“First question,” she starts, refocusing on the painting, “Where is the tension hiding in this painting?”
I quickly scribble down the question before moving to a new line for her next one.
“Which figure do you avoid looking at, and why?”
She taps her chin deep in thought as I finish writing down the second question, and some time passes before she comes up with the third.
“If this painting were to move forward by un secondo, what would break first?”
I frown down at the page as I finish writing that one, wondering what she means bybreak first, but I hold back from asking more questions—I’m sure I’ll figure it out.
Giovanna leaves, telling us to enjoy our first week in Florence and that we’ll meet back at this gallery at noon on Friday.
I notice the other students group together when she leaves, and I regret falling asleep on the bus instead of making connections like the rest of them did. But then a guy about my age turns his head and stares at me.
He’s tall, slim but still strong looking, with intentionally messy, straight brown hair. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, exposing his veiny arms and large hands, and he has the warmest brown eyes I’ve ever seen.
When I hold his gaze, he smiles—a dimple forming on one side of his mouth—and waves me over to the group. I bite the inside of my cheek, begging myself to not do something embarrassing in front everyone, and walk over to them.
“Hi, I’m Paolo,” he says, holding his hand out to me.
I internally scream as I shake his hand, feeling like I’m having my Lizzie McGuire moment.
“I’m Lea,” I say, plastering on a smile as the rest of the group jumps in and introduces themselves.
“We were thinking we’d all go to a restaurant and get to know each other before we head our separate ways for the day,” Paolo says. “Would you like to join us?”
I nod shyly, and he grins, showing off his perfectly straight white teeth.
It turnsout that unlike Lizzie’s Paolo, mine can actually sing. After eating at the restaurant, we found ourselves at a bar where most of the group had gotten tipsy, and in Paolo’s case, drunk. He’s currently up on the small stage singing a fast paced Italian song, and despite his clearly intoxicated state, he’sreallygood.
The whole bar is clapping along to his singing, some people are even whistling or singing along, and I can’t help but laugh as I watch him. So carefree and full of life. That’s what I want for myself.
The rest of our group leaves when it starts to get dark outside, and somehow I find myself alone with Paolo at the end of the night. He orders us both a glass of water as he sits next to me.
“Finally finished your fifth encore?” I joke.
He laughs as he runs a hand through his hair, the biggest grin on his lips. “I get carried away when I sing. I guess the others got sick of it,” he muses, watching me carefully. “But not you.”
Heat rushes to my face. “No,” I say. “Not me.”
A spark of interest shimmers in his eyes as he holds my gaze, and I can’t ignore the pull of attraction that I feel when I’m around him. Maybe Paolo is exactly what I need to finally get over Gabriel and our complicated past. An easy, no strings attached, hookup abroad.
What could go wrong?
He offers to walk me to my hotel after we chug our waters, and I accept because the reality is that the world never truly feels safe for a woman once it’s dark out. Especially in a new country.
“What made you want to join this academy?” He asks as we walk along the cobbled streets, following the directions on my phone.
“Well,” I force out a chuckle. “I guess you could say I feel a bit lost in life lately.”
“How so?”
I shrug, looking away from him and focusing on the street performers that are gathering small crowds around them.
“I don’t really know what I want anymore, or who I want to be. So I’m hoping a year away from my regular life, doingsomething out of my comfort zone, can help me learn more about myself.”
He nods in understanding, following my gaze to a nearby street performer. He takes my hand, static ricocheting throughout my whole arm, and tugs me along after him until we’re standing in front of the performer.
