He smiled at whatever he saw on my face, leaning in closer, putting his lips to mine. We were already dripping with sweat. Beads of it ran down my neck, between my breasts, the thin tank top absorbing and sticking.
It was somewhat cooler in the shade of the lemon grove. A sweet breeze danced close to the vibrant green of the grass, shielded from the sun’s most dangerous rays by the lemons poking out of the trees. The air always smelled fresh up here, sweeter, with a lacing of citrus that seemed to refresh the lungs.
Music floated in the air too. Ever since I showed Mitch the copse of heaven, he retreated to the spot to think, write his songs, or sing his heart out to the lover he still pined over—Violet. We found him sitting in the grass, rather than the heated iron bench, strumming his guitar, singing some old song.
When Marzio had asked me to walk with him through thelimoni, he told me that the area had been treated as sacred, known as a place that was believed to bring out truths.
Given my own experiences with the area, I believed this to be true.
Brando raised a hand in acknowledgment to Mitch. Mitch nodded his head and kept on with his song. Before we could get too far, I stopped Brando. His steps had become quicker—he might have had to think over whatever was on his mind, but I wanted to meander, enjoy the day with him. Sometimes that meant random thoughts would take center stage, as jumbled as they may be, and I would ask him things I normally wouldn’t.
Well, under normal circumstances.
“What about me do you dislike the most?” I wiggled free of his hand, putting up the same to shield my eyes. I stood in a burst of light. Somehow the brightness snuck through the tree’s defenses, and even with the sunglasses, it made me squint.
He didn’t recoil from the question. His forehead creased, thinking, but after a second—a split second—he said, “Your obsession with brushing your teeth.”
I stared at him for a moment.Brushing my teeth? That’s what he dislikes the most about me? Did he want me to have bad breath and a higher risk of getting periodontal disease?
“Tell me what you dislike most about me,” he said.
“Your issue with my oral hygiene,” I snapped.
He narrowed his eyes. “Pick something else.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You can’t take issue with my issue,” he said. “That’s cheating.”
“Why not? Who died and made you king of this game?”
He sighed, setting the basket down in the grass. Then he came toward me, taking slow steps, until my back collided with a tree. The blanket fell from my fingers. The leaves above us shimmied, and tiny sparks of light snuck through the shade.
Placing my hands behind my back, I looked up at him.
“Tell me, Scarlett.”
He knew I was hiding. He was right. The pathetic fact of the matter was that I had no real issue with him. Yes, he had his faults, but I dismissed them—none of them were that much of an issue to makean issue out of them. He did small things, but nothing that irked me on the regular.
I needed to taper down the reaction. After all,Ihad asked. But for whatever reason, his answer rubbed at me the wrong way. “What else?” I asked, refusing to answer him.
His hand came up, brushing a piece of hair from my cheek. Lifting the Ray-Bans, he set them on top of my head, gazing into my eyes. A high gusting wind blew, cooling the perspiration patches that had formed under the glasses. “Most women who are hurt show it in their eyes,” he whispered. “It’s rare to see it in yours. Retribution is what I see. ‘You cut me. I’m going to cut you even deeper.’ That’s how we play the game, isn’t it, Signora Fausti?”
I sucked in a breath of hot air, feeling a heavy droplet of sweat run down the space between my breasts. His hands slid around the curves of my waist, coming even closer to me.
“I know,” he said softly, taking my hand and placing it over his heart. “I have the scars,Scarlett, here to prove it.”
“Non sono la maggior parte delle donne.”I’m not most womenwas all I could say in response to that. “Brando.”
His words were true, and they stung. Not because he had hurt me, but because he was right—I always had a quick reaction when he struck first.
“You don’t need to tell me. I wasn’t comparing—mine against yours, yours against mine. Just making an observation.” He stared down at my lips, leaning in a little closer. “Even with the scars on my heart, you are still the queen of my heart,” he said in Italian.
“I don’t want to play this game anymore.” I came close to closing the gap between us, wanting his lips on mine.
