Chapter 14 – Brinley
brINLEY
T he Tuscan sun shines brightly through the airport windows, bathing the waiting travelers in golden light.
They’re more stylish here in their linen clothes and bright prints.
I inhale a long breath, taking in the scent of expensive perfumes mixed with citrus and soap.
The airports even smell better in Italy.
Or maybe I’m just excited that I’m finally here, after all the weeks of planning and months of anticipation.
My whole body feels lighter as I stroll to the arrivals gate with my rolling suitcase. I’ve got three beautiful days to look forward to, full of food, swimming, and long mornings spent lounging in bed with my boyfriend.
The doors open, and I spot Beau immediately, leaning against his rented Maserati convertible.
He’s wearing dark sunglasses and a white linen shirt, rolled up to show off his broad forearms, one scarred from an old food-truck burn.
He’s already tan from two days in the Italian sun, looking like something out of the romance novels I sell for a living.
I can’t see his eyes through the sunglasses, but I know the second he sees me because he smiles . The smile that shows all his teeth and makes him look like a cheeky little boy again. The real smile, the one that nobody gets but me.
Something in my chest unlocks.
I practically skip over to the car and throw my arms around him. It’s second nature for him to lift me and spin me around once my arms are around his neck.
An older couple walking by grins fondly at us, like we’re reminding them of when they were young and happy and in love. I grin so hard it hurts because finally, someone gets to see me and Beau as a couple, even if they’re strangers.
“How was your flight, Brinley baby?” Beau asks as he sets me down.
“Long.” I sigh. “At least I got some sleep, though.”
His brows arch up behind his sunglasses. “I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“My thank you, for forcing you to upgrade to the first-class reclining seats.”
I roll my eyes. “Why would I thank you for something that’s purely selfish?”
“What’s selfish about shelling out thousands of dollars for your flight upgrade?”
“Because you know if I’m well-rested, your chances of getting some goes up significantly.”
His arms tighten around my waist. “It’s been a while since math class, but I don’t think that odds get any higher than 100 percent.”
“You think I’m that easy?” I joke.
“Yup. Brinley Windsor, total trollop.” He lowers his mouth, brushing his lips softly against mine. “And I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
My lips part without any coaxing. It’s only been a few days, but I’ve missed the taste of him, like spearmint and sunshine.
His body radiates warmth through the thin fabric of my blue and white sundress.
I bought this dress months ago, spending way too much money on it, because I knew Beau would love it.
When he finally pulls away from the kiss, his eyes sweep over my body.
“Fuck, that dress is perfect.”
I grin. Worth every penny.
Reluctantly, Beau lets go of me and opens the passenger door for me. “We should get going. I’ve got a bottle of red wine decanting back at the villa.”
I grin as I slide into my seat. “Have I mentioned that I love it here?”
“You better. This is my homeland, Brin.” He grunts as he puts my suitcase in the trunk.
I raise a brow. “Weren’t you born at Mount Sinai?”
“I was conceived in Tuscany, though, so it counts.”
“How do you know when you were conceived?”
“I have an oversharing mother.”
He takes a seat behind the wheel. Instead of turning the car on, he reaches for me, taking my face in his hands.
He draws me close and presses his lips hungrily against mine.
His mouth is hotter, hungrier, greedier than the last kiss.
I find myself melting against him, threading my fingers into his hair.
We’re both a little breathless when we pull apart.
“New plan,” he mutters. “We find some out-of-the-way country road and fuck on the roof of the car.”
“What?” I laugh.
“I want to be inside you, Brinley baby, and I don’t want to wait an hour to do it.”
“What about your decanting wine?”
“It can wait a little longer.” His hand moves further up my thigh, teasing me.
As tempting as that sounds… “Later. Once we’re at the villa.”
He sighs. “If you insist, little tyrant.”
It takes an hour to drive from the airport to our villa, and it’s the perfect day for a convertible ride. The balmy breeze sweeps over my skin, and I’m thankful I pulled my hair back instead of letting it hang loose.
I reach for the radio dial and Beau groans. “No, Brin. Not the radio. Anything else.”
“But it’s tradition!”
“My mom’s made me listen to enough cheesy retro Italian music to last me the rest of my life.”
“Please?” I give him my best puppy dog eyes, and he groans as he glances over at me.
“Only because I missed you,” he mutters as he presses the dial and tunes into my favorite station, which is in the middle of playing a cheesy retro Italian song. I sing shamelessly along to the only words I know, which are bella ciao.
Beau puts one hand on my knee. I glance over at him, relaxed, jaw unclenched, his other hand on the steering wheel.
Beau’s different when he’s in Italy—lighter, more relaxed.
Back in Toronto, he wields his charm like armor.
Here, there’s no one to perform for, no choreography, no pretending.
If another car pulls alongside us at a stop sign, he doesn’t have to shrink back in case it’s one of his friends.
We’re just us.
My heart leaps when I see the villa, with its red-tiled roof and stony walls.
It’s not large, only one floor with a single bedroom, but it’s perfect for us with its expansive spa-style bathroom and even more expansive kitchen.
Cypress trees stand in small clutches around the house like royal guards.
In the back, there’s a little saltwater pool overlooking a small stretch of countryside before the sea.
Sometimes we bicycle down the dirt path to the beach, a full picnic packed in Beau’s basket.
We could afford a bigger villa now, one closer to the water. The first time we rented this place, most of Beau’s money was tied up in his businesses, and we purposefully chose something modest. There are so many memories here, we choose to come back every time.
More details come into focus as Beau pulls the Maserati up into the drive.
The wooden shutters with their cracked ivory paint, the rosemary bushes flowering by the door, the tiny, tacky replica Statue of David that, for some reason, they put next to the stone bench and birdbath. I exhale as I step out of the car.
It feels deceptively like home.
Beau wheels my suitcase inside for me. Unsurprisingly, he’s been busy, settling into the kitchen.
Fresh herbs sit on the windowsill, and the bottle of wine is already opened on the counter.
If I open the pantry door, I know I’ll find it full of groceries from the nearby market.
It’s like I’m not walking into a rented villa, but into our real, shared kitchen.
“Did you get fresh bread, too?” I ask.
“Who do you think I am?” He points to a small brown wooden box with a curved side and I snort out a laugh.
“Apparently, you’re a guy who buys breadboxes for a villa he doesn’t even own.”
“Hey, I spend a week here every year with the best bread in the world. I’m tired of doing it without a breadbox.”
My stomach growls before I can answer, and Beau frowns. “I guess my plan to seduce you immediately will have to wait until after you eat.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, fluttering my lashes. “I thought you were so impatient.”
“Oh, I am,” he says with a wolfish grin. “I just know that cooking for you is better foreplay than anything else I could do. Besides, we have time.”
For once, we do. We’re not trying to squeeze a relationship into a few hours like we do in Toronto. Here, we have three glorious days to spend luxuriating in each other’s presence.
I should go unpack while he cooks, but I can’t resist leaning against the counter and pouring myself a glass of wine so I can watch him cook. Unsurprisingly, Beau pulls a container of fresh pasta from the refrigerator.
“Made it this morning,” he says. “I planned on saving it for dinner, but we’ll have to improvise.”
He moves to the stove, where he fills a large pot with water and sets it on a burner. “Do you want to salt the water for me, Brin?”
“So you can snipe at me for not using enough? No thanks.”
“Everybody undersalts their pasta water. It’s a crime. I’m just trying to educate you.”
“I’m a very educated woman. I can use they’re, their, and there correctly every time.”
“Braggart.” He grins as he pulls out a large saucepan, because he knows exactly what he’s doing.
I won’t be able to tear my eyes away from his perfect, sexy hands while he does the work of making tomato sauce.
Unscrewing the jar of olive oil, chopping the garlic, crushing the tomatoes.
He’s about to turn into my own, personal hand pornographer.
My tongue darts out to wet my lips. “Cocky asshole,” I mutter.
“You love it.”
I do. I love the way Beau is in Italy. He’s still as charming, cocky, and playful as he ever is, but the current of anxiety that runs under him at home is gone here.
He’s just him , and it’s intoxicating. I sip the delicious wine, letting it settle into my body as I watch Beau cook.
Soon, delicious-smelling steam rises from the pots, filling the kitchen with a mouth-watering scent.
After he stirs the sauce again, Beau extends a wooden spoon toward my mouth. “Taste it.”
The sauce explodes on my tastebuds, fresh and tart and complex. I nod. “It’s amazing, Beau.”
His lips turn down. “It must need something. Enough salt?”
I sigh. He does this every time, asking me to tell him what’s wrong with his sauce when it tastes absolutely perfect to me. “The perfect amount of salt.”
“Is it sweet enough?”
“Seriously, Beau. I could drink a whole pot of this. I have no notes for the sauce.”
He dips the spoon into the sauce again and drips a little onto two of his fingers. He holds those up to my mouth, a challenge in his eyes. “Try it one more time.”
It’s so cheesy that I want to be annoyed.
I’m not annoyed.
I suck his fingers into my mouth. My tongue swirls over the tips, licking off every drop of sauce and watching while Beau’s eyes darken. I release them with a small pop of my lips.
“How does it taste now?” he rasps.
“It’s still perfect.”
The way he’s smiling at me feels so perfect, suddenly it’s just too much.
The contradictions of our life together come crashing down on my head.
He cooks for me, but his mother looks right through me.
He teases me and listens to me and believes in me, but I was stuck kissing him in a coat closet while all my friends swayed with their husbands or boyfriends on the dance floor.
He’s my boyfriend today, and for two days after that. But I’m lying to myself if I think that’s enough.
The words spill from my mouth before I can really think them through.
“What are we doing, Beau?”