One day left in Villa Meraviglia, and today is the day Charlie gets his heart broken.
That’s the one thing he is certain of as he stands in his room in only his boxers and opens the curtains. The Italian sunlight dances in for the penultimate time. Tomorrow, he gets on his cramped plane back to America and faces the music of his miscalculations, possibly loses his family home.
Last night, in the train station, sewn up with worry, he berated himself for his senselessness on all counts. First, for boarding flights of fancy. Second, for losing his phone. Third, for dragging Dario into his boneheaded scheme.
That’s what it was. A scheme. To luck his way into a fix for his family whom he withheld the truth from, which makes him no better than his uncle and no good for Dario Cotogna. Apologies are in order and packing needs to be done, so he better get to it before he starts crying.
As he relishes one of his last showers in a private bathroom, a scintillating moan of pleasure seeps through the shower wall.For a moment, Charlie thinks he let it out himself, but then it reprises, and his voice hasn’t gone that high since puberty.
Is that…Michelle?
He shuts off the water, dries himself and dresses. He tries to make as few noises as possible, catching what bits he can.
The moans don’t stop. They grow stronger. A masculine voice enters the mix. Whispered words are muddled by the wall, but there’s an unmistakable Italian accent there.
If Michelle’s not alone, does that mean…
Maybe when Dario went looking for him last night, Michelle went out, picked up a guy and brought him back here. It’s a long-shot theory, given Michelle’s general character, but that has to be the explanation, right?
The sex sounds paint a picture in Charlie’s head that borders on voyeuristic, so he tears the metaphorical canvas and goes down to breakfast.
The back doors are flung open. Morning air traipses through the gauzy curtains like a welcome guest. Dew still clings to the blades of grass in the garden. It would all be peaceful if Charlie weren’t so curious about his neighbor’s escapades.
Upon first bite of burnt toast—mind too preoccupied to pay close attention to the timer—he hears two sets of footsteps creak on the stairs. From his vantage point, Charlie can only see the backs of heads.
Michelle’s hair is unruly. The man she’s with has a hand on her back. He is short and has shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair.
A torpedo of possessiveness zooms through his gut, until the pair turns the corner. While the man Michelle is with bears a striking resemblance to Dario, he has a rounder face, bushier eyebrows and a stouter figure with no shirt on. Still, he walks with far more directness and panache than Dario, a man who wears five-piece suits on the regular.
As soon as Michelle sees Charlie at the table, she steps away from the man. “Good morning,” she says, shyly brushing a hair behind her ear.
“Morning,” Charlie says through a big bite of toast. His appetite balloons, with the certainty that Dario wasn’t the person keeping Michelle company in the shower.
“Which one are you?” the man asks with an impolite point.
Charlie wipes his mouth before answering. “Excuse me?”
“Which contest winner? There was the model, the musician, the salesman, the French bombshell—” he nibbles on Michelle’s exposed shoulder, which is still red, so she swats him away “—and…you?”
“The American, I guess?” Charlie says.
“I thought the musician was American.”
“TheotherAmerican, then?”
The man snaps his fingers. “The gas station one.”
Charlie goes to correct him but decides it’s not worth the breath. It’s not like he’s an astronaut or an engineer. It’s not like he’s going to be Dario Cotogna’s husband either. What’s the point?
“You are?” Charlie asks.
“I see my reputation doesn’t precede me,” he says, extending a hand to Charlie. “Emilio Cotogna, future head of Amorina Chocolates.”
A door opens behind Charlie. He turns expecting Dario, but it’s another man he’s never seen before. This man is carrying a camera, and is trailed by a tall, lithe woman with porcelain skin and blond hair. Where had all these people come from? What had he missed yesterday?
“Why aren’t you rolling? We need as much footage as we can get,” Emilio says.
Michelle backs up. “I should probably change and put my makeup on.” She wears an oversize, stark red shirt, the collar ofwhich is stretched out and askew, making it appear one wrong move away from slipping right off.
