the trees, the morning sun soft and hot, the air fragrant with the opening roses.
I throw my towel down on the lawn chair beside his and sit down on the edge of it, watching his body cut through the water. The muscles in his back and arms are strong and rippling, his skin looks extra dark against the crisp light blue, and he moves like a shark, smooth and calculated. The way he slices through the water reminds me of the way he is out of water, both at ease and in control.
Eventually he pulls up at the end of the pool and looks at me, water dripping down his face. “What are you doing?”
“Watching you,” I admit.
His face lights up playfully. “Is that so?” He starts swimming toward me and pauses at the edge right in front of my chair, a lock of black hair stuck to his forehead. “And do you like what you see?”
Oh, how do I answer this?
I could tell him yes.
But that would be too bold, too bare. I don’t have it in me.
I decide to hedge it. “You look like a professional. Did you ever swim on a team?”
His eyes narrow thoughtfully at me and he spits out water. “No. But I did spend my youth swimming off of Elba. My parents’ house is right on the beach. The water is beautiful.” He pauses, licking his lips. “I should take you there.”
My heart feels like it stutters. I swallow. “To Elba?”
“Yes. You can meet my parents.”
Oh shit.
“They would love to meet an author,” he goes on.
“I should probably stay here and write,” I manage to say even though there’s a voice buried deep inside me that’s yelling at me, that I should say yes, that oh my god, why am I passing this up?
“I see.” He gives me a small smile but it’s not hard to see that he’s disappointed. “I suppose if I’m already dragging you to a concert, then gallery night, that’s a lot of time spent with me. I can’t blame you for being sick of me.”
“I’m not sick of you,” I say quickly. “Not even a little.”
He seems skeptical. “Are you sure? I do realize that when you planned to come here, you weren’t planning on being around someone else all the time. I more than understand that you need space.”
“I don’t need space.” I mean, I kind of do, because I need to write, but shit, I also want to be around him too. I need it.
I’m a mess.
All I know is if I go away with him somewhere … I don’t know. Here, I’m barely holding on. It feels like I’m constantly skirting the edge, and one wrong turn and right look and I’m going to go over. He’s making it hard to breathe properly, to think properly, and I barely have my wits about me. The only thing I have is this villa, a sense of structure. If I go away with him, I’m afraid I’ll fully let go.
You’re assuming he wants to sleep with you, the voice tells me. He’s Italian. He might be that way with everyone. You might be getting the entirely wrong idea, and then how embarrassed are you going to be when you throw yourself at him?
“Grace,” Claudio says. “Get in the pool.”
I realize I’ve been staring at him like an idiot the whole time my mind has been tripping over itself and going in circles. Suddenly the pool seems too small for the both of us.
“Grace,” he says again, a warning tone. He lifts himself out of the pool with ease, the water sliding off his body, and walks toward me, his hand out. “Get in the pool.”
I stare up at him. “I-I’m fine.”
“You’re doing that thing again,” he says, shaking his head in disapproval. “The thing with the thoughts. What did I tell you about letting go?”
Don’t let go, don’t let go.
He reaches down and grabs me around the waist.
I yelp, and before I know what’s happening, he’s hoisting me up and carrying me over to the edge of the pool, my legs dangling in the air.
“Oh my god, Claudio!” I yell, laughing at the same time. “Put me down!”
“Okay,” he says simply.
With one easy motion he throws me in the pool. I hit the water with a giant splash, then hear Claudio diving into the water next to me.
I burst through the surface, gasping for breath, and see him treading water, grinning at me.