“Cazzo!” Angelo cursed, the word followed by a barrage of more Italian. Why did he have to be both Italian and angry? Why did I find it sexy beyond belief?
His phone with its flashlight turned on lay on the bottom of the tub, and Angelo, holding a screwdriver and a different pair of pliers, bent to pick it up.
I stepped into the tub just when he straightened up, and we found ourselves with little airspace between our faces.
Wordlessly, I took the phone from him and flashed the light up the wall.
Angelo resumed the work, managing to get the thing to come out in pieces, though the main part remained inside.
“Sure you can fix it?” The same self-sabotage instinct was doing its work. “I can call someone.”
He pierced me with a glance. “Sure you can stand in the shower with me without getting wet?”
I inhaled, locking it in until he looked away.
A groan escaped him when, with one strong pull, the main piece of the stuck head came out.
I closed my eyes. The scent of his body, the straining muscles, and that groan … his taste still lingered in my mouth.
The answer to his question was a resoundingno.
He gathered other tools and the new showerhead. “Hold these,” he commanded, putting a few screws and plastic thingies in my hand.
“Thanks,” I said when it was all done a few minutes later.
“Want to christen it?” he asked, bending over to gather everything.
I looked at his back and shoulders, tempted, so tempted.
He straightened up and stepped out of the tub. “Enjoy,” he said, walking out and closing the door behind him.
Oh.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When I came out, covered in a towel, the apartment was deserted. Emptiness echoed off the walls.
Angelo’s notebook was left open on the coffee table with the sketches I had seen before of electric guitar bodies, bridges, pickups, saddles, tremolo, and other parts I had learned to associate with guitars and with his handwritten remarks in Italian.
A note in the same handwriting rested next to it. “Went out. When you’re done needing space to overthink this, text me. Angelo.”
It wasn’t just space that I needed; it was him. The man who realized I needed space. And since I neverneededany specific man in my life until now, I refused to start.
So, I didn’t text.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The window banging against its frame, and the intrusive morning light, woke me up. I squinted. I had been a morning person until recently, and here I was, lying in bed and wondering why in hell was I being woken so early.
The banging repeated.
I sat up. My eyes got used to the light, and I noticed the window was closed.
The banging repeated.
It was the front door.
“Mr. and Mrs. Marchesi,” a male voice sounded from the other side of it.
