I let the grin spread, slow and dangerous. “Wanna go swimming?”
“At”—she checked her phone—“two forty-two in the morning?”
“It’s technically tomorrow now. A brand-new day. Anything’s possible.”
“That sounds like something you read off a Pinterest quote board.”
“Don’t knock my Pinterest boards” I nudged her foot with mine. “Come on. Skinny dip. It’ll be fun.”
“Have you met me?”
“Mmhm, becoming rather a big fan.”
She rolled her eyes, but I saw the way her lips twitched, betraying the smile she didn’t want to give me. I hopped off the wall and offered her my hand.
“This is such a bad idea,” she muttered, but she took it anyway.
We tiptoed down the steps, trying not to spill the wine or wake up any sleeping Portofinese residents. The stairwell was narrow and steep, carved into the side of the cliff, and by the time we reached the bottom, the soft rush of the water surrounded us.
It was quiet. Just the stars above, the sea stretching endlessly, and us.
Nicola toed off her sandals and hesitated.
“What?” I asked, already tugging off my shirt, “You scared?”
“No,” she scoffed, peeling off her dress and folding it neatly over a rock, “I just don’t trust you not to drown and make me drag your dumb body back to shore.”
“I’m a great swimmer for your information, Moretti.”
“I bet you dog paddle.”
She turned her back to me and walked into the waves in just her black lace underwear, moonlight catching the water clinging to her skin. I swore I forgot how to breathe.
I stripped and followed her in, the water frigid and biting until we were both waist-deep, then chest-deep, floating side by side.
“This was a good idea,” she admitted, her voice softer now, almost reluctant.
“Told you.”
The silence stretched comfortably between us, punctuated only by the gentle lapping of waves.
“When did you get your tattoo?” she asked. I had a pair of swallows on my thigh, usually under clothing and unseen, butNicola picked up on most things. I was slowly realizing she was rather perceptive.
“Few years ago now. There’s this old church a town over from the vineyard. My parents got married there, same as my grandparents and great grandparents. Swallows were around almost every time we visited. My grandfather didn’t like them much, but my grandmother did. She said life should be lived loudly and that she liked that they found homes where they could. They were resilient. I always wanted a tattoo too, so figured it should be the first.” I was staring at the stars as I talked, floating on my back.
“I like it,” she said quietly. I felt like I could fucking soar at the casual compliment. She looked so damn beautiful under the moonlight it was almost painful. Her cheeks were red from the chill. I looked at the mole on her left temple. I remembered reading once that moles and freckles were reminiscent of long-lost loves, of a spot where they were kissed over and over again and that after however many lives were lived, it left a permanent reminder. I liked that theory. I wanted to kiss her temple, wanted to kiss her forehead, and her nose and her lips. It took up most of my thoughts these days.
Then she bumped her shoulder into mine. “You’re staring.”
“You’re stunning,” I admitted in a breathy whisper, unable to cover it with a line or make it less serious. Because she was the most stunning woman here in the sea under the moonlight.
She turned toward me slowly. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m not. Not on wine, anyway.” She burst out laughing first and I was quick to follow. She splashed water at me before I pulled her close to me. Her arms wrapped around my neck as if in response. Her eyes darkened, pupils wide in the moonlight, and I felt the shift in the air. Like everything was tipping.
“Matteo—”
“I know. But it’s just vacation; it doesn’t count,” I reassured her with the words I knew she wanted to hear.
