One Hot Italian Summer

by Karina Halle

  “Yes. Only because my parents now know, and that went okay.”

  “That did not go okay,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

  “It went okay for them, is what I mean. And I think it will go okay for Vanni. But of course, how do we explain what we are when I don’t even know? We never did come to an agreement.”

  “An agreement,” she scoffs. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

  “It kind of is. What are we? Where are we going?”

  “You are persistent.”

  “Only about the things that matter.”

  “Well I…” She trails off and gives me a sweet smile. “I guess we are exclusive to each other.”

  “I told you I have a possessive heart.”

  “And I do too. So we are exclusive. Girlfriend and boyfriend, right? But no, you’re right. That’s such a juvenile term. Partners? More than lovers. And … I want to stay here as long as I can.”

  “And then what happens?”

  She looks down at the bedspread. “I don’t know. What do we do when I have to leave?”

  I place my hand on top of hers. “You don’t leave.”

  “What if you came up to Edinburgh?”

  It softens my heart that she would think that’s an option, but at the same time she knows it’s not. “I can’t leave my gallery. I can’t uproot Vanni from his home. He’s been through that before, I…”

  “I know,” she says quickly. “And honestly, I don’t want to go back home. I can’t. I’ve never felt more alive than I do here. Edinburgh … it doesn’t even feel like my home anymore. That city belonged to the person I used to be, not the person I’ve become.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you this much,” I say, holding her hand and raising it to my lips. I murmur against her skin. “We don’t have to decide anything now. We can just be.”

  She swallows and looks away.

  I kiss her hand, her knuckles, her fingers, turning them over and placing my lips on her palm. “You’re mine, Grace. More than my muse, more than a lover. I’ve never felt this way before about anything or anyone, and I … I know that if you just trust me, if you give me your heart, I will carry it with me. I will be kind and gentle with it. I will always keep it tucked next to mine. So that whatever happens in the future, it doesn’t matter. I’ll have your heart and you’ll have mine.”

  She turns and looks at me. Her fingers reach out and trail down the side of my face, her eyes big and gleaming as if she’s trying to really see me. “You’re a good man, Claudio Romano.”

  “I’m your man,” I tell her. “That is what makes me good.”

  She stares at my lips for a moment and then leans in, kissing me. Her hand slides back into my hair and my mouth opens against hers. I feel myself getting lost again, all the feelings inside me bubbling up like sweet Prosecco. There is so much fucking joy being with her like this that it’s become impossible to contain.

  I find myself smiling as I kiss her, and then I roll over on top of her, pinning her below me. My cock lengthens between us.

  “No blindfolds this time,” I whisper to her, tugging up her dress. “I want to look into your eyes as you come. I want you to look into mine. I want you to see me.” I run my thumb over her lip, feeling emotion catch in my throat. “I want you to see me as I really am, how I really feel, everything open. Nothing to hide. The real me.”

  She blinks at me. Of course I have been nothing but the real me with her. But even so, I know I’m holding back. I no longer want to keep it from her.

  I love her.

  I love her so damn much.

  She nods slightly, her features serious, and she reaches down to unzip my pants, shrugging them down over my ass. I position myself beneath her and then push inside her, her thighs parting to let me in.

  My eyes flutter closed as she holds me tight, so hot and wet and perfect.

  We fit. We fit in such a way that it seems terribly cruel that we haven’t found each other until now. We missed out on so much by not being together that we’ve spent our life wandering around, wondering if it was ever possible to feel this way.

  Then again, if I had known her when I was younger, maybe we wouldn’t fit like we do now. Maybe we’re born whole and polished and unscathed, and then life slowly chips away at us. Some of those chips are deep, some are just surface scratches, but we carry them with us as we walk through life, becoming more and more worn.

  Yet the flaws make us who we are. What we’ve been through make us who we are. This life, it’s trial by fire. If we didn’t go through it, we wouldn’t be the people we are today, and we wouldn’t fit like we do right now.

  I slide into her with such ease that I know I’ve never belonged so much as I do now. Not just with her, but here, in the world. She makes everything make sense again.

  I press my face into her neck and I’m grinning, buried in her hair. Letting it all wash over me.

  I won’t lose her, no matter what.

  My pumps quicken, her short nails scratching at my back, wanting more from me, fevered and needy.

  She whispers her desires.

  Deeper.

  Harder.

  More.

  She’s so greedy she’s insatiable, and then I’m slamming my hips against her, trying to give her what she wants, trying to hold on, my cock driving deeper. The headboard slams into the wall over and over again, and I can only hope Vanni is still outside by the pool, because we are being loud.

  “Claudio,” she says, her voice breaking as her eyes pinch shut, her pleasure threatening to overtake her. “I—"

  “Don’t close your eyes,” I command. “Keep looking at me.”

  Her eyes fly open and then she’s coming.

  I watch as she becomes undone, a spool of thread unraveling, leaving something bare and bright and beautiful behind.

  “Oh god!” she cries out, tears rushing to her eyes, her mouth open and wet as she keeps crying out my name. Her body rises off the bed, shuddering around me, and I give myself permission to let go.

  I come with a deep groan, my back arching as the orgasm rips up my spine, rendering me boneless. I nearly collapse on top of her, bracketing her between my elbows. My head drops, limp, forehead resting against her chest. I can feel her heartbeat through her skin, slowly calming down. It’s reassuring to feel her heart, to know it’s there, to know that maybe one day it will be mine for good.

  “I love you,” I whisper hoarsely.

  The words slip out.

  They fall into the room like feathers, silent, hanging there.

  If anything, her heartbeat gets louder.

  I raise my head to see her staring at the ceiling, blinking.

  Maybe she didn’t hear me.

  Maybe it doesn’t matter.

  “Grace?” I whisper, catching my breath.

  She raises her head and looks at me. There is so much softness in her eyes that I can’t seem to make heads or tails of it.

  “You love me?” she whispers.

  I give her a smile that says, of course. Isn’t it obvious?

  Her mouth closes, a wayward tear spilling out from the corner of her eye.

  She rolls over on her side.

  I go on mine so that I’m spooning her, holding her against me.

  I suppose it should be awkward that she’s not saying anything back. But that’s not why I said it. I didn’t say it to hear it. I said it because it’s true.

  That’s all there is to it.

  My truth.

  She doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, but she’s not pushing it away, either.

  Finally she says quietly, “I think we should tell Vanni.”

  “That I love you?”

  She nods. “Well, no. That’s not what I meant. I mean, I think we should tell Vanni about us. Soon. And maybe, if he knows you love me, maybe he’ll understand.”

  I’m about to tell her I completely agree when she holds up her finger. “But first, I want to put some feelers out.”

  “Feele
rs?” I ask, confused by this strange word.

  “Aye. I want to ask him some questions just to get an idea of how he’ll take it. You know. So we’ll be prepared.”

  I don’t think that’s necessary, but I want to give her what she wants.

  “Okay. Put out your feelers,” I say, tickling her, because this is what feelers should be.

  She laughs, squirming away from me.

  So I tickle her some more.

  Twenty

  Grace

  For the first time, I wake up in Claudio’s arms, in Claudio’s bed.

  Last night, after I did one final sculpting session in his studio, as he did the last touches on the clay model, we ended up back in his bedroom. It’s like now that we’ve decided we’re going to tell Vanni, we’ve been a little looser with our rules.

  That said, we’re still careful and cautious, and Vanni was fast asleep by then, so he didn’t catch me sneaking in there.

  But after it was all over, I didn’t want to go back to my bedroom and Claudio didn’t want me to leave.

  So I stayed.

  It helps that I know he loves me.

  He loves me.

  I still can’t believe it.

  I believe him, I truly do. I see it in his eyes, and through his eyes I can see his heart and I know that he’s an amazing man with an incredible capacity for love.

  But it still knocks me off-balance sometimes.

  He loves me and he cares for me and he wants to be with me.

  There’s nothing else I want.

  And yet…yet.

  I’m still trying to sift through my own feelings, trying to figure out what’s real and what’s not. I hadn’t counted on him falling in love with me, I hadn’t counted on any of this. I don’t even know what to do with the information, except hold it close to me, cradle it, indulge in it.

  But how do I feel about him? How do I know I’m in love with him?

  Sometimes I think I am. Sometimes I catch my heart tripping in my chest, the air stolen from my lungs, the butterflies fluttering in my belly, all because of something he says, or does, or just his smile.

  God, his smile makes me melt into a puddle of goo.

  So how do I figure out if what I’m feeling comes from the heart or if it’s just my physical reaction to him, my lust? Lust and infatuation are easy things to slip into, but love feels like it takes time to build. And maybe because our personalities are quite different in that way—he’s impulsive and ready to throw himself off the deep end, I’m reserved and unsure and cautious—maybe the way we fall is inherently different.

  Or maybe you’re just overthinking things, I tell myself as I stretch the muscles in my legs, my toes tangling in the sheets. Maybe you just need to accept it and keep an open mind.

  Just remember to let go if you feel like you’re falling.

  “Good morning,” Claudio murmurs from beside me. His arms are around me, and though I remember falling asleep with more distance between us, I suppose it’s possible that we found ourselves back together in our sleep.

  Like two magnets that can’t be kept apart.

  “Mmm you smell so good,” he exclaims, his nose buried in my neck.

  I laugh, his stubble tickling me. “That’s not usually something you hear first thing in the morning.”

  “Oh, but it’s true,” he says, sniffing up and down my neck. “You smell like you. It is my favorite smell in the world, did you know that?”

  “I do now.”

  “Make sure you write about it in your book,” he says, kissing me beneath my ear. “I think the hero should love the way she smells. And definitely the way she tastes.”

  “I will make a note of it.”

  A few days have passed since we’ve returned from Elba, and on every single one of those days, I’ve been throwing myself into my book. All my complicated feelings have been poured out on the page, and for the first time in my life, writing feels like therapy. I’m starting to understand why some authors go in so deep, it’s because they’re trying to figure out their own shit in their own life.

  There’s something so vulnerable about it, too. Like my issues are going to be out there for the world to judge. Of course, no one will know how much of it is me. But I will. Probably another good reason not to ever read reviews.

  But while the writing has been good, and the chapters have been ticking along, it’s also been a convenient way to hold off talking to Vanni.

  I know. I know I told Claudio I would put my feelers out, but hey, the muse is visiting me now, and like Sandro Romano said, she is a fickle bitch.

  Still…

  “Are you putting your feelers out today?” Claudio asks, exaggerating the word, making the motion to tickle me.

  “For the last time,” I say, swatting him away, “it doesn’t mean to tickle someone. And yes. Eventually. I have to get through some writing first. I have all this dialogue that I need to get down. My characters won’t stop talking to each other in my brain.”

  “I suppose you cannot interfere with the muse. What is it like, being a muse and having a muse?”

  “Sometimes I think that being someone else’s muse is the muse. It’s inspiring enough.”

  Eventually I get out of bed and creep back to my room before Vanni wakes up, then I get ready for the day. The day of sitting around on my arse in my church-slash-office.

  But by the time it’s mid-afternoon and all my espresso shots have worn off, and my brain turns to mush, I decide I need a break. I head back into the house, get changed into my bathing suit, then grab my Kindle, needing a new book to cleanse the palette, and possibly inspire me. Sometimes reading something while writing can push you to do better, try harder. So long as the book is good.

  I take my spot by the pool, a tall glass of mineral water beside me (I want wine or an Aperol Spritz, but I can wait until lunch). It’s another lovely perfect day and I’m getting used to the heat now as the summer goes on.

  I’ve gotten through a chapter in this new book, when Claudio emerges from the house, wiping his hands on an apron coated in fine white dust.

  “Just started with the marble?” I ask him, shielding my eyes from the sun.

  He nods. “First cuts. This is the beginning of a very, very long process.”

  From what he’s told me, it takes from two-to-four months to complete the sculpture. It’s weird to think that there might be a statue of me here after I’m gone.

  The thought twists my stomach and I have to remind myself that everything will work out.

  “Allora,” he goes on. “I just talked to Maria on the phone. She and Sofia are coming here for dinner. Emilio will be here, too.”

  “Oh, great!” I liked Maria. And the more people over for dinner, the more Claudio tries to show off in his cooking.

  “She’s going to take you out for a coffee first,” he hastily adds.

  I jerk my chin in. “What?”

  “Maria. She’s going to take you for a coffee, probably after lunch. Or a drink, whatever. But just so you know so you can, uh, plan your schedule.” He waves his fingers at me in a roundabout motion, as if the pool is part of my schedule.

  “That’s fine, but why does she want to take me out for coffee?”

  “Maybe she wants to get to know you.”

  Hmmm. I have a strange lump in the pit of my stomach. Something about Claudio’s expression is throwing me off. That man can’t hide anything from me.

  “Claudio…” I begin. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why does she want to get to know me?”

  “No reason.”

  “Claudio!”

  He sighs, squeezing the bridge of his nose, leaving dusty white thumbprints on the bridge. “She knows about us.”

  “She knows!” I exclaim, throwing my Kindle down on the grass. “How does she know?”

  He shrugs, like he doesn’t have any stake in this. “My parents told her.”

  “They what?”

  “T
hey are very happy for me, happy for us. They like you a lot, Grace, even if you were a bit anti-social that last night.”

  I stare at nothing, shaking my head. I don’t really care that Maria knows we’re together, but I care even more now that she wants to talk to me.

  Alone.

  In private.

  Just the two of us.

  “She’s not planning to murder me, is she?” I say, half-joking.

  He laughs. “No. Honest. She wants to get to know you. If you are a part of my life, then she wants to know that part of my life.”

  I don’t like this. I’m nervous now. Of his own sister. She just seems so wise, and headstrong, and … damn intimidating. The way she roasted Jana? My god.

  “It will be fine,” he assures me.

  But of course, I can’t help but dwell on it for the rest of the morning, all the way through lunch.

  I’m sitting outside on the patio, nursing a glass of wine, trying to calm my nerves when I hear the car doors slam, and then the raucous Italian to follow, getting louder and louder as Claudio and Maria step outside. In the background, Vanni and Sofia dart out from around the corner, and are running around the yard like they’ve just injected themselves with sugar.

  “Grace,” Maria says to me, throwing her arms out. Her voice is warm, even though her eyes are trickier to figure out. I get up and she embraces me, kissing me on both cheeks, as I do the same to her. “Are you ready?” she asks, and then nods at my drink. “I will take you to a bar that has the best wine in Lucca.”

  Okay, maybe this won’t be so bad.

  I get up and go upstairs to grab my purse, and then I’m out front and climbing in the passenger side of Maria’s car.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” she says as she buckles herself in. “But I don’t have my brother’s taste in cars.”

  “No, it’s a relief,” I tell her. I don’t even know what kind of model hers is, it just looks old and reliable. “This is a car I can relate to. I can’t relate to Claudio’s collection. I feel like a bull in a china shop.”

  “I know that expression,” she says as we quickly reverse out of the driveway and onto the narrow road, the rear of the car nearly smashing into the chapel, but we stop at the last minute. She drives like her brother, though. “Except the china isn’t worth a million dollars.”