Maya rises on her toes and brushes a kiss against my cheek. “You’re right. The type of person you are will be remembered forever. I know I, for one, am grateful for the person you are.”
As Maya moves away, I make a silent pledge to her that she’ll never regret giving me those words. I also vow I’ll do my damndest to live up to them.
20
DRIVE: SERIES OF PLAYS BY OFFENSE AIMING TO SCORE.
Something has fundamentally shifted between Troy and me that has nothing to do with our kiss. By the time we reach the villa as the sun hangs low in the sky, I feel it brushing against my skin, sliding into my blood, wrapping around my heart. It’s almost as if we’ve been dusted with a cocoon of gold stardust—a blessing of what’s brewing between us.
I’m uncertain whether to be enraptured or terrified by it.
As I set my camera aside, Troy pours two glasses of water before leaning over the counter to hand me mine. His fingers brush against mine, causing a rush to flow through me as if I’d just drunk a full glass of wine. “You’ve been quiet,” he says after a moment.
“Just thinking.” I lift the glass to my lips as Troy massages his thigh muscle. I dip my chin in concern. “Is your leg hurting?”
“Nothing a good soak tonight won’t cure,” he assures me.
Immediately, my mind imagines Troy naked in a whirlpool tub and my cheeks flush the color of the grapes that were plucked from the vines earlier. To gain some semblance of order, I steer our conversation to something more mundane. “You put in a lot of hard labor here.”
“I’ve never been afraid of putting in the work for something I want.” He stretches his arms skyward. The movement untucks his shirt from his jeans, showing off his washboard abs and perfect “V” that’s dusted by a happy trail. The saliva in my mouth dries up as I imagine following it with my lips. My tongue.
I snag my glass to chug the rest of my water, whereupon I immediately choke on it.
Troy rounds the counter and smacks me between the shoulder blades to ease some of my wheezing. Finally, after coughing for a few minutes, I gasp, “Thanks.”
“Try not to throw it back like its pickle juice after completing a set of hill sprints,” he suggests.
“Hardy, har, har.” Then I can’t help but ask, “Do you still do those?”
“Sprints?”
“Yes.”
He bends his knee to show me the range of motion he has in it. “I’m mostly healed. I can walk up the hills to the vineyard with little difficulty.”
“Except for days like today?”
“Today was an exception. That was the squatting.”
I think about the number of times he helped the harvesters. My admiration for his dedication shoots up another million degrees. “Yet, you didn’t complain once.”
“I might have a few times.”
“Ah. In Italian?”
He grins ruefully. “You heard the laughter.”
I don’t let him dismiss it. “I saw them. Your people respect you.”
“They do. It took a while.”
“Why?”
“Oh, a few reasons. And that's a story for another day. But to answer your original question, no sprints. Not anymore.” He looks down at my drink and raises his eyebrows.
I hand it over. “Under any circumstances?”
“Let’s just say something would have to be chasing me,” he admits ruefully, taking my glass from me.
