“No. It is not.”
“I guess you have some big decisions to make,” she said, leaning next to him. “Do you want to talk about your options? I’m great at making pro and con lists.”
“On what topic?” he asked, turning toward her with his hip still against the counter. It seemed like every minute they’d spent together lately was filled with decisions, heavy thoughts, and debating. He was sick of talking, sick of thinking, sick of hearing what everyone wanted for him. Right now, there was no debate. There was only one thing he wanted, and she was standing in his house.
“Any topic you want,” she said, facing him. She crossed one long leg in front of the other. “It works for everything. Your career, where you want to live, where you want to eat dinner, whether or not you should do something that could be dangerous—”
“Dangerous. What is a pro for doing something dangerous?”
“Usually it’s that it feels good.” She looked up at him. Herlips were berry pink with a slight shine. He wondered if they would taste like candy.
“And a con?” he asked, stepping closer.
“Doing dangerous things can also be irrational,” she said, leaning so that her hip was against his.
“Everything I do is rational,” he said, his voice low. He worked his knee in between her legs, pulled his glasses off, and leaned forward until his mouth grazed her neck. “So, irrational behavior sounds like another pro to me.”
“Sure, we can add that to the list,” she sighed as he kissed just under her ear, down her neck. He ran his hand up under the back of her head and pulled lightly at the hair. Her breath caught. “Maybe you can do whatever you want for once.”
“Whatever I want?” he asked, letting his hand drift down to the edge of her blouse. He grazed his fingers up and under the soft fabric, feeling the gooseflesh spread across her skin.
“That’s what I would do,” she whispered, leaning into his leg so that the heat of her rested on his thigh. His hand came to the waistband of her shorts. He tucked his fingers under the band and brought his forehead to hers. Her lips parted; he could feel her want him to kiss her. But he held her there, sliding his fingers down over the outside of her underwear. She gasped, but he held tight, stroking slowly. She squirmed again; he knew she wanted relief as her legs clamped hard on his thigh.
“Tell me whatyouwant,” he whispered, letting his lips graze over hers, the slow circles over the fabric, unrelenting.
“I want…” She trailed off. She reached down, running her fingers next to his. She gently pulled back her underwear, then guided his fingers to press into her and moaned.
The knock at the door was loud. It was firm. And by the voice, it was Luca.
“Signora Giordano?”
Lora’s eyes flew open; Andrea’s hand retracted.
“The residency check! You’re here! Should you not be here?” she asked Andrea, in complete panic. She looked down at herself. “I have to change!”
“Tell him ‘Arrivo,’” whispered Andrea, settling his glasses back on his face. “But don’t panic. I can be here. It’s better if I am because I can translate. Go up and change.”
“Arrivo,” she called to the door. “Arrivo, Luca!”
She raced upstairs, and he looked around, trying to spot any evidence of the fact that he had been one minute away from hauling her up onto the counter. There was nothing but an uncomfortable, though diminishing, bulge in his pants. He shook out his T-shirt, hoping it would fall a little easier over his pants, and stayed behind the kitchen island. Lora ran back downstairs in a sundress and glanced over at Andrea. She pointed up at her head and grimaced, a sign that he should probably try to contain whatever disarray his hair had fallen into, as Lora opened the door.
“Buongiorno, signora. Io sono Luca Zingaretti, capo della polizia di Baia Santa. Vengo oggi per—”
“Ciao, Luca,” said Andrea. “Non devi essere formale.I’m telling him that he doesn’t need to be formal. We know who he is and why he is here.”
“Vabbè, Sindaco,” he said, nodding at Andrea while his hands rested above his thick leather gun belt.
“Come in,” said Lora, waving him inside the house.
“Permesso,” he said, his etiquette intact. Luca took a fewsteps in and squinted around the room. He wandered through the kitchen, swiveling his head back and forth, then wandered through the empty living room displaying only Carola’s sconces, eventually circling back to where Lora stood next to the island.
“Chi vive qui?” asked Luca.
“Who lives here?Lei,” said Andrea, pointing at Lora.
“Da sola?”
“Luca, non è il tuo dovere chiedere questo.Don’t answer that, he’s not allowed to ask you if you live alone.”
