Duke for the Summer

1.

For years, Nate Schafer had dreamed of being discovered. As a kid, doing kickflips, as a teenager, loitering in Hot Topic, trying to look the exact right combination of bored and dissolute, even in his early twenties, hoping that some cute guy on the bus would compliment his tattoos or ask him what he was listening to. Hoping that somebody, someday, would look at him and say, you’re special, you’re perfect, instead of dismissing him as a weird little guy with no career prospects and only average looks.

So it felt especially insulting when the scam emails started coming, telling him that he, Nate Schafer, was the sole inheritor of a castle on a tiny island near Sicily. Hilarious. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble, too. They’d designed a family crest and gotten somebody to write the emails in formal English, and it was almost convincing enough that he allowed himself to hope…

Except that was stupid. His dad, by all accounts, had been some druggie rando with no ties to Italy, let alone royalty, and his mom was as midwestern German-American as they came, and so Nate just blocked the address of the sender and marveled briefly at the creativity of internet scammers before forgetting about the whole thing.

That is, until a very handsome, very annoyed Italian man showed up on his doorstep, brandishing a binder full of papers.

“You are Nate Schafer.” It wasn’t a question, but his name sounded so fancy in this guy’s accent that Nate did an auditory double-take. Maybe he actually wasn’t Nate Schafer. At least not the right one.

“Yeah?” he said cautiously.

“You didn’t answer my emails. I had no choice but to come here myself.”

Nate’s hand twitched on the doorknob. “Look, I make fifteen dollars an hour, so if you want me to, like, transfer money to some offshore account to buy a castle or whatever–”

“It’s your castle. You have no need to buy it.” Mr. Tall, Dark, and Officious opened the binder, showing him what looked like a photocopy of an antique document. For all Nate knew, it could be some Italian noble’s shopping list. There was a seal of some kind on it, and he realized that it looked familiar: the emails had had a similar graphic. “Castello di Carmosino, historic seat of your father’s ancestors. I had almost given up hope that there were any heirs left, and then I found you. I’m Jacopo Brunetti. My family have always been caretakers of your estate.”

He held out his hand. It was a nice hand, strong and large, with no rings on the fingers.

Nate didn’t shake it.

“Yeah, you must have made a mistake. I don’t even know my dad’s name. There’s no way he was connected to some noble family.” He shrugged, adding, “Sorry.”

“It’s impossible that I made a mistake.” Jacopo scowled, his eyebrows dark V’s. There were little threads of silver at his temples. “You took a DNA test recently, yes? Twenty Three and I, or something.”

“Yeah?” An early gift to himself for his thirtieth birthday. Nate tried to remember what it had said. Nothing too interesting. European mutt across the board, right?

“Before your great-great uncle, the last Duca di Carmosino, passed away years ago, we were able to save his DNA profile.” Jacopo tapped the binder importantly. “You’re a match.”

Nate had a chill sense of surreality, and he realized he was sweating. Absurdly, his brain asked, the dookie de Carmosino? But duca meant duke, of course, it must, because of all the paperwork, and he was obviously going insane, because–

“My great-great uncle is a duke.”

“You are a duke. You are the last surviving member of the famiglia di Carmosino.”

“I, um.” Nate rubbed a hand over his face. A thousand thoughts were clambering over each other in his head, and somehow the only one that came to the surface was an intense awareness that he was wearing ratty basketball shorts and a t-shirt that had barely passed the smell test, and he felt like that on its own disqualified him from inheriting a dukedom. “Shit,” he said. “Uh. Well. I guess you’d better come in.”

*

“Do you want coffee?” Nate held up a Keurig pod. “I’ve got, uh, caramel brulee or apple cinnamon?” Jacopo was looking at him like he’d grown a second head, but he blundered on. “They’re the only flavors left. My mom buys them at Costco?”

“Sorry,” Jacopo said slowly. “I’ve studied English extensively, but sometimes the, uh, idioms escape me. What is this–”

“Costco? Yeah, it’s a huge store where you can buy, like, a gallon of mayonnaise or a year’s supply of toilet paper or whatever. My parents are borderline doomsday preppers, so it’s kind of their favorite place.” Nate stared at Jacopo, willing himself to stop talking. This man didn’t fit in his shabby living room, with its faded floral sofa (a hand-me-down from his stepsister) and seldom-vacuumed carpet. He was tweedy, professorial, mysterious, his black hair slicked back, his strong eyebrows skeptical. His clothes were somewhat dated but had the look of being well-made and well cared-for. And the stubble beginning to come in along the line of his jaw made Nate suppress a shiver.

“Um,” he concluded. “Coffee?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so, I’m very tired.” Jacopo rubbed at his temples. “Your airports are stressful. And there was a man on the bus who seemed agitated about something called the Area 51? I hope it is not near here. It sounds very dangerous.”

“Oh God, did you take the Greyhound?” Nate set a mug down in front of him. “All that duke money didn’t pay for a hired car or something?”

Jacopo took a sip of the coffee and slid the mug away, coughing slightly. “There isn’t–that is, the caretaker only receives, how do you call it? A stipend. I could not hire a car.”

Right. The caretaker only received a stipend. Because there was a castle, and the castle had a caretaker, and it all belonged to Nate.

The castle, he amended. The castle belonged to him. Nate cleared his throat.

“So, like. Ok. I’m the last Duke of Carcassonne–”

“Carmosino.”

“Sorry. I’ll practice getting it right, I promise. What happens now?”

“You need to come back to Italy with me,” Jacopo said. “There are documents to be signed, and there’s the matter of your inheritance. And you’ll have to decide what you want to do with the property–provided you don’t want to live there permanently.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Nate felt his stomach sink. Of course, of all the castles in the world, he’d have the luck to inherit a shitty one. It was probably haunted to the gills.

“Il castello has had no occupants in over twenty years.” Jacopo rubbed his temples. “Parts of it are not set up for modern living.” He reached for the coffee cup, then seemed to think better of it. “But the inheritance is substantial, as long as you are willing to stay there for three months.”

“Oh. There’s a three-month clause.” Yeah ok, it was one hundred percent haunted. There was probably a cursed portrait or a room with a slowly-withering rose somewhere in there, too. Who knew? Anything was possible, after today.

“Yes. I apologize about the complication, but, well–” Jacopo steepled his fingers over his chin. “One of the dukes wrote into law centuries ago that no one could inherit the family fortune without living in the castle for at least three months. He wanted to prevent whoever married his daughter from automatically getting the money, I believe.”

“So I have to live in a castle in Italy for three months and then inherit a fortune?” Nate took a gulp of coffee. His head was buzzing, and when he looked down at his fingers, they didn’t seem quite real.

“Well, yes. But you won’t be alone. As I said, I’m the caretaker of the castle, so I’ll be there to help you.”

“Okay.” Cool. Cool cool cool. Don’t freak out, Nate, you’re just suddenly a rich duke who’s about to spend three months in a definitely-haunted castle with a hot Italian man. No big deal. “I think–I think I need to sit down. I think I need to call my mom.”

*

Jacopo looked even more out-of-place in Nate’s tired little Honda civic than he had in his living room. He’d been polite enough to ignore the empty cans of Red Bull rattling around on the baseboard and the pile of work clothes in the back, and he was resolutely staring out the window as they headed out of Eugene, seemingly fascinated by the hayfields and pastures of sheep. Nate’s mom, Barb, and his stepdad, Dave, lived out in the country. It was the kind of out in the country where your mailbox had reflectors on it and your nights were punctuated by coyote song and the occasional rifle shot and the nearest town was a bunch of trailer homes clustered around a church and a liquor store.

Barb had seemed calm enough on the phone, in that dreamy way of hers that might be a result of the damage she’d done to her brain years ago or might just be the result of her determination not to get stressed out about anything. Dave had had a more realistic reaction, insisting that they meet Jacopo and pore over the documents to make sure everything was legitimate. How he intended to do that, Nate wasn’t sure, since everything but the DNA test was in Italian, but he guessed it was a good idea to get a second opinion before jetting off to–not Carcassonne. What was it called again?

“Sorry. What’s the name of the island?” he asked.

“Carmosino.”

“Car-mo-see-no.” Nate sounded it out. “And the town is called?”

“Collinarossa.”

Ooh. Yeah, he’d felt a little internal shiver at that one, at the way Jacopo’s tongue wrapped around the consonants. Nate kicked himself mentally. He really shouldn’t be objectifying this poor guy’s accent. Who even knew if Jacopo was into men, anyway? It could end up being a very awkward, platonic, uneventful three months.

“What’s it like?”

“Hm,” Jacopo said. “Small. Very hilly. Different from this.” He gestured out the window.

“Well, yeah, this is a valley.”

“It’s a nice place. Very little privacy, I’m afraid. Everyone will be–curious about you.” His eyes raked over Nate’s body then, quickly, but not so quickly that Nate didn’t notice how they lingered, on his forearms, on his chest, and though Nate had never really been able to get big from working out, he knew he was strong, and worked hard at maintaining his body, and he let himself wonder for a moment if it wouldn’t be such a platonic three months after all.

Scratch that, it definitely would be, because now his mom was showing Jacopo pictures of him as an eleven-year-old.

“And here Natey is at the Veneta Renaissance Faire. I was one of the Queen’s handmaidens that year, and Natey wanted to be a knight, so we covered his bike helmet in tinfoil and made him a breastplate out of cardboard. Look, isn’t it adorable? He decorated it himself, such a creative kid. Anyway, that was the year he ended up throwing up from the heat–”

“Mom.”

“So you make sure he doesn’t get overheated in Italy, okay, Jacopo? He’s got sensitive skin.”

“Ma’am, it is my duty to serve the famiglia di Carmosino,” Jacopo said. “I’ll make sure nothing harms your son.”

“You’re a treasure.” Nate’s mom patted Jacopo’s arm, her chandelier earrings swinging wildly.

He kind of was, Nate had to admit. Jacopo was good with moms, that was for sure. He’d been nothing but polite through dinner, even managing to put away some of the bizarre mayonnaise, pea, and salami spaghetti that Barb had made “in his honor.” He’d nodded thoughtfully and shown no sign of offense when Barb had talked about how Nate had been conceived at a concert for a Grateful Dead cover band (a cover band! Nate had wanted to throw himself out the window). In fact, now that Jacopo was here, Barb seemed more than eager to talk about Nate’s dad, and by the end of the night, Nate had learned three entire things about him: he’d also been short, his name had been Nico, and he’d evidently been a casual fan of psychedelic instrumental jams.

Absolutely great, that she trusted a stranger with that information.

“And he never mentioned that he was, you know, European royalty?” Nate asked, rubbing his temples.

“Oh, he might have, honey. But men always say things like that when they want to get into your pants.”

“Mom.” Nate cast a despairing look at Jacopo, who was digging into Barb’s marionberry cobbler, apparently oblivious.

“This is delicious,” he said. “What is the fruit?”

And now Barb was telling him about how they harvested the berries out in their backyard, and how he would just have to meet her daughter, Thea; she’d been to France, you know, she was very worldly.

“Natey, maybe Thea could visit while you’re in Italy!”

Sure. Yeah. Nate loved Thea, but the last thing he wanted was his adorable half-sister swanning around in front of Jacopo with her eyelashes and her big boobs and even bigger personality.

“Are you done? With the cobbler, I mean.” Nate held out a hand. “I can help Dave with the dishes.”

While Barb seemed sold on the entire idea of Jacopo, Dave was refreshingly skeptical. Of course, Dave was skeptical about everything; there wasn’t a conspiracy he didn’t love. Wiry-haired arms buried in a sink full of suds, he asked, “Nate, are you sure about this? I don’t want to hear that you’ve been a victim of human trafficking, or–or had your organs harvested in some backwards Italian lab. What if this Jacopo guy has a brother who needs a kidney, or something? What if that was the purpose of the DNA test, to see if you’d be a match?”

“Dave,” Nate said, rolling his eyes. “They have better healthcare in Italy than they do here. There’s no, like, underground kidney harvesting ring. We saw online that the island exists, and the name of the duke on the Wikipedia page matches the name of the guy I’m related to. So.” He wiped a dish and put it in the rack.

“Wikipedia can be modified by anyone,” Dave grunted. “Google maps can be hacked. What if it’s a mob thing? Or an underground prostitution ring, Nate? I’m no Liam Neeson.”

Nate rolled his eyes. “Why would anyone come all the way to the US to abduct me, specifically? It’s so crazy that it has to be true.”

“Ok, well, if he tries anything, remember–”

“I know, I know. Fight dirty, use elbows and teeth.”

They were silent for a moment, looking out the window over the sink. It was early summer, the high grass on Nate’s parents’ property dry and yellow. Nate watched as a goat tore relentlessly at a loop of marionberry brambles. He felt a sudden wash of homesickness, thinking of long warm nights and crickets chirping and the smell of dusk. He’d never quite belonged here, in this quiet life Barb and Dave had built for themselves. Would he belong any better in Carmosino?

“Have you given any thought to logistics?” Dave asked. “He said you need to stay there for three months?”

“Yeah. I figured I’d just sublet my apartment to some college students. Maybe travel a little bit when the three months are over. And then I guess I have to figure out what to do with my inheritance.”

“Are you sure you just have to live in the castle? What if they want you to govern the island, or something? Nate, what if they want you to produce an heir?”

An uncomfortable feeling squirmed through Nate’s stomach. He hadn’t thought of that. “That would… be a problem.” Nate heard the creak of the screen door, and saw Jacopo walk out onto the porch. He seemed agitated, his tall, narrow frame hunched against the railing. Nate swallowed. “I’ll, uh. I’ll be right back,” he said.

Jacopo Brunetti was confused. More than confused, he was confounded, his head swimming. None of this was what he had expected. The America he’d imagined had been like New York in the shows his mother liked, the horizon filled with shiny skyscrapers, people bustling along the streets, flower and hot dog carts (he’d never had a hot dog; had wanted to try one), angry cab drivers. Oregon was nothing like that. It had trees, and fields full of sheep, and something called a–what was it? Cossaco?–and strange little coffee pockets with absolutely hideous flavors, and a bus system called the Greyhound, which he’d taken down from the Portland airport and which seemed to specifically be the main mode of transportation for insane people.

The new duca di Carmosino was nothing like he’d expected, either. When Jacopo had read the name Nate Schafer, he’d pictured someone powerful and fierce, maybe a lawyer or businessman. Someone who wore suits regularly and had steel countertops in his kitchen. But this Nate Schafer had some kind of bird tattooed on his shoulder (Jacopo had seen its talons, peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt), and tree branches snaking down his arm, and something else on his chest, just visible enough for lines to tease above the collar of his shirt. He had sensitive skin, skin so translucently pale that the tattoos seemed burned into it, and sandy blond hair, and he wore ragged basketball shorts and band t-shirts, and his parents had goats and chickens in their backyard, just like Jacopo’s.

Jacopo tapped a pack of cigarettes against the rail of the porch, watching the goats tear up mouthfuls of grass. The sky had gone a pale heather color over the treetops. It was a riot of greenery, this America, wild and strange, and Nate was wild and strange, too. Jacopo tried to imagine him in the castle, tried to imagine three months in close proximity with him, and felt a strange tingle between his shoulder blades.

He lit a cigarette, and had just brought it to his mouth when he heard the screen door creak behind him.

“Oh, shit,” Nate said. “Put that out.”

“What?” Jacopo turned to face him, and Nate pulled the cigarette from his hand, snuffing it out on the railing. Jacopo’s fingers twitched, feeling hot suddenly, not from the flame but from the brush of Nate’s against his own.

“This is a substance-free zone,” Nate said. “Mom’ll go crazy and sage the whole place if she finds out.”

“Sage?” Jacopo’s brain prodded at the word dimly, then gave up. He’d been speaking English exclusively for the last 24 hours, and he was finding it harder and harder to think.

“You okay out here?”

“Fine. Just tired.”

“Look, I need to ask you. About this three-month thing. What am I supposed to be doing, exactly?”

Jacopo looked at him helplessly. He waved a hand in the air. “Whatever you would like.” It didn’t matter; all that mattered was getting the three months over with, and then the castle and the island and the entire Brunetti family wouldn’t be Jacopo’s problem anymore. “You can enjoy the beaches. Or perhaps learn about your family history. There are many records in the library.”

“I’m not supposed to actually act as the duke or anything, right? Like, you’re not expecting me to get married and produce an heir?”

Jacopo’s stomach lurched at the thought. “No, it’s not–Carmosino isn’t a city-state anymore, there’s no legal need to–”

“Because that’s not going to work for me, Jacopo–”

“Really, don’t worry about it–”

“Because I’m gay.”

“Oh.” Jacopo sank into one of the deck chairs. From far away, he heard himself say foolishly, “Well. That’s–that’s interesting.”

“Interesting?” Nate was standing over him, hands on his hips. “What does that mean?”

Jacopo sputtered. “Nothing.” He felt his hand clenching around the armrest of the chair and willed it to stop. “I must warn you that it’s a small town. People are very conservative. Perhaps best not to advertise, you know.”

“Oh, okay, I won’t pack my sequined hot pants, then.”

Jacopo didn’t dare ask what those were. Maybe something one bought at Cossaco. He dragged a hand over his face.

“Are you sure you’re doing okay, man? I bet you’re super jetlagged. I should get you back to your hotel.”

“Hotel.” Ah. That was what he’d forgotten.

“You don’t have a hotel?”

Jacopo shook his head. Exhaustion was folding around him like a blanket, and his head had begun to hurt.

“Well, damn. Okay. Looks like somebody’s sleeping on the couch.”

He didn’t remember making it to the couch. He vaguely remembered the feeling of his cheek against the cool window of the car, the blur of yellow lines down the center of the road. Then he was waking, in a panic, shoving a rough wool blanket off his body and sitting up before he realized he was in Nate’s apartment, the clock on the wall illuminated by the streetlight outside, telling him it was just after two a.m.

Jetlag. Yes. That was the English word for this feeling; Nate had said it on the porch. Jacopo rubbed his eyes.

It wasn’t quiet here, not like Carmosino. It wasn’t loud, either, not like Napoli had been. Someone’s TV murmured in the apartment below, and wind brushed at the windows. Jacopo didn’t think he would be able to sleep anymore. Surely Nate wouldn’t mind if he got up and got a glass of water. Surely Nate wouldn’t mind if he took stock of the apartment a little bit–just looking around the living room, nothing harmful. Just to keep himself occupied.

The walls were sparsely decorated, the main focus of the room a large flat-screen and stereo system. Big speakers, old-looking, covered in peeling stickers with band names Jacopo didn’t recognize. A guitar propped up in the corner, covered in dust. There was a small bookshelf along one wall, and Jacopo examined it, tracing the spines of the books. Art collections, graphic novels, a couple of battered mystery paperbacks. There were a few family photos on the shelf as well, one of Nate’s parents and one of what Jacopo assumed was the larger extended family. Like him, Nate had many siblings.

No pictures of anyone who looked like a boyfriend.

Not that that mattered.

He felt ashamed suddenly and retreated to the couch. He had no business looking at Nate’s things, and besides, there was no point in trying to get to know him. He’d be gone in three months, having taken his inheritance, and then Jacopo wouldn’t ever have to think about Carmosino or the castle ever again.

*

Dave Jordan was good at a lot of things (woodworking, baking bread, goat yoga), but he was absolutely terrible at not sharing delicious gossip, so it was less than twelve hours before Nate’s phone was blowing up.

Barb and Dave had met and married in Nate’s twenties, so he didn’t really know any of his step-siblings that well. His two older step-brothers, Paul and Ben, were both dads to multiple kids and both, in classic dad mode, made some kind of “Mamma Mia” joke on the phone and worried politely at him about how different it would be to live abroad and was he sure it was legit and please try not to get scammed. His stepsister, Laura, told him all about her trip to Rome years ago and that Italian men were terrible and Italian food was great and to be careful about pickpockets, and to please bring her back something Armani, even just a dish towel or something.

And then there was Thea.

“Dude I would literally fucking stab someone in the fucking face for a castle in Italy. Are you kidding? Like, right now, give me a person to stab.”

“Hi,” Nate said, holding the phone a little ways away from his ear.

“Seriously Nate, where’s my mysterious European royalty ancestor? My dad worked at the fucking Shake Shack, do you think he was secretly like an Austrian noble or something?”

“Yeah, no. I’m sure he was. The Shake Shack empire stretches far across the land.”

“Aw, fuck you.”

“It’s a run-down castle that’s possibly haunted, Thea, it’s not even a big deal.” Nate drew his finger along the countertop, hoping Jacopo, out on the balcony, couldn’t overhear.

“Um, even better? You know I’m visiting.”

Nate sighed. “I know.” He cast a look at Jacopo through the window, his jutting profile and the nervous way he held his cigarette. It was weird having him in the apartment, hearing the floorboards creak as he paced around during the night, the door to the balcony squeak open as he went outside to smoke, knowing how long he took to shower (a long time), seeing his toothbrush and travel-sized pot of pomade on the edge of the sink.

“Ugh, I cannot wait to eat my literal body weight in pasta and just live on the beach. How many bikinis should I bring? Is five too many? There are hot guys there, right?”

“Nah,” Nate said, turning to look at the cabinets in his kitchenette. “Only Joe Guidices. Just, like, a bunch of them, playing bocce ball and eating veal parmesan and being raging misogynists all day.”

“Again, you’re just selling me more and more on this. And mom said that guy who came to get you is hot. So.”

Nate swallowed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Uh,” he said. “He’s whatever.”

“Uh huh,” Thea said dubiously. “Mom said he’s like the best, most amazing guy ever.”

“Mom has notoriously bad taste in men, though.” It was genetic; Nate’s most recent relationship had been a disaster, too. And the last thing he wanted was to get romance involved in this whole duke extravaganza, crazy as it was already.

“So? It’s not like you have to marry him or something. Anyway, I’m so excited for you, and for me to be honest, and I want you to call me the second you land and also get blacked out on prosecco at least once before I get there. In my honor, because I’m not stupid royalty like you apparently are. Okay?”

Nate made a dismissive noise. “Are you kidding? I could black out on prosecco in my sleep. Love you.”

“Love you! Ciao, fratelli! Or however you say it! Oh, shit, I’ve gotta learn Italian.”

When Jacopo came back in, Nate was staring at his phone on the coffee table, his stomach fizzling as if he actually had drunk a whole bottle of prosecco.

“Everything alright?” Jacopo asked.

It was alright, really. It was great; he was a duke, and everything was about to change, and Nate’s insides felt like they were full of puzzle pieces that didn’t fit together properly, just all rattling around in there, making him jittery. Suddenly it was too much, the way Jacopo was looking at him, the sterile intimacy of him being here with Nate in the apartment, so Nate stood up, dusting himself off. Trying to get his head straight.

“Yeah,” he said. “It was just my sister. She’s… excited.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I was going to go for a walk. You want to get out of the house, see some of the town? I know it’s not New York City, but you said you’d never been to America before, so...” he gestured lamely at the door.

“I would like that,” Jacopo said.

And so they went for a walk along the river in the heat of late May, Nate coated in SPF 60 sunscreen, Jacopo’s olive skin just getting infuriatingly more burnished-looking. The water was low and lazy, the trees a nearly psychedelic green, and Jacopo marveled over all of the ducks and squirrels along the way.

“That’s the name of the football team, you know.”

“The squ–the–the small furry thing that I can’t pronounce? That’s the name of your football team?”

“No, no,” Nate said, laughing. “Not the squirrels, the Ducks. But I guess either one would make just as much sense. It’s, like, a really big deal here. Football.”

“Oh, yes. In Italy, as well. It’s the only thing my cousins talk about.”

“American football, not soccer. Have you ever seen a game? Hoo-rah, and all that. Tossing the, uh, pigskin. Getting touchdowns.” Nate had exhausted his knowledge of football terms, and Jacopo was looking at him like he was insane. “Look, forget it.”

“No.” Jacopo waved a hand in the air. “I would like to see it. I believe it is an important part of the American culture.”

Great. He was a sports guy. Nate suppressed a sigh, resigning himself to a night of boredom. “Okay. Well, it’s not football season, but I guess we could watch some highlights.”

“Speaking of American culture, do you have hot dogs here?”

So Nate took him to Saturday Market, where Jacopo disappointedly ate his way through a hot dog, muttering about how the tomato sauce was very sweet, smelled various artisanal soaps and candles, admired local hand-painted pottery, stared in bewilderment at all the stalls selling weed paraphernalia, and begrudgingly accepted Nate’s offer of a tie-dyed T-shirt, because “You have to get one if you’re visiting Eugene.”

He seemed pretty overwhelmed after that, so Nate took him back to the apartment and let him nap on the couch, his long, lanky body folded into a tight little knot. It made Nate’s stomach twist a little, looking at Jacopo with his brow knitted, so tense even in sleep, his jaw dark with stubble–he was one of those guys who apparently needed to shave every eight hours to maintain a smooth face. He was so cute, and perpetually tired-looking, and standoffish, and Nate wasn’t sure he’d seen him smile once since he’d been here.

What would Jacopo’s smile look like, he wondered?

Not wanting to wake him, Nate left a note, saying he was going to the store.

Jacopo woke up with a start when he got back, temporarily getting tangled in the blanket Nate had thrown over him earlier before managing to stand with brittle dignity.

“Why are you laughing?”

Nate shook his head and tried to shoulder the door closed. “Nothing, I just–a little help, please? I can’t carry all of this.”

Jacopo rushed over, grabbing the twelve-pack and one of the bags of takeout out of his hands.

“I didn’t want you to think American food was just hot dogs,” Nate explained. “We’ve got tacos and BBQ. And beer, from a local brewery. You do drink, don’t you?”

“Oh,” Jacopo said, in what sounded like relief. “Yes. Not usually beer, but yes.”

“Well, let’s sit down on the couch, then. It’s game time.”

Jacopo had a lot of opinions after a few beers, it turned out. The tacos were a hit, especially the hot sauce. It reminded him of a sauce that his mother knew how to make. Nate’s mouth watered as Jacopo described how his mother sauteed eggplant, mushrooms, and hot red peppers before mashing them up with a mortar and pestle, though he wasn’t sure if his mouth was watering because of the tastes Jacopo’s story conjured up or the way his strong, fine hands illustrated what he was saying. Jacopo approved of the barbecued ribs, as well, though he scoffed at the macaroni and cheese before eating more than half of it.

American football seemed to offend him on some spiritual level, however. Nate had pulled up a highlight reel from last season, and four IPAs in, and Jacopo couldn’t stop asking questions. “Which team are we supporting, again?”

“The guys with the bright green shirts and the yellow pants.”

“It is a stupid uniform. Why are the pants so tight?”

“I dunno.” Nate sipped his beer, sinking further back into the couch. “I guess people like looking at butts?”

“Ridiculous. And why is this man in a Donald Duck costume doing pushups?”

“That’s Puddles. He’s the mascot. He does push-ups whenever they get a touchdown.”

“None of those words mean anything,” Jacopo wailed.

“Okay, okay, calm down. Maybe football’s just not your thing, it’s all right.”

“I just don’t understand it,” Jacopo said, shaking his head. “I want to understand.”

“There’s not a lot to understand. It’s just for fun. It’s not–well, I mean, people do take it super seriously, but it’s not serious. It’s just fun to have a team and support it, that’s all.”

“Hm.” Jacopo picked at the tab on his beer can. There was a strange, restless energy radiating from him, and what Nate had hoped would be a relaxing evening was turning out to be unbearably tense.“I’m going outside.”

Nate trailed after, following him onto the balcony.

And yes, smoking was bad, everybody knew that, but damn, Jacopo was the picture of harried, disconsolate elegance when he smoked, his hair slicked back, his eyes heavy in their deep sockets, his cheeks rough with stubble. Cigarettes should be banned, Nate decided, purely on the basis of what looking at Jacopo’s profile was doing to him right now.

“I’m sorry,” Jacopo said finally. “I spoiled the football.”

“Nah.” Nate swallowed, his mouth dry. “I’m not that invested in it. I just thought you might be interested.”

“I am interested. I’m also confused. By everything, it seems.”

“Well, I’m sure I’ll be just as confused when we get to Italy. Then you’ll have to show me around.”

“I haven’t seen much of Italy,” Jacopo said softly, his shoulders hunched. “Sicilia is close to Carmosino, I’ve been there. And I studied in Napoli before—before I had to come home and take over the conservatorship of the castle.”

Nate shrugged. “You’re not alone. I haven’t seen New York. Or Chicago, or New Orleans, or, really, anywhere.” He’d been to San Diego to visit Thea, and Missouri to visit his stepbrothers, and Seattle because it was close. He’d never been out of the country. In fact, the only reason he had a passport was because Barb had insisted, just in case they reinstated the draft and he had to run away to Canada, or something.

“You should travel,” Jacopo said, turning to him with sudden intensity. “Once you’ve gotten your inheritance. There is so much beautiful art in Europe. You could see the Sistine Chapel, the Louvre. I know you like art. I saw your books.”

“Oh.” Nate glanced up at him in surprise, and Jacopo looked away. “Well, yeah. In a past life I guess I was interested in a career in it. Or music, couldn’t make up my mind. I took some classes at community college, but I’ve never been very good at school. Couldn’t focus.”

“Do you still–”

“Draw? Not very much. My wrists are always sore from the warehouse. But maybe I could get back into it. I drew this, actually,” he said, pushing up the sleeve of his t-shirt to show the owl on his shoulder.

“Ah.” Jacopo cleared his throat. “I wondered what kind of bird it was. It’s very good.”

“Th-thanks.”

The night air was warm and syrupy around them, and Nate could feel sweat beading on the back of his neck. From far away, he heard a commercial come on the TV, something about a new mop that was going to revolutionize his cleaning routine, but he honestly couldn’t have given a shit, because Jacopo was asking, “May I?” and when Nate nodded, his fingers were tracing over the tattoo, electric against his skin.

And then Jacopo’s whole palm was just cupping Nate’s shoulder, and the space between them seemed to thicken with possibility, and it was agonizing, looking up at him, looking at his eyes, his lips, as Jacopo’s grip grew tighter on his arm, and–

Nate’s rickety air-conditioning unit lurched on, startling them both.

“Jesus Christ,” Nate hissed, his heart pounding so hard his ribs hurt. “Let’s go inside. It’s too hot out here, anyway.”

Jacopo nodded mutely. His hand, which had been–God, so warm–on Nate’s shoulder, was tucked resolutely into his pocket.

They sat down on opposite ends of the couch. Nate opened another beer. “I, um,” he tried. “Well. What do you want to watch?”

“Watch?”

“Yeah. It seems like the football wasn’t a hit, and I know you haven’t been sleeping well. I’ve got Netflix. We could put something boring on. Maybe it would help you fall asleep?”

“I never sleep very well. But thank you.”

Nate showed Jacopo how to use the remote and went to bed, his body still buzzing, his thoughts disordered, either from the beer or from the memory of the balcony. European guys were just more physically affectionate with each other, that was it. Had to be. And Nate had been single for too long.

Around three a.m., the TV was still going, so Nate pulled on sweatpants and padded out into the living room to find Jacopo huddled on the couch, still wide awake, watching Ghost Hunters.

“This isn’t going to help you sleep.”

Jacopo shrugged.

“Well, budge over. I can’t sleep either.”

“You can’t?”

“No. Nervous.” Nate sat down. “We’re going to Italy–well, today, I guess, since it’s past midnight. And then everything’s going to change.”