And laugh.
And laugh.
He points at my overall wet-dog appearance. “There’s no use. The rain hasn’t spared any part of you.”
He smiles wider than I’ve ever seen before, his grin nearly stretching ear to ear. I walk over to him and wring out his wet shirt collar. We watch the water drip down. “You should talk.”
When I let go of his shirt, I realize how close we are. The rain can barely find its way between us. I wipe my wet face. “Do I look like a drowned rat?”
Benito stops grinning and looks at me seriously. “No. You look. . .” He strokes my wet hair out of my face and tucks it behind my ear. “Perfect.”
I’m sure the heat radiating off my body will be enough to evaporate the raindrops back up into the sky. The water cycle perpetuated by my blushing cheeks.
“What do you think?” he asks, and I know that he needs me to confirm that I want his hands in more places on my body than just the side of my face, though they feel right at home where they are.
I press a palm to his chest, and it makes a little splash from the soaked material of his shirt. I grab his shirt collar again and pull him toward me, pausing when his face is mere centimeters from mine. “Don’t you hate me or something?” I ask.
Benito freezes. He’s so close I can see his pupils dilate, the irises of his hazel eyes burning bright gray, reflecting the stormy skies. “I could never hate you.” He uses the hand on the side of my face to lock his fingers into my hair and lead my lips to his.
We finally connect and it takes a moment for the sensation to hit me, but once it does, I feel his kiss all over. Even through the unrelenting rain, his lips firmly collide into mine like they’re confident this is where they should’ve been all along. It’s been a long time since I’ve kissed someone, but I feel at home with Benito’s mouth on mine.
We stand there for a moment, locked together, neither of us moving lest one of us gets spooked and runs away. Then he glides his tongue into my mouth and our lips move together. His hand slides down to my waist and he latches his free hand on to the other side and pulls me in, closing whatever gap was left, our bodies completely pressed together.
Thunder claps again and he pulls away, his hands still on my hips. He stares at me with an intensity, like he’s trying to decide if he should take me right here and now in the middle of this public garden. I’m not sure I’d object if he did.
He drops his arms. “I need to get back to work.”
I take my hand off him and am suddenly embarrassed. “Oh. Yeah, of course.”
We leave the garden, and the rain starts to let up. My cheeks are flushed, and I wonder if I can blame it on the sudden change in weather.
I feel his hand in mine. He stops walking and leans back against a wall, pulling me in so I’m almost falling on top of him. He kisses me again. Short, but sweet. “I really have to get back,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“But. . . Izzy.” He cocks his head at me as if to get one final read of my thoughts before he says what he really wants to. “Just to be clear, I’m really glad you’re here.”
Chapter Eleven
I wait for Benito to return from work like he’s been at sea. I peep through the window in my bedroom every time I hear a sudden movement, pacing across my room lest I miss his entrance. When I finally hear the creak of the front gate at promptly 5:15 p.m., I rush to the bathroom to run a brush through my hair. I’ve spent all afternoon preparing. I took a shower, I put on dry clothes, I changed the sheets on my bed—just in case. Vincenzo’s gone home for the day and Anita has her knitting circle on Fridays; we’ll be all alone.
I try to play it cool as I make my way down the stairs to greet him, but I’m basically skipping. When he walks inside, his head is buried in his phone, so he doesn’t see me waiting on the stairwell landing. I clear my throat and he looks up. He immediately puts his phone in his pocket and smiles at me. “Hey.” There’s an awkwardness, and I wonder if he needsme to confirm it again, to be the one to break the proverbial ice.
“Listen,” Benito starts, but we’re interrupted when the closed door to the study opens and Lucia steps out, her usual breeziness hidden behind a pained expression. Worry lines appear where I thought there was only flawlessly smooth skin. I didn’t even realize anyone else was here.
“Benito.” She walks over and hugs him, hanging on for a long time. I look to Benito, hoping he’ll make eye contact with me, but he doesn’t. “We’re all in the study. Come.” She takes him by the hand and pulls him away. Benito looks up at me with an indiscernible expression and my heartbeat kicks up again but in a fearful way, not in a soon-I’ll-be-making-out-with-Benito-again way.
Between the screen time and Lucia’s demeanor, I know something is up, but it’s probably nothing serious. If something serious happened, they would have told me. I’m sure whatever’s gone on now, it’ll resolve itself and we can pick up this conversation later. Tomorrow maybe, over a romantic candlelit dinner.
It rains all night, and I can’t sleep, replaying the kiss over and over again in my mind, certain that Benito will knock on my door any minute. My eagerness to relive it keeps me from dozing off for more than an hour or two, the memory of Benito’s lips on mine far preferable to a dreamless state of unconsciousness. I listen all night for the stairs to creak with Benito’s steps but hear nothing. And yetwhen the early-morning light drips through the blinds in my bedroom, I feel energized.
There’s probably a reasonable explanation. Maybe Lucia was merely stressed from the drive here. Maybe there was a mayoral crisis or an issue with one of his tenants, which is why he was so consumed by his phone, and he left to deal with that. Maybe Lucia needed help with her business and Benito couldn’t sneak up to my room to explain, since she thinks he’s still dating Sutton.
Yes, that makes the most sense. Benito’s final look back at me should be interpreted as just that: He had to go with Lucia to avoid blowing his cover. He was spending time with his family last night, but he’ll catch me up today.
I tiptoe downstairs and it’s completely quiet. I clang around the kitchen as much as possible while making a pot of coffee and a slice of toast. Still, the house is empty. I press my ear against the study door and think I hear muffled whispers, but it could just be the wind, or the ghosts. I send him a quick text.
Me: just want to make sure everything’s ok?
