So we’ll have bedrooms connected by a bathroom. Adjoining rooms, basically. I feel something flicker in my chest, a weird nervousness that doesn’t make sense. We’re family. We’ve shared space before. This shouldn’t feel like anything.
I dismiss it and keep climbing.
The stairs are narrower than I remember, or maybe I’m just bigger. My shoulders nearly brush both walls. Gabriel moves ahead of me with the kind of easy grace that makes me feel like a lumbering bear. He’s always been like that. Elegant. It used to irritate me when we were younger, back when I was still trying to prove something. Now it’s just Gabriel.
The third-floor hallway is dim and cool, two doors set apart along the same wall. Gabriel pushes open the door on the right, and I follow him in.
The room is simple. A bed with white linens, a dresser, a window that looks out over the garden. The shutters are open, letting in slanted golden light that cuts across the floor.
Gabriel stops in the doorway. “I made dinner. Pasta, nothing fancy. Come down when you’re ready.”
“Thanks.”
He nods and leaves, pulling the door halfway closed behind him. I hear his footsteps retreat down the hall, the creak of another door opening and closing.
I drop my suitcase by the dresser and walk to the window.
The garden spreads out below, wild and weathered. Overgrown hedges, cracked stone paths, a fountain in the centerthat’s probably dry. It needs work. That’s why I’m here. Philip, my stepdad, asked me to restore it, said it was a waste to let it fall apart when the family spent so much time here. I think it was Mom’s idea. Use a beautiful but neglected Italian garden as bait to get me out of the States and under family supervision. She’s never been subtle about wanting to keep an eye on me, especially after the divorce.
I don’t blame her. I’d probably do the same if I had a kid who just signed papers ending a five-year marriage.
The light outside is starting to soften, golden hour creeping in. I peel off my shirt, then my jeans, leaving them in a pile on the floor. The bathroom door is unlocked. I push it open and step inside.
The bathroom is generous for a villa this old. Clawfoot tub, separate shower with a glass door, double sinks. One side is clearly Gabriel’s: toothbrush, a slim bottle of cologne, a razor, and a careful lineup of skincare. I toss my toiletry bag on the other side and turn on the shower, waiting for the water to heat.
Steam fills the space. I step under the spray and let it hit my shoulders, my neck, washing away the grime of travel and recycled air. The water pressure is surprisingly good. I close my eyes and tip my head back, letting the heat work into my muscles.
My thoughts drift.
I don’t know why Gabriel is the first thing my mind lands on, but he is. The way he looked on the porch, the way he hugged me without hesitation, the smell of him that I can still taste in the back of my throat. We’re going to be alone in this villa for weeks, just the two of us and a garden that needs saving.
I wonder what that’s going to be like.
I wonder what the hell is wrong with me that I’m even wondering.
I scrub a hand over my face, then reach for the soap. The water runs over me, and I let it, because stopping means getting out and facing the rest of the evening and whatever the next few weeks are going to be.
I don’t think I’m ready for any of it.
2
Marshall
I’m sitting at the kitchen table watching Gabriel’s back as he plates pasta at the stove. His hair is pulled up in an effortless bun, a few strands escaping at his nape. The long line of his neck is exposed, the skin there lighter than the rest of him, less touched by the sun. There’s a sheen of sweat on it from standing over the heat. I look away and scan the kitchen instead, anywhere but that pale strip of skin that shouldn’t be interesting but somehow is.
The kitchen is old-world Italian. Terracotta tiles, wooden beams across the ceiling, copper pots hanging from hooks. There’s a window over the sink that’s cracked open, letting in air that smells like herbs and dry earth.
“Food smells amazing,” I say, because the silence is getting heavy, and I need to fill it. “You didn’t have to go through the trouble.”
Gabriel glances over his shoulder, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s no trouble. I’m happy to cook for someone else. I’ve been alone here for weeks.”
He turns back to the stove and finishes plating, spooning sauce over the pasta, adding a scatter of fresh basil on top. When he carries the plates to the table, I notice the muscles in his forearms, the tendons shifting under tanned skin.
He sets a plate in front of me, then his own across the table. “Wine?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He pulls a bottle from the counter, opens it, and pours two glasses. The wine is red, almost purple in the light. He hands me a glass and sits down, lifting his own in a half-toast. “To surviving family visits.”
