Rules. We need rules.
Before I can start mentally spit-balling what those rules should be, my door buzzer sounds out, and it seems louder than usual, making me jump slightly.
I quickly finish the windows – thank goodness it was my third round cleaning them – and I rush to stow away the cloth and cleaner before moving to the intercom near my flat’s front door.
Seeing Marcello in the small fuzzy black and white screen suddenly makes this all very, very real. I push the button to open the building door he’s standing in front of, and I tap the side of the intercom three times as I wait to see him move inside. Likewise, I tap the door handle three times before I open it and stand there waiting for him. I take a slow and measured breath – inhale for three, exhale for six – hoping it will calm me down somewhat and it does work. I know this because when Marcello turns the corner and appears at the end of my corridor, my breathing just goes straight back to being erratic, my pulse thumping loudly in my ears.
He looks good. Really good.
Wearing jeans and a sage green polo T-shirt with all the buttons undone, I can see the golden tones of his tan under the strip lighting in the corridor ceiling. There’s a bounce in his step as he approaches and a big smile on his face. In his right arm, cradled almost like a baby, is a bottle of red wine.
“Hey!” he calls out upon seeing me and I find I don’t need to count my breaths. Just hearing his cheery voice and seeing his broad smile has a very similar effect on slowing my breathing right down and calming my unnecessarily busy brain.
“Hi,” I say, but then a little tension rises in me again suddenly.
How am I supposed to greet him? Fist-bumping like we do in the gym would be weird. Surely a handshake would be far too officious and formal. Considering we’re likely about to see each other naked in the next few hours, maybe we should hug…
I’m saved from this internal debate when Marcello extends the bottle of wine, bridging the gap between us and making that a priority over physical contact.
“I hope you like Italian red wine.”
“I do, but you didn’t have to bring anything.” I take the bottle and study the label appreciatively. It’s a Chianti, one of my favourites.
Marcello shrugs. “Felt a bit weird to show up empty-handed. But at the same time I didn’t want to go overboard with gifts because that would also be a bit weird.”
I laugh softly. “A bit too Pretty Woman?”
He chuckles with me. “Something like that. Although, does that make me Richard Gere?” He straightens his shoulders. “I could cope with that.”
“I could happily be Julia Roberts too.”
His eyebrow cocks. “Really?”
Feeling an unwanted blush heat my cheeks, I turn away. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
“Humble?” Marcello says from behind me as I cross the kitchen and place the wine down on the counter. “There is nothing humble about this. Business must be good.”
He walks deeper into the space and looks around him and I take full advantage to look at his height, at his long, lean legs and the bulk of his torso.
Rules, Giles, don’t forget you need rules!
“One bonus of having dead parents by the time you’re twenty. You have a nice inheritance to invest in business and property,” I say, my eyes still not peeled away from Marcello’s body.
He turns and a frown of concern makes me realise what I just said.
“Shit, that was a buzzkill moment, right?”
“Not really.” Marcello steps a little closer. “I mean, I can imagine it’s probably true, as sad as it is.”
“Yeah, but not everyone wants to hear about it.”
“I don’t mind hearing about it.” He shrugs. “Whenever you want to talk, I mean.”
“Okay,” I say, lost for any other words.
“But seriously,” he looks around him again, “you have a really nice place here. And, do your cleaners come on a Sunday?”
“No, why?”
