“Sogni d’oro,” Dario whispers to Charlie’s retreating form.
Back in his room, Charlie tries his best to type the Italian words into his translator app.
Common meaning,sweet dreams. Literal meaning,dreams of gold.
Charlie burrows himself in the blankets and considers the silly image he first had when he saw Dario’s net worth, of a swimming pool full of gold coins.
Funny to think that now Dario’s heart seems a far greater treasure than any fortune.
FOURTEEN
DARIO
At breakfast the next morning, Dario’s three remaining suitors sit around the covered outdoor table picking at fresh fruit and sipping from tiny white espresso mugs. There are more empty chairs than claimed ones at this point.
Last night, reading Beau’s note, which was as poetic as his lyrics, caused rejection to swarm Dario like hornets with their stingers at the ready. In the morning light, however, when he read the note again—the reasoning, the apology, the desire to be friends—he realized Beau had paid him a kindness. Instead of sticking around, making a good show of it, and potentially allowing Dario to fall for him, he bowed out as soon as he realized it wasn’t going to work.
So Dario faces the option to stew and curse the blues band that stole Beau away from his villa, or to focus on the positive. Now he only had to divide his attention three ways!
He chooses to carry on, and carry on he shall. Keep calm, however, as the Brits say? Not as likely.
“Anyone up for a bike ride around Lake Trasimeno?” Dario asks. The shed is full up with bikes of all sizes and sport speeds.Bicycles are how the Cotognas got around the village most days in childhood. It was the one form of family exercise they could all agree was fun and enjoyable.
Michelle pulls off her round sunglasses and shrugs her wrap down off her shoulders. Her skin is as red as a freshly caught lobster. “I forgot to reapply.”
“I have some aloe in my bag if you need it,” Charlie offers. His tiredness is visible in the slouch of his shoulders.
Michelle covers up again. “I am okay. I have some. But I do not want to hurt any more than I already do, so I will stay back from the bike ride if that is all right.”
“Me, too,” Selina says. “Not because I hurt but because I don’t want to. Bicycle seats are extremely uncomfortable, and I was hoping to steal you away, Dario, to Solomeo for the day to visit Cucinelli’s hamlet and boutique. I am in desperate need of some quality cashmere.”
Acidic anxiety coats Dario’s throat, thwarting any type of response. While many people travel far and wide to the charming hamlet that billionaire fashion mogul Brunello Cucinelli rebuilt to house his empire and revitalize craftsmanship, Dario has never been, even though it’s so nearby. He adores menswear and admires Cucinelli for his factory practices and his “humanistic capitalism” but new places ratchet up Dario’s agoraphobia, so he would much rather stick to his predetermined schedule.
Bike ride. The lake. No more deviations.
“You two won’t mind if I take Dario for the afternoon?” Selina asks, barreling on, uncaring of any answers. “I would invite you both, but Cucinelli’s pieces are expensive. I would not want either of you to feel pressured or out of place.”
“I know about Cucinelli,” Michelle says. “I am a fashion student.”
“Do you think you can pull off beiges, grays and browns in your present condition?” Selina asks.
“I guess not.” Michelle raises her wrap and slinks back in her seat, clearly unwilling to argue more.
“I would still be down for the bike ride,” says Charlie. “Maybe it will pep me up. The espresso doesn’t seem to be working.” He tap-tap-taps the side of his mug with his pointer finger. “Is this thing on?” he jokes.
“Excelente. Charlie will ride, Michelle will stay here, and we will shop,” Selina says, racing a long nail up Dario’s silky tie. He swallows, and it sounds like a gunshot in his own ears.
Solomeo is a tourist destination, and Cucinelli’s enterprise and factory employ hundreds. Going there is another recipe for a panic attack. God, how he wishes he weren’t such a prisoner to his own thoughts.
“I would prefer to stick close to the villa today,” Dario says, even though what he should really say isevery day.
Selina’s catlike eyes narrow, obviously not used to being told no in any form. “Solomeo is not far. I checked. It is only fifteen minutes by car.”
“I know,” Dario says, sensing his pits start to sweat. “Truly, I only wear Gabriele’s creations these days. A visit to Cucinelli’s boutique would be a waste for me.”
“Could you not use a little variety in your wardrobe?” Selina casts her disapproving gaze over him. She must be tired of his five-piece, colorful suits, but it’s what he feels best in. If she can’t accept that, then she’s probably not the person for him. Right? Or are his resistance to change and his anxiety going to be the death knell to his tenure as the head of Amorina?
He feels like he’s tied to three separate horses who have been sent running in different directions.
