Wish You Weren't Here

Chapter 23

Ava

Holy. Shit.

Have you ever stepped out of a shower and ventured outside wrapped in a towel? Let the air dry you—caress your skin and pull the wetness up and away—felt every shift in breeze on every inch of you, leaving trails of goose bumps—making you want to drop the towel—until your body sort of sings with sensation. It’s glorious. And freeing.

I feel that way now. And James is the breeze.

His eyes—the silence. I’m drunk on it and I need out of this dimly lit space with all of the beautiful nude women staring down at me from the walls. They are telling me how good it feels to be naked. How glorious. How freeing.

It doesn’t help that I’ve dropped my heels in some dark corner and I’m walking barefoot through the boudoir like I’m a duchessa roaming her own halls.

“James,” I start, breaking the thick, prolonged silence that has tightened around us.

I touch my throat. My voice. It’s heavy and breathy. It hangs in the thick air as I turn to find him leaning in an archway, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches me. He lifts his brows, but doesn’t come closer. I want him closer. I want him here. Where I am. I just—want him.

And if I don’t get out of here, I’m not sure I can hide it anymore.

I try again, “James, is there a way outside—an exit?”

He straightens, the soft darkness of his eyes hardens, and lines dip between his brows.

“Are you okay?” he asks, moving closer like I wanted, but suddenly not looking at me the way I wanted. Concern replaces—whatever the hell was in his eyes a moment ago.

I nod. Swallow a few more times until my tongue feels up to task.

“I just need a moment. Some air. A break,” I say.

He takes me by the arm, his touch so warm around my elbow that I’m sure there’ll be a mark, and he leads me through one archway, then the next—it’s a labyrinth of art and vaulted ceilings and ornate mantels and tapestries and beauty. I’m Alice again. Every room of the palazzo a new world. Then he’s pulling a giant wood door with iron handles toward me and ushering me through the opening out into the night air. Even the humidity is less oppressive than the silent air that was making my skin tighten. I was a kernel in a microwave. Just about to pop.

“Is that better?” he asks, watching me from the darkness beneath yet another portico.

“Much,” I lie.

It’s pathetic that I’m in there having hot flashes while he’s wholly unaffected by my presence. His gaze is so steady. Made of the same stone and mortar that makes up these ancient walls.

I glance around at the garden he’s taken me to. A small but lovely fountain sits at the middle, all paths leading diagonally inward between raised flower beds. Nothing but star-spotted sky overhead.

“I think the heat in there was too much maybe. Do they turn the AC off after closing?” I ask, making my way toward the fountain. I walk quickly, distance between us the goal, hoping that it will make my skin feel less taut—less like an overfilled water balloon. The fountain is the softest shade of green, oxidized over hundreds of years. Oh, what this water has seen. I reach my hand beneath the spout and let the cool current run through my fingers.

“No, the AC is on,” he says, from behind me. “It’s about ten degrees warmer out here—”

“There’s a nice breeze coming off the hills,” I interrupt. No need for him to be so rational while I’m all hot and bothered by a man who seems to loathe me—most of the time.

“This is beautiful,” I whisper, gesturing toward the imposing wall across the way.

Three large rectangles are cut out of the far wall of the garden. The view through each looks like a painting, the middle my favorite, with the moon hanging low like a nursery rhyme, cascading light over the hills.

“That’s where we stood that night that Verga stole your virtue.”

I startle. His voice is closer than I thought it would be—just steps behind me as I approach the huge window in the wall. I look over my shoulder to see him pointing out at the trees through the cutout. “There on that hill,” he clarifies unnecessarily.

I lean out the window and James grabs my wrist, presumably to save me again from a clumsy fall.

And suddenly my arm is on fire—pleasantly scorched. There’s nothing but the sound of his breathing and the feeling of his fingers locked around my skin. I turn slowly toward him, the moonlight fans through the huge window behind my back, and I can see that his eyes have melted—milk chocolate with a caramel center.

“Ava,” he whispers, his voice filled with something I can’t place. Frustration? Anger?

“Hmmm?”

“This isn’t a good idea,” he says roughly.

“No?” It feels like a good idea. Best idea ever.

“You are leaving.”

He’s staring at my mouth like I stare at tiramisu.

“Not right now I’m not.”

Time could go very slowly if he keeps staring at me like this.

“Do you know what you want?” he asks, his fingers moving up toward my shoulder.

Right now. Yes. I want his hands everywhere.

“I think so,” I tell him. It’s hard to formulate a sentence with his eyes on my lips like this.

“You think so?” he repeats. His other hand has made its way behind me and is balling up the fabric of my dress at the small of my back.

“Do you know what you want?” I ask, running my fingers along his chest.

He closes his eyes.

“Yes,” he breathes.

“Are you sure? You seem not to like me.” I trail my finger up his neck, down his jaw.

“I like you enough,” he says.

A breathy laugh escapes me and the air is suddenly too heavy for words. He steps me back against the brick wall beside the window.

He lowers his mouth beside my ear. “I need to know,” he breathes, “cosa vuoi.”

“That’s cheating, James. You can’t use Italian against me,” I say, turning my face to where his arm leans against the wall. I kiss his forearm, softly, letting my tongue barely touch his skin. He curses and I relent, returning my eyes to his.

“I want this—”

His lips are on mine, swallowing my words before I have a chance to speak them. The pressure of his mouth over mine, the taste of him, the softness and the insistence—it spills into me, fills every pore, every cubic inch of empty space. I want this. God, do I want this.

His tongue, his lips, they meet mine with precision. This kiss is a fucking work of art. It should be hung inside. Framed in gold. And somehow my legs, useless as they were before, have found their way around his hips and my free hand is tangled in his hair, never to come loose. His hands find my thighs, my dress hitching up above my hips, and he presses against me, hard and warm as I groan into his mouth.

“I want this,” I repeat against his lips. “I want more.”

He opens his eyes and pulls back, our breath mingling between us over the sound of tinkling water. His hands slide from behind my thighs and he slowly, gently lowers me to the ground.

“This is a bad fucking idea, Ava.”

I don’t give a shit. I grab his shirt and pull him back to me, kissing him hard, making him groan when I arch into him. And the sound fills me with triumph.

I can do this. I can have a fling. An affair. A romp abroad.

For the first time since I arrived, there’s no stabbing pain beneath my rib where Ethan fractured my heart. And didn’t he say that I had to experience all that Italy had to offer? That was his plan, not—

“Where’d you go?” James asks, narrowing his eyes on me.

“Nowhere. I was just rethinking my plan.”

“While I was kissing you? You were rethinking your plan? Jesus, Ava. Just what every man wants to hear.”

I open my mouth to defend myself, but he’s right, so I shut it.

“I shouldn’t have let this happen,” he says. “Let’s get back inside.”

The words hit me like a backhand.

“Really, James? Of all the shitty things you’ve said to me, that has to be—”

“Don’t flip this. You said you wanted this and then a minute later you’re mapping out how I fit into your plan, like I’m a goddamn chess piece that you can slide around your board.” His hand gestures are making me dizzy. He’s never looked so Italian. He’s pissed. I’ve hurt him. And that hurts me more than I’d like to admit.

“I’m sorry, I can’t just jump in like you—”

“Jump in?” He laughs and steps closer, his voice low. “I’ve been trying to stay the hell away from you since you got into my car two weeks ago. I am not jumping in. I’m being dragged in by the hair.”

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, because it’s the only thing left to say.

He takes a deep breath and studies my face.

“You are going to have to figure out what you want, dolcezza. Whatever this is”—he gestures between us—“it obviously needs an outlet.”

But before I even have a chance to nod my understanding, he tugs me by the arm back toward the palace and says, “Now you need to listen. And stay the hell behind me out of sight.”

I swallow a chuckle and then remain quiet as James starts his lecture, his smooth voice filling my head with art and beauty, while I try not to think about his lips on mine.