1
Marshall
The rental car feels like a goddamn toy. I kill the engine and stretch my legs as much as the cramped space allows, which isn’t much. My SUV back home has legroom. This thing has the suggestion of legroom, an optimistic promise that gives up somewhere around my knees.
The AC wheezes out a final breath of cool air. I give it another ten seconds, soaking in the artificial chill before the Italian July heat wins. The drive from Malpensa was only an hour, but I’m still dragging the exhaustion of the flight behind me.
I pop the door open and step out into air that hits me like a wall. It’s dry and hot, the kind of heat that bakes into your skin and settles there. I’m still closing the door when I hear footsteps and look up to see Gabriel on the porch.
It’s been three years since I’ve seen my stepbrother in person, our schedules playing an endless game of near-misses. He’d visit Philip, Mom, and Audrey for Thanksgiving while I took Christmas. He’d come in June, I’d show up in August. We’d overlap in family group texts and the occasional phone call that lasted exactly as long as politeness required.
He looks better. That’s my first thought, which is stupid because Gabriel’s always looked good. But there’s somethingdifferent now. The whiskey eyes are brighter against his tan, like someone turned up the contrast. His cheekbones and jawline cut sharper, making his mouth stand out more, those full lips he got from his late mother. I’ve seen photos of her. She was a gorgeous woman. Somehow Gabriel took her features and came out even more striking, like he refined the blueprint.
His hair is a bit longer than I remember, just to his jawline, the brown streaked with gold, probably from the time spent in the sun. He’s wearing a linen shirt, the top few buttons undone, exposing his collarbone, tailored dark linen trousers cropped at the ankle, and tan leather sandals worn soft with use.
He descends the porch steps with an easy confidence and pulls me into a hug before I can decide if I’m ready for physical contact.
I’m not ready.
He’s almost my height, and I feel every inch of it as his arms wrap around me, solid and warm. The scent hits me next: smoked vanilla, black pepper, and warm skin. My nostrils flare. I don’t mean for them to, but my body decides it needs more of whatever the hell Gabriel’s wearing, and I’m too tired to fight it.
He leans back, hands still on my shoulders, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Marshall. It’s good to see you.”
I nod, forcing my brain to come online. “Yeah. You too.”
“I’m sorry about the divorce.”
Of course he leads with that. I shrug, stepping back so his hands drop. “It’s fine. Should’ve clocked sooner that Rachel was in it for the family money.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I could’ve paid more attention. But at least we don’t have kids to traumatize.”
Gabriel’s mouth quirks. “Small mercies.”
The silence stretches for a beat too long, so I fill it. “How’ve you been?”
“Fine.”
He says it too fast and looks away, his gaze skimming past me to the car, the driveway, anywhere but my face. I catch it, file it away in the part of my brain that catalogs things that don’t add up. Gabriel’s not a liar, but he’s good at deflecting. Whatever’s going on with him, he’s not ready to talk about it.
Fair enough. I’m not here to pry.
I head for the trunk and haul out my suitcase. Gabriel turns and heads toward the villa, and I follow, wheels crunching over gravel before hitting the smooth stone path.
It looks the same as I remember: cream-colored stone, terracotta roof tiles, shutters painted a faded green that probably looked charming twenty years ago. It’s beautiful in the way old things are beautiful, worn in and comfortable. I haven’t been here for years, but it settles around me like a familiar jacket.
Inside smells like lavender and earth, and underneath it all, cooking. Garlic. Tomato. My stomach growls.
Gabriel glances back over his shoulder, catching me mid-sniff. “You must be exhausted.”
“I’d kill for a shower.”
His mouth twitches. “No need to commit a felony. I’ve prepared the second bedroom for you on the third floor.” He pauses at the base of the staircase, one hand on the banister. “I hope you don’t mind sharing the bathroom with me.”
“I don’t mind.” I heft the suitcase up the first step. “You’re in the other bedroom on that floor?”
“I am.”
