“I’m wondering why we haven’t been doing this every day?” I ask him as I plop back beside him in my lounge.
He puts down the book.
“Partly because we have work and responsibilities,” he says. He leans his head toward me, lowering his voice. “Mostly because it’s next to impossible to see you in a bikini without wanting to put my hands all over you.”
Yikes. I want that—the hands part. I swallow and search for words.
“Do you think we could find some time to be alone this week?” I ask. With Tammy in the apartment and the pool house out in the open for all to see, alone isn’t as easy as it sounds.
Eight days left. Now that thought causes the collapsed lung.
“I think we can figure something out,” he tells me. “Are you hungry?”
Always.
“Sì,” I nod.
“Want to make pizza with me?” he asks, looking me over.
“How do you say hell yes in Italian?”
He shakes his head. “You don’t.”
I laugh and he smiles, then stands up and puts his shirt on before I have a chance to protest.
“Where are you two going?” Tammy asks, her tone brimming with insinuation.
“To make pizzas,” I tell her as I tie my cover-up at the hip.
“To make babies,” I hear her murmur, and I kick the soccer ball that is lying nearby in the grass at her. It hits the water and sends a splash over her face. Perfect shot.
“Nina, you want mushrooms on yours?” I ask, still keeping an eye on Tammy sputtering in the deep end in case she seeks revenge.
“Sì. Funghi, per favore,” Nina says, squeezing my hand as I pass by her on the way to the kitchen. “Use my sauce.”
“Va bene.”
I turn to find James watching me with amusement.
“You know how Zia takes her pizza?”
I brush past him and tell him, “I learned a lot this week while you were hiding.”
“Fair enough. I’m going to cut some basil—”
“Let me! I love the way my fingers smell after. Like fresh pesto,” I say, veering out to the garden.
James watches me with a smile and I turn away before I do something stupid like fall on my face. Or fall for him.
Too late, honey.
Ah. There you are, Mom. Radio silence all week when I needed you, but you decide to chime in now. And you’re wrong. I’m not in love. That would be reckless. Self-endangerment. Falling in love with James would be disastrous for all involved.
I look down in my hand and realize I’ve cut enough basil to stuff a mattress.
The glorious smell does nothing to distract me from my mother’s voice echoing the same two words over and over as I make my way back to the villa and into the kitchen.
Too late.
