“Do you want a glass?” I ask him, shaking off the shame of my delusion and hoping he didn’t catch on to my brief but powerful yearning.
Benito smiles smugly. “Interesting how you agreed to keep fighting the good fight.”
I start twisting the cork out of the bottle. The faster I can get this popped, the faster we can have a glass and I can forget the humiliation. “Is it?” The cork doesn’t budge. “I’ve never been good at this. Damn it.” I twist it with more force.
Benito walks over to me. “It’s just interesting how that was your gut reaction when pressed. That you’ll keep going, keep fighting.” The cork pops andflies out of the bottle, hitting the ceiling then flying across the room. I start toward the empty glasses, but Benito holds on to the bottle, stopping me. “It’s almost like you know deep down that you’ll be going back.”
I stare at him for a moment. Is he so for real right now? I put the bottle down and smash my head into my palms half out of frustration, half for allowing myself to forget why I disliked him so much in the first place. “Oh my god. You’re relentless. What else am I supposed to say? No, I won’t, actually, nice Italian college student, because I don’t care anymore?”
Benito’s still smug and I want to crack the bottle over his head. “I’m just saying, it’s interesting.”
I let my face accurately reflect the rage I feel inside. As a woman, especially a woman in politics, I so often have had to hide how I really feel, but I won’t be doing that now. “You have to drop this. I’m not going back to DC. I am going to live in La Musa and work at a flower shop or something and just be happy and fulfilled forever. I’m not going back to my old life. Ever.”
My expression must be effectively stormy, because Benito looks like he’s about to take cover. He struggles to find his words for a moment, then very evenly starts speaking. “I said the same thing even one year ago, but—”
“I’m not you. I’m not going back.” I take the pillow from his side of the bed and toss it on the floor. I do the same with the pathetically thin runner.
Benito shakes his head, admitting defeat, and lies down on the floor. I get back into bed and turn off the bedside lamp. This time, the darkness finds me quickly.
Chapter Seven
Where in the World Is Isabella Rhodes?
By Meredith Pope
After her devastating loss to the newly anointed congressional dreamboat, Levi Cross, no one would blame the former Congresswoman Isabella Rhodes for retreating back to her Los Angeles haven with her tail between her legs, hiding from the public to lick her wounds—especially since she was publicly rejected by said dreamboat. But now enough time has passed that we’re starting to worry. There was a time when it seemed like you couldn’t change the channel or scroll on TikTok without seeing the face of our horniest member of Congress (although, let’s be real, there are probably way grosser members in the male faction, but they have the good sense to keep it offline, or at least distribute airtight NDAs).
Which begs the question, where is Izzy Rhodes? Rumor has it she’s no longer staying at her parents’ home in the Beachwood Canyon neighborhood of Los Angeles—the very homeArchitectural Digesttoured that made the first-term congresswoman appear winningly humble. No, Izzy Rhodes hasn’t been spotted at any of her usual local haunts, and her Georgetown studio was vacated just days after her term ended. A request to speak to Congressman Cross was declined, though his PR team told us Mr. Cross has not spoken to Ms. Rhodes. Her last social media post was on January 2nd, the last day of her term. It was a simple photo of Ms. Rhodes outside the Capitol with the caption“It has been an honor”and there’s been nothing since.
Perhaps she’s lying low in the wake of her humiliating sex scandal, or maybe she’s waiting to regroup before returning triumphantly to the national stage—but we’re hearing all media requests made to her team have gone unreturned. For all intents and purposes, Isabella Rhodes is completely out of the game.
If you, like us, are curious as to her whereabouts, don’t worry. We’ll be here with the scoop the absolute second she resurfaces.
The door to my bedroom creaks even as I take extra care to open it slowly. I’ve been doing my best to avoid Benito in the two weeks since Rome, but it’sreally hard when our bedrooms share a wall. He’s everywhere all of the time. When I need to brush my teeth, he’s in the bathroom. When I’m hungry, he’s sitting at the kitchen island on a stool, drinking a cup of coffee. When I want to sit outside and enjoy the view and the spring weather, he’s taking a call, pacing from one side of the yard to the other. I’ve resorted to staying in my room, which isn’t hard when all I do lately is watch TV and read the first three chapters of every book I’ve been meaning to read my entire life, abandoning them when I inevitably lose interest because if I really wanted to know what happens to Bella Swan, I would have read the books years ago.
Which is why I was ecstatic when I ran into Giac at the farmers market yesterday and he invited me to breakfast this morning. It’s not the sexiest time of day, but I’m grateful for the excuse to leave the house. I put on a floral midi dress that cinches enough in the middle to outline my waist and with a deep V-neck that gives me way more cleavage than I’m used to or frankly comfortable with having. In my career, my boobs were usually hidden underneath stiff button-ups and a blazer. I’ve forgotten that it’s ok to remind people I have them, especially when meeting up with someone I intend to bone.
I carefully close my bedroom door behind me, waiting to hear the click to know it’s shut, and then slowly finagling the rusted iron key into the lock. Just as I think I’m in the clear, Benito’s bedroom door flings open. His face goes white when he sees me standing in the hallway. “Jesus,” he says. “I didn’t hear you out here.”
“Then you should get your ears checked, old man,” I say, though I still don’t know how old Benito is, but I’d guess in the ballpark of my age.
He sizes me up. “Where are you going?”
“To breakfast,” I say. I start to walk forward but he’s blocking my path. “Can you move?”
His eyes fall to my dress, to my waist, to my cleavage. “Breakfast? By yourself?”
“No,” I say, walking around him. The hallway’s narrow enough that my arm lightly grazes his as I pass. “I have friends.”
He narrows his eyes at me and then laughs. “No, you don’t.”
“I do. Vincenzo is my friend.Non mi rompere la scatole,” I say. “He taught me that.” Benito stares at me quizzically. “It means you’re annoying me,” I clarify.
Benito shakes his head. “I know what it means.” He sizes me up again. “So, you’re going to breakfast with Vincenzo?”
“Do I need the permission of the lord of the house to leave or something?”
Benito’s cheeks flush. “No, of course not.” He backs up toward his room. “Have fun.”
