“Much,” I lie.
It’s pathetic that I’m in there having hot flashes while he’s wholly unaffected by my presence. His gaze is so steady. Made of the same stone and mortar that makes up these ancient walls.
I glance around at the garden he’s taken me to. A small but lovely fountain sits at the middle, all paths leading diagonally inward between raised flower beds. Nothing but star-spotted sky overhead.
“I think the heat in there was too much maybe. Do they turn the AC off after closing?” I ask, making my way toward the fountain. I walk quickly, distance between us the goal, hoping that it will make my skin feel less taut—less like an overfilled water balloon. The fountain is the softest shade of green, oxidized over hundreds of years. Oh, what this water has seen. I reach my hand beneath the spout and let the cool current run through my fingers.
“No, the AC is on,” he says, from behind me. “It’s about ten degrees warmer out here—”
“There’s a nice breeze coming off the hills,” I interrupt. No need for him to be so rational while I’m all hot and bothered by a man who seems to loathe me—most of the time.
“This is beautiful,” I whisper, gesturing toward the imposing wall across the way.
Three large rectangles are cut out of the far wall of the garden. The view through each looks like a painting, the middle my favorite, with the moon hanging low like a nursery rhyme, cascading light over the hills.
“That’s where we stood that night that Verga stole your virtue.”
I startle. His voice is closer than I thought it would be—just steps behind me as I approach the huge window in the wall. I lookover my shoulder to see him pointing out at the trees through the cutout. “There on that hill,” he clarifies unnecessarily.
I lean out the window and James grabs my wrist, presumably to save me again from a clumsy fall.
And suddenly my arm is on fire—pleasantly scorched. There’s nothing but the sound of his breathing and the feeling of his fingers locked around my skin. I turn slowly toward him, the moonlight fans through the huge window behind my back, and I can see that his eyes have melted—milk chocolate with a caramel center.
“Ava,” he whispers, his voice filled with something I can’t place. Frustration? Anger?
“Hmmm?”
“This isn’t a good idea,” he says roughly.
“No?” It feels like a good idea. Best idea ever.
“You are leaving.”
He’s staring at my mouth like I stare at tiramisu.
“Not right now I’m not.”
Time could go very slowly if he keeps staring at me like this.
“Do you know what you want?” he asks, his fingers moving up toward my shoulder.
Right now. Yes. I want his hands everywhere.
“I think so,” I tell him. It’s hard to formulate a sentence with his eyes on my lips like this.
“You think so?” he repeats. His other hand has made its way behind me and is balling up the fabric of my dress at the small of my back.
“Do you know what you want?” I ask, running my fingers along his chest.
He closes his eyes.
“Yes,” he breathes.
“Are you sure? You seem not to like me.” I trail my finger up his neck, down his jaw.
“I like you enough,” he says.
A breathy laugh escapes me and the air is suddenly too heavy for words. He steps me back against the brick wall beside the window.
