When they break apart, Charlie smiles, bites his lip, then points across the pier at a nearby field that is dotted with tall, sandstone columns. “What’s that?”
“Campo del Sole,” Dario says, still waking up from the kiss. “It is a statue garden.”
Charlie climbs to his feet before Dario has even finished speaking.
The green grassy plot houses tan-colored art pieces that rise from the ground in concentric circles with a fountain at their center. Some are round and wavy, while others are brutal and jagged.
“It’s like a more modern Stonehenge,” Charlie says as they venture through.
“It’s said to be a monument,” Dario says.
“To what?”
“Anything. Anyone. As I am aware, it is untethered to any history. Maybe it is about the future? I guess it can be about whatever you desire,” he says while he stares up at the art. His eyes trace the curves in the stone and he wonders about the dexterous hands that must have cramped as they sculpted for hours on end in search of underlying beauty.
“What if we say it’s a monument to us?” Charlie asks, crushing the space between them with clear intent.
“I like that idea,” Dario says, hope dispensing through his body.
They kiss again, and this time it’s a whimsical raspberry. Vivid, youthful, and bursting with ripe possibility.
FIFTEEN
DARIO
Villa Meraviglia is a host of unfamiliar noises when they return from the bike ride.
For once, Dario does not begrudge the theft of his solitude and silence. The warmth and life crackling inside are welcome, especially after the glorious day he spent with Charlie, who hightails it outside and up the stairs to catch a shower.
The final glimpse of Charlie’s pert ass in his shiny athletic shorts is enough to send Dario chasing after him, but he reins in that impulse. It’s one thing to kiss Charlie out on the beach while they’re alone. It’s another to fuck Charlie silly while his other guests sit downstairs. Nothing in this villa is soundproof.
From another room, laughs and clanking glasses emanate.
Dario’s knees are gelatinous from the exertion and the ooey-gooey emotions jiggling inside him, so it takes him some time to find the source.
In the living room, Michelle—slathered in colorful lotion—watchesThe Luxurious Ladies of Provence. He stops for a moment as the scene on the TV plays out. Three women sit around a glass table on an outside terrace speaking in French.Their nails and hair are long and glossy. Their outfits and voices are loud. The tensions are high.
“You are back!” Michelle says, pausing the show.
Dario nods. “What have you been up to?”
Defying all logic, her face grows redder. “This. Just this.”
“Sounds like a relaxing afternoon,” he says. “Is Selina back yet?”
“She arrived about an hour ago asking for dinner. I think she is in the kitchen with Paola,” she says.
Dario thanks her and leaves Michelle to her ladies. He wonders how he would feel about the rescripting of his life by some producer in an editing bay. His skin crawls. Cameras of any kind would never be welcome in his space.
In the kitchen, a feminine robot speaks in broken Italian. When Dario pokes his head in, Selina—wearing what looks suspiciously like one of Dario’s suits, except tailored to her figure—has Paola cornered by the pasta crank. She holds up the speaker side of her phone where the voice crackles out.
“I’m sure I can double whatever Dario pays you,” Selina says. On the island behind her, a plate sits scraped clean of food. Red sauce clings to the edges. After a few seconds, the robot voice echoes her sentiment in Italian.
Paola’s face is a crumpled ball of confusion. “Ma perché?”
The keyboard on Selina’s phone makes loud, obnoxious clacks. Anger flows hot through Dario’s veins, but he holds himself back before jumping to conclusions and announcing himself. Maybe he has the wrong impression. He doesn’t want a repeat of what happened with Ansel.
Selina’s phone spits out garbled words that make no sense. With a groan, she slaps it face down on the counter. “You—” she points “—come work for me—” she points the other way “—in Mexico when this is all over.”
