“Thank you,” I say, impulsively leaning across to kiss his cheek.
He pulls me close and then whispers into my ear, “I’ve found four dishes we can look into that have basil but are not all pesto.”
“Hot,” I say, turning back to him and kissing him on the mouth.
Leo laughs, gently pushing me away. “You in those little shorts. It’s too much.”
“We’re going to have to sneak around like teenagers at Roger’s house.”
“Which is why we should be at that hotel.Now.”
Leo closes his laptop and leans forward, folding his hands together. “Also, Olive, can you stop fucking around and send me your story on Catania?” he says. “The new introduction to Sicily you said you did such great work on this morning?”
My heart rate picks up slightly, and I grimace. “Oh, do I have to?”
“You’re going to have to,” he says. “I mean, you’re going to have to showsomepeople, Olive.” He laughs.
I’m panicking about sharing it. My original introduction focused on Rocco, his relationship to my father, their training together, and a story about the day my dad made Sicilian blood-orange sorbet for a wedding and forgot the sugar. While it was a sweet story, it should bemy own story. And so I rewrote it.Again.
I pull it up on my laptop, and after Leo has put his own phone away, I hit send.
“Can we do this basil thing, then go to the hotel?” Leo says, standing.
“Fine,” I say, standing to join him. He looks at me, scowling, and then pulls me in for a kiss. I make a show of sighing, pulling back, and wagging a finger at him. “But it would be nice to see a little more commitment to the project from you.”
“I’m very good at multitasking,” he says, smiling wickedly before he lowers his mouth to mine.
27
OH, HELL YES,”I say, putting my toes onto the wooden deck of Roger’s boat, which he’s kindly sent to pick us up. “This was worth getting out of that cheap hotel bed for.”
Leo, who is holding on to a rope as he jumps down from the side of the boat, swings around so he can roll his eyes at me.
Every time I look at him I get full flashing images of the night before, like just the sight of him sparks a fully immersive TecYi-color experience in every cell of my body. His skin. My skin. His hands on every part of me. Leo can see it, and he pulls me down onto the deck and throws his arms around my neck.
“Beautiful,” he says into my ear, breath tickling. “Just beautiful.”
“Get it out of your system,” I say as he kisses my neck. “I don’t want us to be hanging off each other in front of Roger.”
The boat is small but perfectly kept: a bright white with blue and red stripes and dark wood interiors. Plush cushioned seating below deck. It’s calledSofia, after Roger’s wife. They met during a summer jaunt around the Riviera. She was the daughter of awealthy Bulgarian businessman, and he was the working-class kid from Hackney cooking for them on their luxury yacht. They made an odd pair that no one gave much of a chance. My mother, for example, would often ask Roger as part of her welcoming small talk if “Sofia has had enough of you yet.” It struck me as a bit unkind, even as a child. But it was always delivered in such jest that Roger belly laughed.
Roger has worked hard and built up a catering business supplying boats in the area.
“He never minded a bit of competition,” my dad used to say.
Leo sits on the small table behind the helm, while the captain fusses around us with ropes and sails. A young boy who couldn’t be more than fifteen offers us both a glass of champagne, which I decline but Leo accepts.
“Can’t believe we have to take this boat all the way to Roger’s house,” I whisper to Leo. “Such a drag.”
“A reminder that it’s ayacht,” says Leo, who has already relaxed into his seat, holding a small espresso in one hand and a flute of champagne in the other. He looks up to grin at me.
“It’s a hard life,” he adds, shrugging. “Sit with me, Olive.”
I take a seat opposite him and momentarily am swept away by the sheer thrill of it. As we watch Genoa fall away into the distance, the captain explains we’ll be hugging the coast down south toward Portofino, through theItalianRiviera.
“ForItalians,” he adds, grinning.
He means that this stretch is not quite as populated by tourists. It’s a small strip of the Mediterranean where Italians come with their families to stretch out on beaches under the blue skies and swim in the still cobalt seas. From the water, we pass bay after bay, where colorful buildings climb into the dramatic cliff faces,and busy restaurants buzzing with hungry sun-fatigued guests line the promenades.
