Chapter 14
14
Sophie’s chest was too small for her heart as it leaped and raced. She was light-headed, but she didn’t want to breathe; she wanted to keep kissing. The languid, aching rasp of his mouth over hers turned her knees to liquid and her brain to porridge.
She’d forgotten it was like this when they kissed: the world ceased to exist, only sensations and emotions, heat and connection. Although, perhaps it had never been quite so charged in the past. The rawness, the insistence in the way he kissed her triggered more than just memories and when he leaned in, almost bending her back over the table in his attempt to draw even closer, she fisted her hand in his top, angled her head and deepened the kiss.
He stumbled, throwing an arm out to stop them from toppling onto the table. The action wrenched his mouth from hers and his eyes flew open, wide and a little haunted. He was about to pull away – Sophie could see it. Her hand slipped around to the back of his neck, unconsciously trying to hold him where he was.
But that was the action that made him stiffen and slowly draw back. His chest rose and fell heavily. Emotion rippled across his expression, so much that she couldn’t hope to interpret it. Then with a deep breath, he turned and left the room without a word, the door to his bedroom closing with a muffled click.
Sophie stifled a groan. ‘God damn you, Andreas Hinterdorfer.’
* * *
She didn’t say a word about the kiss the following day. Of course she didn’t. Even though he could see it in her eyes when she was thinking about it – a glint of panic – she wouldn’t bring up the subject. She was here to plan a wedding, not kiss her ex-boyfriend. Or colleague – or whatever the hell he was. Andreas had been surprised to realise he didn’t care about their current professional relationship. She would always just be Sophie in his mind and apparently, he would always want to kiss her.
He wanted to kiss her again in the morning when she emerged from her room in loose pyjamas and peered doubtfully out of the window. The pane was streaked with droplets and the cobbles outside were dark and slick with rain.
He wanted to kiss her when she settled into the passenger seat of his old Panda and pulled out her tablet. She was wearing a grey skirt and a white blouse with a cropped jacket. The sleeves weren’t short, but they weren’t long either, leaving a stretch of wrist and forearm that he couldn’t stop looking at. A fine silver bracelet would look distractingly attractive right there – especially if he was the one to give it to her.
He still wanted to kiss her when they dashed into the reception venue, a historic limonaia, a lemon garden, on the other side of the lake. He especially wanted to kiss her when he heard her speaking decent Italian as she greeted the middle-aged woman behind the counter.
He wondered what she’d sound like speaking German and reined himself right back in. Giving in to a kiss last night – a kiss that had felt so natural, so good it had shaken him – had been bad enough, but imagining her slotting into his life was a recipe for heartache.
Manaslu was calling him, the first real expedition for a couple of years. He knew a guy who was putting together a team for the Polish Glacier Traverse of Aconcagua early in the new year too. Now Toni’s parents were moving to Weymouth to help with Cillian and Willard had this wedding shit to deal with, he could stay in South America for half the year. There were still so many unclimbed peaks in Bolivia and Peru.
Imagining saying goodbye to Sophie again as he set off on an expedition, as he had eight years ago, was enough to stop him dreaming about turning kisses into something more. Even without the stilted proposal that he’d had to turn down, it would tear him in two.
He mumbled an excuse and left her there to organise her wedding admin and hightailed it to the nearest bar to down a couple of espressi. That was one Italian ritual the Südtiroler had adopted with enthusiasm: the quick espresso at the counter.
Because Lake Garda was a tourist magnet, his cheap espresso was a slightly pricier €1.20 and rather than the comfortably shabby bar he’d hoped for, he drank it at a gelateria while the visitors licked their morning ice cream.
The weather continued to be foul and they filled the afternoon visiting a vehicle-hire company to arrange a quote for Vespa-rental options for the hen and bachelor excursions.
‘Do we need to do a test drive?’ he joked, shoving his hands into his pockets.
‘You’re welcome to. You can borrow my rain poncho. It’ll suit you,’ she replied without even looking at him.
He wanted to shoot back a witty quip, but she’d caught him on a rare day when he hadn’t bothered preparing for the conditions and he deserved the mocking.
The following day, he still didn’t trust the weather. A storm was forecast and this time, the air was already heavy and charged when they woke up. But Sophie had a seemingly endless list of local businesses to visit for this wedding and another she had pencilled in for the following year.
Meaning to just drop her off and find something else to do, he found himself tagging along, juggling samples while she tapped on her tablet: two bottles of Valpolicella from the vineyard restaurant, three sample corsages, two mini wedding cakes; and a heavy book of fabric swatches for something he hadn’t quite caught, even though he’d understood all of the words.
He didn’t speak wedding.
As they waited to chat to one of the stylists on her list, he leaned on the back of her chair and tweaked a lock of her hair. ‘Do you have to try out the hairdressers, too?’
The stylist chose that moment to appear with a warm handshake for both of them. ‘I’m happy to demonstrate!’
So it was his own fault when he found himself in the leather chair five minutes later, a plastic smock around his neck, staring at his own scowl in the mirror while Sophie grinned in the background. Her hair was shorter than the bride’s, had been her excuse.
But it was a passable cut – at least Sophie seemed to think so. She brushed her fingers through his hair, pulling her hand back quickly, but not quickly enough to prevent the shock of gratification at her petting.
He must have still been in a daze an hour later at another florist’s up in the hills behind Bardolino. The storm had passed with more bluster than actual weather and the afternoon blazed hot over the clay roofs of the town. The florist led them to a balcony with a view over the vineyards and a glimpse of the lake, served a fairly good espresso and then brought out her parade of samples.
‘You have to see someone wearing this to truly appreciate it,’ the florist was saying as Andreas was distracted, studying the terraced vines, cypress and olive trees, the brightly coloured render on the houses and the pink rhododendron below. He was only two hours from home, but summer came earlier near the lake. He’d been skiing at altitude a week ago – which only made him wonder if Sophie had skied again since he’d coached her onto her first red slope. Probably not.
‘My assistant has been very hands-on today, so perhaps we can try this.’
Andreas snapped his gaze up, at first wondering what Sophie meant with ‘hands-on’ and then recoiling when he saw what she intended. But his back met the railing and he had nowhere to run, so he dipped his head with a grumble and allowed her to place the floral wreath on his head.
‘On me, it’s going to look more like Julius Caesar than a bride.’ But he enjoyed her smile as she snapped a few pictures.
‘Julius Caesar probably isn’t the right look for clients, though,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Here.’ She thrust the tablet into his hands and plucked the arrangement off him, setting it on her own head.
That was worse. The wedding nonsense made him feel restless – useless. He didn’t care if those flowers were roses or gardenias. The fuss was stifling, claustrophobic. But when Sophie stood in front of him looking like that, he ceased to function. The neurons in his frontal lobe all panicked and he didn’t know whether to haul her over his shoulder like a caveman or run the other way.
‘Are you going to take a photo?’
He managed a grunt in response, but he was in a foul mood by the time they drove back to the apartment.
He managed to keep quiet until they were getting out of the car, packing the samples into a collapsible crate he usually used for ropes. ‘Do you really enjoy this stuff?’
‘Yes,’ she answered stiffly, her top lip thin. ‘I did suggest getting a car myself. You were hired to be my guide… and not my test subject. I’m sorry you’ve had a miserable two days, but don’t take it out on me.’
She hefted the smaller box of samples and turned away. Juggling the crate under one arm while he closed the boot, Andreas had to hurry after her, the words rushing out before he’d thought them through. ‘I haven’t had a miserable two days.’
‘What?’ Her tone was peevish.
‘I didn’t mean to criticise you just because—’ I freaked out when I saw you looking like a bride . ‘Because you enjoy your job. And I didn’t mind coming along.’
‘It’s all right, Andreas,’ she said with a glance heavenward. ‘You don’t have to pretend you like weddings any more than I’m going to pretend to enjoy the via ferrata.’
He wanted to insist that she would enjoy the via ferrata, but he knew she was afraid and telling her what she felt would only be counterproductive. So he restricted himself to an inarticulate grumble and then said, ‘I don’t understand why you have to loot the garden centre to get married, but the past two days with you—’ have been amazing . Ohhhhh, porca di merda, halt’s Maul, du Lopp. Cursing, calling himself a fool and telling himself to shut up helped calm him down enough to finish the thought more sensibly. ‘—have been fine. And we got cake. Are we allowed to eat the cake?’
She regarded him as though he had a screw loose, which was fair. ‘I’m not going to take it back to the UK in ten days’ time. Yes, we can eat the cake.’
He rubbed his hands together. ‘Good. Do you want the millefoglie or can I have it? Wait, you should have it, since it’s the classic Italian wedding cake.’ Brushing past her to unlock the door, he kept his face averted, not wanting to know what sort of look she was giving him.
When they set the crates on the kitchen table, he couldn’t avoid her gaze any more.
‘How do you know that?’ she asked, a hand on her hip.
‘Hmm?’
‘How do you know about the classic Italian wedding cake? You haven’t been to any weddings.’
‘TV?’ he tried. ‘Movies?’ His voice trailed off. ‘You’ve been to a lot more Italian weddings than I have, haven’t you?’
She nodded, obviously trying not to smile, which was unfortunately a very sweet expression on her. ‘I’ve been to a few,’ she said lightly.
He took a deep breath and straightened. ‘Does that mean I can have the millefoglie?’
‘No way!’
‘Half?’
‘You could just go to more weddings and then you’d get some. You must have had friends or family get married.’
He gave an eloquent shrug.
‘You always make sure you’re in the Himalayas on the big day?’
‘Something like that,’ he mumbled.
With a long huff, she rummaged in the crate until she found the little gold boxes with the cakes inside. She peered into one and he caught a glimpse of the honey-brown pastry of the millefoglie, dusted with sugar and bursting with cream and berries. ‘Andreas Hinterdorfer would rather climb Everest than go to a wedding,’ she muttered. ‘I think you’re just afraid you’ll cry.’
‘I would not.’ He snatched the box from her and fetched a knife from a drawer.
‘You don’t know what to do with your emotions,’ she accused him, softening her words with a smile. ‘I bet you, our mountaintop wedding will make you cry.’
His response was a snort. Why would he cry at some strangers’ not-legal promise ceremony, where they vowed to do all the things they probably already did without the vowing? ‘This isn’t convincing me to commit to September, but what would you bet? What’s your prized possession?’
‘You sound a little bit sensitive about this, Andreas,’ she teased. ‘But okay. I bet my signed Foo Fighters T-shirt.’
His eyes widened. ‘Fini, I’d forgotten you had good taste. I hope it’s my size,’ he said with a wink.
Crossing her arms, she pinned him with a look. ‘What do you bet? What will I win when you bawl like a baby at, “You may kiss the bride”?’
‘Do people actually say that?’ he asked with a scoff. ‘But my prized possession is easy.’ As the words tumbled out, Andreas knew that under no circumstances should he continue, but he was feeling a little reckless. ‘It’s a Pakistani emerald, three-quarters of a carat, round cut.’ Currently sitting in a plastic box in his sock drawer.
Her smile vanished. ‘You’re not serious,’ she said eventually.
‘I’m pretty sure I won’t cry.’
She paused for a wary intake of breath. ‘Fine,’ she said, her voice tight. ‘You’re on, but if you escape to the Himalayas instead of coming to this wedding, I’ll know you chickened out. Now give me my half of the cake!’
It was his turn to regard her in silence. Well played, Sophie-Leigh. Well played.