My wits have fully recovered (almost) and I’m ready to face day two.
I will no longer let the chaos of this place control me, nor will I let Ethan’s shortsightedness ruin my plans for our future together. I’ll give myself one more day to cool down, then I’ll use that five-minute calling card and someone else’s phone to do what I do best—convince and persuade. As for Italy—I’m gonna beat her crazy ass into submission. Gonna make this country my bitch. I’m determined to give my mom the authentic study abroad experience that I promised—but my way. Controlled. On my terms.
So I’ve put the bullshit that was yesterday behind me with a solemn promise to stay wine-free and pill-free for the near future, and got a fullish night’s rest (not including some pesky graphic dreaming and a few sheep sound wake-ups), and I’ve showered (albeit a far colder shower than the first), and dressed in my most professionalpencil skirt and blouse and twisted my hair into a no-nonsense updo. This is my take-me-seriously-or-else outfit. My don’t-fuck-with-me outfit. My—
“Ms. Graham.” There is a gentle knock on the guest house glass and I turn away from my reflection in the mirror to find Dean Russo outside with a tray in one hand. My room-service-from-a-dean outfit.
I push the door open with a smile.
“Buongiorno, Dean Russo,” I say.
Yep. I practiced my Italian from the phrase book my mother gave me years ago. Well into the night, because I broke the jet lag rule by taking a nap—and it took hours to settle the anger from he-who-shall-not-be-named. I refuse to be the only monolingual human in every room here.
“Buongiorno, Signorina Graham,” he says, matching my smile and handing off the tray with an unnamed pastry and a steaming cup of cappuccino.
I take the tray, inhale, and nearly faint. “Oh my goodness. This smells amazing.” I turn and place the tray on the small table by the door. “Grazie.”
“I was hoping you could take it to go, veramente. I’d like for us to walk to campus together,” Leo says.
Walk? This isnotmy walking-for-miles-in-the-sweaty-countryside outfit. I glance down at the ridiculously overpriced pumps Tammy forced me to borrow and see their future demise. I can still hear her clucking at me and shoving them into my perfectly organized suitcase. “There is nothing the Italians respect more than fine footwear.”
“I’d love that,” I say. “Let me just change my shoes.”
I kick them off, slip into some flats, and grab my purse and the goodies from the tray, double-fisting like a pro.
“Pronto?”
“Sì,” I nod, trying not to slosh any cappuccino on me as I kick the door shut behind me.
It takes us a bit to find our rhythm as we make our way around the pool and onto the gravel road that James drove in on. My purse has to be shifted several times, and my stride is limited in the tight skirt, but eventually we fall into an easy pace that lets me enjoy the warm, foamy beverage without the threat of outfit ruination. We wind along the hill in companionable silence, nothing but the sound of my ladylike chewing and slurping to interrupt the peace around us. I go to wipe foam off my lip and I realize it’s sweat. It is too early in the morning for it to be this hot.
“Fa caldo, no?” Leo asks, reading my mind or my lip sweat. “This heat wave has made everyone restless. Even the sheep cannot sleep.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” I lie. I’d had to put ear plugs in to drown out the bleating.
“Fortunamente, the amphitheaters are air-conditioned. You’ll find most of the students arrive at class early and stay late because their dormitories are not.”
I smile. “Perhaps they are just eager to learn.”
“Ah, yes. That must be it.” He winks my way and I marvel at the fact that I can’t find a single bead of sweat on his tanned face. He’s dressed to the nines. Gray linen suit pants without a single wrinkle, a matching vest, the jacket slung over his shoulder. He reminds me of the guy from the Dos Equis commercials. The Most Interesting Man in the World. We come to a fork in the road and he nods to a little stone wall in front of us.
“Leave your mug there,” he instructs. “We will grab it on our way home.”
I do as I’m told.
“Is that the way into Urbino?” I ask pointing to the road not taken.
He nods. “Sì. Forse, James can show you the city today.”
I count to three before I answer. I don’t want to reject the idea over-eagerly, and be she-who-doth-protest-too-much.
“I always like to get to know a city on my own—form an independent opinion,” I explain.
He lifts his dark brows at me. His eyes are a dazzling shade of blue, lighter than the pool water at the villa. Finally, he pulls his lips downward and makes a sound like “vabbè,” lifting his shoulders to his ears, palms out and forward.
It’s the Italian gesture forwhatever. And I like it.
“Vabbè,” I repeat, mimicking his movement.
