Chapter 17 A Towel and a Trembling Heart
A Towel and a Trembling Heart
MILLIE
We’ve been in Italy for three days now, and it’s without a doubt the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.
The family estate sits tucked into a hillside overlooking Lake Como, its shimmering waters below and misty mountains rising into a sky so blue it hardly seems real.
Every inch of this place is like something you’d see on a Pinterest board, and it still doesn’t feel real.
There’s no way I’m here—no way I’m in the same town where George Clooney owns a house, where the sun sets in pinks and oranges over endless waters. It’s a place that lives in postcards and daydreams. Never somewhere you imagine actually standing.
Each morning, the estate wakes slowly, wrapped in a gentle hush broken only by the distant calls of swallows darting above the olive groves and the soft rustle of leaves stirred by the light breeze.
The air tastes faintly of citrus and freshly cut grass, a mix of scents that somehow makes the mornings feel like a fresh start, no matter what’s lingering in my mind.
But as breathtaking as the view from the family compound is, I’ve hardly seen much of Gabriel. He’s been catching up with family, while I’ve been doing everything I can to explore this city.
And a little bit of avoidance, too.
Since that kiss in his kitchen and the near-disaster on the plane, I haven’t been able to face him—not like this. Not with the strange tension hanging between us. Not when I can still feel the heat of his body against mine, his breath in my ear, and his gaze lingering a moment too long.
That kiss felt like a crack in the wall I’d been carefully building around my heart.
It was sweet and electric, but also terrifying.
It’s one of those moments that teases a future, even if it never comes.
And now, with every glance in his direction, my chest tightens like I’m carrying a secret too heavy to share.
I have spent my days walking along the cobbled streets of Bellagio, exploring the charming village that’s built between lush mountains. It’s quaint, alive with the smile of fresh basil, wood-fired pizza, and garlic.
Everywhere you look, there’s a trattoria offering the most mouthwatering traditional Italian dishes and small shops selling everything from hand-painted ceramics to delicate jewelry.
I buy trinkets for my family and friends back home and even track down Villa Oleandra, the infamous George Clooney residence. I’d heard stories, of course, but seeing it in person was surreal. It’s a monument of old-world luxury, and I can’t help but wonder how Gabriel fits into this world.
At night, I sit on the terrace outside my room, a glass of local red wine warming my hands, and watch the stars blink awake above the lake.
The air is cooler now, carrying the scent of jasmine and pine, and I think about how this place is a dream—and maybe, somehow, I’m part of it.
But the thought of Gabriel brings a flutter of nerves, and I quickly push it aside.
On the fourth morning, I wake up early, determined to make the most of the day. The kitchen is quiet, and there’s a sense of peace hanging in the air as I grind the fresh coffee beans that appeared in the kitchen the other day—Italian beans, of course. I smile to myself as I make a second cup.
I know Gabriel must have a hand in getting them here. He’s thoughtful in that way.
I knock on his door before opening it. “Gabriel, I made you a cup of coffee. Can I come in?”
“Come in, Bumper!” he calls out, and I walk in with the two steaming mugs in hand.
His room is as grand as everything else here—a massive four-poster bed takes center stage, draped with sheer curtains.
Sunlight streams through the window, casting a warm glow over the room.
On the far side of the room, Aura is lying in her crib, her tiny eyes wide as she watches her mobile spin slowly above her.
I set the cups of coffee down on the table.
My heart flutters at the sight of the baby I’ve grown to love as I make my way to her crib.
“Hey there, sweets. Are you enjoying being here as much as I am?” I lean in, brushing a lock of hair from her tiny face.
“I know you’re just a baby, but I like to think you can feel the love of everyone here. ”
Before I can say more, the bathroom door opens, and I freeze. Gabriel steps out, wearing nothing but a towel, his broad shoulders gleaming with water droplets, the sunlight casting a golden glow over his bare chest.
Holy mother.
I can feel my heart hammering in my chest. His eyes catch mine, and for a split second, everything else fades away.
“Thanks for the coffee. What’s on your agenda today, Bumper?” he asks, his voice casual, but there’s something about the way he looks at me—like he’s waiting for something.
He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it’s like the entire room lights up. His dimples appear, and I can’t help but feel the warmth spread through me.
“Well, I think I am going to take a cooking class at this place I saw. They’re offering lessons on traditional Italian cooking, and I want to learn some new techniques while I’m here.
” I pause, meeting his gaze. “Maybe teach Reuben a thing or two,” I add, a playful grin curling at the corners of my lips.
Gabriel raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “And what might you teach him he doesn’t already know?”
I walk closer, each step slow and careful. My heart races as I draw closer. I lean in, my voice lowering, teasing. “I can think of a few things.”
We lock eyes, and it’s as if time slows. The world outside disappears, leaving just the two of us—too close, too aware. For a moment, it feels like all the unspoken words, the weight of what’s hanging between us, is on the verge of breaking.
The soft rustle of the curtains and the distant chirping of morning birds fill the silence, but inside, the air between us is electric—full of things neither of us has dared to say aloud yet.
On shaky feet, I turn and walk toward the door, my breath shallow. The desire to say something—to do something—is right there on the tip of my tongue, but I force myself to keep it together.
I reach for the doorknob, my fingers trembling.
“You’re just leaving? After all that?” Gabriel calls out, a hint of humor in his voice.
I can still feel his gaze on me, even as I exit the room. My pulse is erratic as I make my way to my room, my mind racing. The encounter has left me feeling like a live wire, buzzing with unspoken tension.
I take an eternity to get ready for my class, my thoughts consumed by the memory of Gabriel standing there, his towel barely hanging on, that damn dimple playing tricks on my heart.
The cooking class is a welcome distraction. It’s small, intimate, with only five other people present. The instructor—an older Italian man with a thick accent and a booming voice—guides us step-by-step through making Spaghetti Aglio, Olio e Peperoncino from scratch.
The instructor, Signore Bellini, is a charming man whose passion for food is infectious.
He peppers his instructions with little stories about his grandmother’s kitchen in Naples, and I can almost taste the sun-baked tomatoes and feel the warmth of her oven just listening to him.
The class laughs as we stumble over pronunciation and kneading techniques, but there’s a shared sense of accomplishment by the end.
I may be a home cook, but today, I learned the art of pasta making from an expert, and it feels incredible.
When the class ends, I walk around the restaurant, still buzzing from the experience. I spot the chef sitting at a table in the corner, enjoying a glass of wine. I figure it won’t hurt to ask him if he knows of any local bakeries that offer similar classes.
“Ciao, capocuoco1. English?” I ask, attempting my best Italian.
He nods, gesturing for me to continue.
“I just wanted to say thank you for the class today. It was fantastic. I’m wondering if you know of any bakeries nearby that offer similar lessons?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
The chef grins. “Ah, yes! There is a place just down the road—La Dolce Vita. They offer baking lessons and workshops. You’ll love it.”
I thank him and head outside, feeling the last light of the day warming my face. The cobblestone streets are quieter now, and I take my time walking along the bridge that overlooks the lake.
The sun is setting. The sky transforms into a beautiful canvas of colors, each hue more vibrant than the last. Fiery oranges and deep reds spilled across the horizon, marrying with soft pinks and muted purples. It was like watching a living painting unfold.
Lost in the beauty of it all, I don’t notice the man standing next to me until I feel a hand on my arm.
“Hey, sweetheart. You visiting?” His voice is thick with alcohol, and the way he leans in too close sends a wave of discomfort through me.
I try to step away, forcing a smile. “Yep, just visiting,” I say, my voice tight.
But he doesn’t take the hint. His hand tightens on my arm, and I feel a cold wave of panic rise in my chest. He moves closer, his breath rancid and heavy on my skin.
“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s have some fun, yeah?” He slurs, reaching out to touch my hair.
My stomach twists, and every instinct tells me to run. But the man steps in front of me, blocking my path. His hands grab at my hair, pulling me back into his grip, and I lose my balance, stumbling. My heart thuds painfully against my ribs, and I try to pull away, but his hold is too strong.
“Please stop,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, but my throat feels tight.
But he doesn’t listen. His grip tightens, and I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
“Oh, come on, sweetheart. Don’t be like that. We’re just having a bit of fun, right?”
I shut my eyes, and suddenly, his grip on my hair vanishes. I stumble back, heart racing, scrambling to put space between us. My arms tremble as I try to steady myself.
“What’s going on here?”