to her, especially when she’s not looking, taking in every inch of her face, her neck, her hair, down to the swell of her full breasts, the dip of her waist. There’s a pulse in my palms, an itch in my fingers. I want to touch her skin, feel her curves, let my hands glide over every soft part. This isn’t completely sexual, though naturally it’s that, too. It’s not easy to ignore that my dick feels a certain way about her, that even her scent gets me hard.
But it’s more than that. I have this thrumming urge to turn her into art.
Perhaps she’s your muse. Perhaps she’s what you have to create.
I bury that voice and abruptly turn away from her, heading down the hall and down the stairs, not letting myself glance back at her. This is the second time I’ve had to leave her awkwardly, as if the distance between us is the only way to get that voice to shut up.
But of course, it talks about her when she’s not there.
It’s not long before Maria pulls into the driveway and Vanni and I head out there to meet her.
“Thank you so much,” I tell her as Maria leans out of her window. I kiss her on both cheeks, and she glares at me. “What?”
“You’re lucky I live so close,” she says, while I give my niece, Sofia, a wave as she sits in the passenger seat. I’d embrace her too but she, like Vanni, is at the age where they want as much physical distance from their relatives as possible.
“I’m lucky that you’re so good to me,” I tell her. “Veronica, Giada, they don’t care.”
“Hmmphf,” she glowers, but there’s a lightness in her eyes. “Perhaps I should have moved to Rome, too.”
“Bah,” I say, waving my hand. “You are a Tuscan girl.”
Vanni opens the back door, throws his backpack on the seat, and gets in without saying goodbye or even looking at me.
“Drive,” he tells my sister.
She is having none of it.
“Vanni,” Maria says, eyeing him in the rearview mirror, throwing up her hands. “First you come in my car without saying hello, then you expect me to drive away without you saying goodbye to your father?”
Vanni rolls down his window and says, “Ciao,” and then rolls it back up.
Maria and I exchange a look that says kids.
She gives a wave and reverses back onto the road, and then they’re gone. Even though it’s just for a few days, my heart is in knots over it.
I find myself wandering over to the pool, wondering if I should have another swim. I do laps for an hour first thing in the morning, and not only does it burn calories, but it puts me in a Zen-like state, letting me concentrate on the coming day.
Instead I step into the rose garden, inspecting the flowers, wishing I had a pair of shears on me to do some deadheading and snip some blooms. I’m thinking that perhaps a bouquet of them would be nice in Grace’s room, when she appears from behind the building, slowly walking over to me. She’s wearing a short white dress, and with the sun beaming down on her, she looks like an angel.
“Ah,” I tell her, straightening up. “I was thinking about you and then you appear.” I make a motion with my hands. “Poof. Like magic.”
She gives me a veiled glance, stopping at the entrance to the garden. “You were thinking about me?”
Her tone is quiet, curious, shy. Sometimes I get the impression that she doesn’t know what to think of me. Even though we’ve been living in the same house for nearly a week, she still regards me with a bit of distance, and I’m not just talking physical, though I have noticed that when I touch her, she tends to stiffen. I’m not sure if she’s uncomfortable with me, or just people touching her in general.
I hope it’s the latter, though she’ll have to get used to it being here in Italy.
I step toward her and pause by a tall, flowering bush. “I was thinking these roses would be perfect for your room. Here. Come smell them.”
She gnaws on her bottom lip for a moment, looking incredibly sexy, then comes over. I hold the stem (this variety doesn’t have many thorns) and direct the open bloom toward her. She dips her head, closing her eyes and taking a big whiff.
“Mmmm,” she says appreciatively. “Like … tea. Apples and tea.”