Chapter Twenty-One
The train from Naples to Rome is smooth.
I try to make Gus take the window seat for extra security, but he insists on giving it to me, wrapping one of his new t-shirts over his head to hide his face.
He throws his head back, his breathing softening as he drifts off to sleep, the lights down low in this carriage, then I ceremoniously fall asleep on him too, head pressed against his firm bicep.
Am I tempting fate?
I don’t know because I’m too tired to care and he didn’t object to me using him as a human pillow before, so why not now?
It only takes an hour and a half on the high-speed train, a fantastic idea on Gus’s part but because we left Napoli late, we arrive in Rome near midnight.
Thankfully the city is still alive, the streets brimming with people enjoying themselves in the cooler shadows of the night.
Gus managed to reach his friend before the train left, who sent the address to his villa.
We catch a taxi from the station and find ourselves at a set of large wooden gates fifteen minutes later.
He’s on a tidy, ivy-strewn street with expensive security systems and fancy cars.
Gus presses the buzzer, then waves and smiles at the camera pointing down at us from the roof.
A crisp American voice asks, “What do you want?”
“Let me in dickhead,” Gus responds, still smiling.
I feel my eyebrows rise. Oh, so they’re friend friends.
The gate hums and Gus opens it, signalling for me to lead the way.
The courtyard behind the gates is full of Italian Cypress trees, with a marble water feature of a woman draped in cloth sitting proudly in the centre, trickling peacefully, shutting out some of the city noise beyond.
A stone-paved path leads to a set of decorative glass doors.
Gus steps past me, offering me his arm for support. I don’t know if I look as beat as I feel, but right now, on my level of exhaustion, and my ankle right on the brink of giving up, this gesture does unseemly things to my core. I quietly link my arm through his and let him guide me.
A tall, indecently handsome, dark-skinned man greets us in the hallway. I blink several times, trying to place him. I know this man.
He’s talking to me, but my brain is still tripping over itself trying to place him. Then finally, it clicks. “Oh my God! You’re Cole Devaney! I’m in love with you!”
“What?” Gus scoffs, making a face. “Ignore her. She’s spacing out from exhaustion. Delirious. Nobody loves you.”
“I do! I love him.” I squeal.
Cole is smiling, his pearly white teeth, dazzling. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too…”
“Sara,” I offer, almost choking on my own name. Did I die on the boat? Is that what is happening right now? Because I find it hard to believe I am in THE COLE DEVANEY’S house. The ultimate action movie superstar. “I’m sorry, I’m actually not sure how to process this,” I say to Gus.
“This is just perfect,” Gus jokes. “You know Cole, but you didn’t know who I was.”
“That’s not true. I knew you were famous. I just couldn’t pinpoint why. Or how.”
Cole laughs, the familiar deep sound has me screaming inwardly. Surreal.
“This is brilliant,” he says. “You guys didn’t know each other before a few days ago? Honestly, I thought you were a couple. You look so good together.”
It’s my turn to scoff. Gus says, “Thank you. I know.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Funny.”
He grins.
“Well, as lovely as it is to greet you both, especially you Sara, I’m up early tomorrow for filming so I should already be asleep, but mi casa es su casa, and all that.
My housekeeper, Aline, will be here in the morning.
Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.
You’re in the guest room… er, rooms?” He frowns, clearly confused by our dynamic.
Not helped by me still gripping onto Gus’s actually very nice arm.
It pains me, but I let go and clear my throat.
I can feel Gus’s eyes scanning my expression for clues, so I keep it purposefully neutral. “Yes. Rooms.”
Cole glances at Gus before correcting himself and nodding. “Come on then. I’ll show you to your rooms.”
*
It’s just as well we had our own space for the night because as soon as my head hits the insanely luxurious pillow, my next conscious thought is that I can hear quiet tapping on the door; tapping which is closely followed by Gus’s voice.
“Sara?”
I make some kind of undecipherable grunt.
“I’ve made coffee. Would you like it in there or are you coming down? No pressure but, it’s already nine a.m. Just thought you’d like to know.”
I groan again.
“Sorry?” he asks, laughter in his voice. “I didn’t get that. You sounded like a strangled grizzly bear.”
“Coffee!” I croak. “Here!”
The door opens. I am not presentable, so I pull the sheets back over my face and mutter a thank you. I hear his footsteps retreating after a mug has been carefully placed beside me, but the door doesn’t close.
“Thank you but go away.”
He properly chuckles. “I checked the schedule, by the way. The yacht docks tomorrow at ten. But today it’s out having a splendid time in the Med.
I’ve made crêpes for breakfast. Yours are staying warm in the oven and there’s fresh fruit in the fridge.
Cole’s housekeeper is called Aline, in case you forgot, and she’s literally wonderful.
” He claps his hands together. “Rise and shine, sunshine. We need to make a plan to conquer Rome today.”
“You don’t conquer Rome. Rome conquers you.” My voice comes through muffled.
“Come on. Up ye get.”
I fidget under the duvet. I need a wee. My breath stinks. “Let me drink my coffee and then I’ll start using my brain.”
“Fine. I’ll be in the gym.”
When I’m awake, showered and dressed, I venture out into Cole’s massive, modern villa.
The front half of the building dates back to the 1500s, though it’s been beautifully restored, whereas the newer, more modern section at the back of the villa is all sleek lines, with large windows that let in long, warm shadows.
I tried looking up how much it sold for online before I eventually drifted off but only came across a similar place on the same street that sold for nine million euros last summer.
And that one is smaller. I’m convinced this is all a dream.
The gym takes me a solid ten minutes to find because it’s in the basement along with a twenty-metre pool.
Holy shit.
I just remembered I’m in Cole Devaney’s house.
Ahh!
I shake myself out of the hysteria, searching for Gus. I find him on one of those weird-looking torture devices with wires and strange apparatus hanging out of it in several directions.
He’s wearing a pair of bulky headphones, courtesy of Cole, I assume, so he doesn’t hear me stroll in.
I keep to the far wall, just out of his sight, watching him lift a large weight repeatedly, his face focused, reddening.
He’s in a very loose fitted black vest, his toned arms out on full show.
His curls are dampened and combed back so that they don’t fall into his eyes, and I have to admit there’s something kind of… I blow out a steadying breath.
Yeah, I have a problem.
And to add to it, now his hair is out of his eyes his facial features are on full show. He’s not devastatingly handsome in the rugged sense like Cole, but he’s handsome and muscular in a way that makes my heart race a little quicker.
Plus, he’s funny. And funny men have (historically speaking) a way of making my knickers accidently slip a little.
He drops the weight after a round (a set? a lap? a testosterone?), and I almost walk towards him when he starts to sing along to whatever he’s listening to, his voice crisp and sharp.
Because, of course, he can sing. What did I expect?
And now the fact that I’m hovering back here is awkward.
So awkward. Sara, you are being weird.
He stops singing to focus on adding round things (I think weights?) to a long metal stick. He throws his headphones on the ground and pulls his socks up before lying back on the bench and pressing the bar above his head.
“Sara, stop loitering and come spot me.”
Busted!
“Loitering? I’m not loitering!” I could actually perish from embarrassment right here, right now. “Also, I don’t know what that means, to spot you, or whatever.”
“Stand here,” Gus says, pointing to the area behind his head. I do as he says, confused the entire time. “Closer,” he adds. “If I can’t lift the bar, you just have to slide it back over these hooks here. You never been in a gym before? You look lost.”
“Yeah. No. If I’m doing exercise, it’s civilised. You know, walking, Pilates, yoga.”
“A little closer.”
“I mean…” I sigh. His face is going to be indecently close to my thighs. But whatever. I clear my throat, step into place and change the subject. “You have a lovely voice, by the way.”
He grunts as he counts in ten reps. He doesn’t need me here. He’s making very light work of the bar. So, this was a ploy. I am a fool. Once he’s done, he sits up, turning towards me with a smile.
“It’s almost like I’m a professional singer, huh?”
“Wait, you’re a singer?” I deadpan.
“You do realise that whole wall there is a mirror, right? I saw you the second you walked in.”
“Oh, so that was a performance?”
“What? No! I was just enjoying the song.”
“Right,” I smirk. “So, you just randomly burst into song?”
He snorts like that would be obvious. “Yes. I’m a fucking popstar, remember?”
I shake my head. “You’re weird.” But really, I’m only teasing him. Which works because he’s instantly on the defence.
“Oh. So you’re telling me you never sing in the shower?”
“I don’t sing in the shower,” I say. “I think in the shower. It’s peak thinking time.”
“What do you think about in the shower?”
“Work. Solutions. Family issues.”
“In the shower?”
“Yes. What’s wrong with that?”
“I don’t know. I’m starting to think you’re a psychopath.”
I shrug. “Rude! You don’t think in the shower?”
He bites his bottom lip, leaning an elbow on the wall beside him, tilting his frame slightly. “I’ve certainly been known to use my imagination in the shower.”