told me my papà had started planning our arranged union shortly after I was born.
I shuddered. I was far too young to be thinking of things like marriage—to anyone. Time to change the subject. “So, how are you, Georgio?”
“Hot. Bored.”
“Me too.” July in Tuscany could be miserable. August was worse, which was why millions of Italians took their holiday then.
“Let’s sneak off to the beach. You, me, and Lucia.”
I swatted his arm. “Sneak off? Sei pazzo.”
“Come on, you know you want to.”
I laughed. “You have to work, and so do I.”
Three years ago, Georgio had started working in the winery. This year, he was promoted to an apprentice to the head winemaker.
“We’re too young to be working all the time.”
I rolled my eyes. “Georgio, you were the one who wanted to work in the winery. Now you’re saying you don’t?”
“I’m saying we can take a couple of days off.”
I shook my head and went back to compiling my father’s reports.
“Anyway, I’m glad you’re going to break up with Paolo. I never liked him.”
I laughed. “You’ve never liked any of my boyfriends.”
“I can’t help it if I don’t think anyone is good enough for you.”
When the door opened and my papà walked in, Georgio immediately stood to leave. “See you later, Pia.”
My father glared at him as he walked out. “He shouldn’t be in here.”
“Georgio is like family, Papà.”
My father studied the reports I’d just finished preparing. “He’s not family. He’s the help,” he grumbled.
I stood and kissed my papà’s cheek. He meant well. I knew that. But if there was anyone my father didn’t have to protect me from, it was Georgio.
I had just changed into my bikini and was ready to slip out and walk down to the pool to meet Mylos, when I saw my father talking to Georgio on the villa’s terrazza.
I crept over to the sitting room and stood by the window where they couldn’t see me. While they spoke in hushed voices, I could tell by my papà’s tone that he was angry. I hoped he wasn’t scolding Georgio for coming into the winery office to talk to me.
“Eavesdropping?” asked my mother, who walked in, carrying a book.
“Why is Papà so upset?”
She sighed. “Georgio pushes for modernization. Your father thinks he takes advantage of your friendship and speaks when he shouldn’t. I have to agree that it isn’t his place.”
As much as I didn’t want to, even I had to concede that he shouldn’t be talking directly to my father. He should be speaking with Elio. He was the head winemaker and the man Georgio worked for.
“By the way, your father was on his way inside to talk to you. He wants you to go to Campania with him.”
“When?”
She looked me up and down. “Tonight.”
“Why do I have to go?”
Mamma sighed and took off her reading glasses, but chewed on the part that went over her ear. “Pia, your father needs you to go with him on winery business, and you will go. You’re always telling him you want to run the winery someday. Prove it to him. Go get dressed and pack a bag for overnight. Maybe several days.”
She put her glasses back on, stood, and walked out of the room. I looked outside and saw my father and Georgio were still arguing. It would be impossible for me to slip past them to tell Mylos I couldn’t swim with him, but I had to get word to him somehow. If I tried, Papà would ask me where I was going, and that wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have.
I went upstairs, changed out of my bikini, and packed a bag like my mamma told me to. I jotted a note to Mylos and then went looking for Lucia.
“I heard you have to go to Campania,” she said when I found her in the kitchen.
I hung my head. “Sì.”
“I wish I could go to Campania.”
Between Lucia, Georgio, and me, she was the dreamer—filled with wanderlust. She talked about traveling places I’d never even heard of. I envied that about her. For me, I was most comfortable at home.
“Someday, you will be the one to go on sales trips.”
“Georgio will make the wine, and you will run the winery.”
“Sì,” I said again, smiling at the plan we’d made back when we were little children. I pressed an envelope into her hand. “Please take this to Mylos for me. I was supposed to meet him at the pool at sunset.”
Lucia wiggled her eyebrows. “I could go in your place.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” I scolded.
“I thought you were with Paolo?”
Technically, I still was, but as soon as I got back from Campania, I intended to break up with him.
When my father and I returned several days later and drove past the farmhouse, it looked closed up, like it did when no one was staying in it. I studied my father, who didn’t appear to notice.
When we got to the main house, my mamma ran out to greet us. After she hugged and kissed my father, she put her arm through mine.
“Did the family that was staying in the farmhouse leave?”
“Sì. C’è stata un’emergenza.”
“What kind of emergency?”
“Pia! That’s hardly our business.”
I took my bag to my roo
m, flopped on the bed, and covered my eyes with my arm. Could it really be that I’d never see Mylos again?
I heard the door creak open and feigned sleep, thinking it was my mother.
“He asked me to give this to you,” Lucia whispered as she tucked something under my waist. I waited for the door to close before I opened my eyes and grabbed the envelope.
Dear Pia,
I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. My mother’s sister passed away suddenly, and we were forced to cut our holiday short. I hope to return to Italy one day soon.
Yours truly,
“Mylos”
I folded the note and put it back in the envelope. I was disappointed. More than that. What I felt was profound, as though the universe had put us in one another’s paths, and instead of following the course laid out for us, we’d each gone our separate ways. Somewhere, a guardian angel was fighting back tears just like I was.
3
Grinder
Two Years Later
London, England
“Have you heard back from her?” my sister asked.
“Not yet.”
“What will you do?”
“I haven’t decided.”
For the past two years, I’d thought a lot about Pia. Fourteen days after our family’s abrupt departure from Italy, I’d received a letter from her in answer to my note. In it, she told me how disappointed she was that we didn’t have the chance to get to know one another better and she hoped that, one day soon, we’d be able to swim together at sunset.
Included in the envelope was a heart-shaped, multifaceted stone to remember her by. I’d taken that letter—but not the stone—to Lily and asked her whether she thought Pia was being flirtatious. She’d rolled her eyes and smacked me. “You really can’t be that daft, Miles. Of course she is.”
I’d written back, and so had Pia. About once a week, I’d receive a letter from her and would immediately answer. The last one I wrote, though, went unanswered. It had been three weeks, and I was trying my hardest not to read anything into it. My sister asking me daily if I’d received anything wasn’t helping.
Grinded (The Invincibles Book 3) Page 2
