But another part of my brain, the part that sounds suspiciously like my college women's studies professor is waving red flags like crazy.
I came to Sicily to prove I could take care of myself. To show Derek and everyone else that Madison Sullivan isn't just the predictable girl who plays it safe and follows all the rules. I bought a house—my house—to have something that belonged to me and only me.
And now I'm sleeping in someone else's bed, in someone else's space, completely dependent on someone else's generosity.
This isn't independence.
This is just a more comfortable form of dependence.
I get out of bed and walk to the window, looking out at the gorgeous view. In the distance, I can see the lights of the village, including what must be my house. My dark, cold, wonderful house that I bought for one euro and own completely.
Except for that stupid debt.
That house might not have electricity or hot water or working plumbing, but it has something this cottage doesn't have: it's mine. When I sleep there, it's because I choose to, not because someone else is providing for me in exchange for something questionable.
I think about the way Enzo looked at me during dinner, the intensity in his eyes when he said he wanted me. There wassomething possessive in that look, something that suggested he thought wanting me gave him certain rights over me.
Maybe I'm wrong.
Maybe I'm reading too much into a cultural misunderstanding and an awkward bathroom encounter. Maybe he really is just a successful businessman who's attracted to me and wants to help with my tourism project.
Or maybe he's not.
And the thing is, I don't have enough information to know which version is true. What I do know is that being completely dependent on him, for housing, for business connections, for transportation, makes it impossible to find out.
I need to be able to leave if I want to. I need to feel like I'm choosing to be here, not staying because I have no other choice.
By the time the sun comes up, I've made my decision.
I shower quickly, keeping the bathroom door locked this time, and get dressed in my most professional-looking outfit. If I'm going to have this conversation, I need to feel like I'm speaking from a position of confidence, not like a grateful recipient of his charity.
I find Enzo in his kitchen, making coffee and looking perfectly put-together despite the early hour. He's wearing jeans and a casual shirt, and his hair has that effortlessly tousled look.
"Good morning," he says, looking up with a smile that makes my heart do that fluttering thing again. "Coffee?"
"That would be great, thank you."
He pours me a cup and I take a grateful sip, letting the caffeine fortify my resolve.
"Sleep well?" he asks.
"Yes, the cottage is beautiful. Thank you."
"But?"
He's more perceptive than I'd like. "I've been thinking about our arrangement."
"And?"
I take a deep breath and remind myself that I'm Madison Sullivan, a woman who takes risks and makes her own decisions.
"I think I should go back to my own house."
His expression doesn't change, but he’s surprised. "Why?"
"Because I came to Sicily to have my own place. To prove I could take care of myself and make something work on my own terms. Staying here, as beautiful as it is, feels like giving up on that before I've even tried my best."
"Your house doesn't have electricity or running water yet."
