Ava blinks hard and looks up at me, and I’m swallowed by the grief in her eyes.
“She was.”
When a tear makes its way from the corner of her eye, my thumb wipes it away before I have a chance to think. But before I can pull away she tilts her head toward my hand so that I cup her cheek. She fits perfectly in my palm. Her lids drift shut, her lips part. What am I doing?
She’s fucking beautiful. And I need to retreat.
I clear my throat and she straightens.
“We should head inside,” I murmur.
She hesitates, pulls her brows together, then looks down at the intricate herringbone pattern of stones at her feet.
Shit. This was a bad idea, being here with her alone. And even worse, here she is upset about her mother and all I can think about is crushing my mouth to hers. What the fuck is wrong with me? She’s driving me crazy.
“Ava—”
She puts a hand up, then gestures for me to lead the way. Her eyes have gone cool.
“I met Signore Uvaldi today.” Her voice is gravelly, and I keep my eyes trained ahead of me. “At the butcher shop,” she says to my back as we pass under the archways.
Uvaldi is one of the kindest men I’ve ever met. In the early days, when my anger ate at my insides, he’d paid me to walk his dog, insisting that the old mutt needed it four times a day, when in reality it was me who needed the peaceful strolls around the city walls and the soft, calming effects of the rolling hills. I want him to do the same for her—open her eyes to what this place has to offer.
“This is the grand staircase,” I tell her, choosing the left arch and heading upward. The ramp to the west leads down, into the basement—a dark tunnel filled with shadows and nooks. Not a place to go with Ava.
“He was wonderful. He gave me some ciauscolo for Nina, and he’s coming over for dinner tomorrow night,” she adds.
“He’s a great man. I’m glad you got to meet him,” I tell her. I stop and gesture to the space around us and pull the conversation back to where we need to keep it. “No one architect can be credited for the palazzo, there are several who made significant contributions during Federico’s and his son’s rule. Laurana is responsible for the courtyard, but his predecessor took care of the first-floor windows overlooking it—”
“If it hadn’t been for your little map you left me,” she continues, almost whispering now. I know if I look back at her, her armorwill still be out of place, shifted like that loose curl that keeps falling from behind her ear. She’ll be softer somehow. Cookie dough fresh from the oven. I swallow again. Push on toward safety.
“—some of the additions were built on top of a standing medieval presence. In fact, all of Urbino is built in layers, like a wedding cake, the bottom layer dating back to the Roman Empire, then traces upward through the medieval era until it reached the hands of your Iron Man, Federico, in the Renaissance—”
“James,” she huffs, putting her hand on my back. I stop, her fingers burning through the soft cotton of my shirt. When I turn she is staring up at me with that look of defiance—jaw tight, lashes low. I take a step backward and upward. A step away. “I’m trying to thank you—for today. For the note, and you won’t shut up about architecture. Can we have a moment of civility?”
I let out a long breath and nod.
“Thank you for the note. I promise you can bore me to death now,” she says, ascending the steps two at a time as she passes me.
“It was nothing,” I call after her. “As I was saying, layers—”
“Yup. Got it, teach. Roman dudes in togas built the basement for beer pong, then Dark Ages ground floor for interrogation, torture, and sex dungeon, and then Federico enlightened the rest with his glorious towers and libraries and whatnot. That’s what I’ll write,” she says, passing the pilaster at the top of the stairs. She traces her finger along an intricate design, making sure to hover above the shapes carved there, then looks back at me. “Does that about sum it up?”
I nod. “Almost perfectly. We are going to focus on Federico’s enlightened ‘whatnot’ and not the sex dungeons.” She’s wandered into the library and is staring upward at the sunburst decoration in the center of the ceiling. “This is the library.”
“La biblioteca,” she murmurs to herself. “Do you think, James, that maybe I could just take a tour in silence first? Experience the ambience. Then we can retrace with the lecture?” she asks.
“That bad, huh? Of course. Whatever you want,” I tell the side of her face. She’s gnawing on her cheek as she studies the rays exploding in every direction from the sun.
“Oh please.” She waves a hand at me, nearly smacking my face. “You know your lectures aren’t bad. Haven’t you noticed the students tipping toward you like you might touch their foreheads and grant them infinite knowledge?”
“No.” I’m in the zone when I teach—completely swept away in the story of the art. She steps away and I follow.
“Well, they do. What are these gold sperm things with the horns?” she points up to the gold sperm things with the horns.
“Nope, no questions,” I shake my head. “Silence, right?”
“Really mature, Professor,” she murmurs. “Where are all the books and manuscripts?”
