Chapter 5
Salvatore
When there was no sign of Armando for several minutes, I went in search of him and found him face down on my bed, sound asleep. I grinned and covered him with a blanket before returning to the living room.
After a couple of hours passed, I assumed he was down for the count. I changed into the tank top and basketball shorts I intended to sleep in, got comfortable on the sofa, and pulled up an ebook on my phone.
He appeared in the bedroom doorway nearly four hours after he’d fallen asleep, looking adorably disheveled. The blanket was wrapped around him like a shawl, and he was wearing just his briefs, even though I’d gathered his clothes and left them for him on a chair in the bedroom.
“I’m so sorry! I totally Goldilocksed you,” he blurted, as he hurried over to me.
I set aside my phone and asked, “You did what?”
“I fell asleep in your bed. You know, like Goldilocks did in the story.”
“Oh. Well, no worries.”
He looked distressed as he perched on the edge of the sofa. “I was only going to lie down for a minute. What time is it?”
“Close to eleven, I think.”
“I can’t believe I slept that long! Why didn’t you wake me?”
I shrugged. “You were obviously tired, so it seemed best to let you sleep.”
“I feel like such a jerk. One orgasm and it was lights out without doing anything for you in return. You didn’t even get to come.”
“It’s totally fine. Are you hungry? I can order room service.”
“I am, but didn’t you eat already?”
“No. I was waiting to see if you’d wake up.”
Now he really looked upset. “You must be starving.”
“I’m used to eating late. It’s very common in Italy, where I grew up.”
“You’re just saying that so I don’t feel guilty.”
“No, it’s true. Besides the fact that I was raised this way, I also tend to keep odd hours. Dinner at midnight isn’t unusual for me.” Actually, I was more likely to eat at nine or ten, but I didn’t want him to feel bad.
“What do you do for a living?”
I’d walked right into that, it was my own fault for mentioning my odd schedule. I didn’t know what to say, so I bought myself time by telling him, “I’ll make up a story for you after we eat. For now, let me find the room service menu.”
I got up and crossed the room as he asked, “So, we’re really doing that? Intentionally lying to each other?”
“That was the plan, unless you’ve changed your mind.”
“No, I’m all for it, but I’m not sure how much creativity I can muster. Will you notice if I steal the plot of The Fast and the Furious and try to pass it off as my fake backstory?”
I grinned and told him, “I’ve never seen that movie and only sort of know what it’s about, so you can definitely get away with plagiarizing it.”
“How have you never seen it? It’s a classic!”
“We seem to have very different definitions of that word.”
He shot me a look and got up. “I’m going to get dressed, and then we’re going to talk about what other classics you’ve missed out on. Please order me the cheapest thing on the menu, maybe a cup of soup or something.”
“Dinner is my treat.”
“Thanks, but if it’s anything like that last hotel, the prices are going to be ridiculously overinflated. I don’t want to waste your money.”
He hurried to the bedroom, and I proceeded to order a multicourse meal for the two of us, since I knew we were both hungry.
The food arrived twenty minutes later, and I asked the server to set up the table beside the glass wall, so we could enjoy the view.
The skyline was even more spectacular at night, lighting up the darkness.
I’d thought Dante had totally overdone it when he booked this suite for me, but now I understood he’d had my date in mind.
I owed him an extra thank you for this undeniably romantic setting.
When Armando took a seat at the table and saw how much I’d ordered, he said, “You really must be famished.”
“This is for both of us, and as I said, it’s my treat.”
“You shouldn’t have spent so much on me.”
“I’ll always insist on spoiling you whenever we’re together, so you need to get used to it.” Before he could argue, I fed him a bite of bread with warm brie and fig jam and asked, “What do you think?”
“That’s shockingly delicious.”
We worked our way through the meal slowly. He savored each dish, commenting on the way it was made and occasionally murmuring, mostly to himself, “I wonder if I could do something like that at the diner.”
I’d ordered two different desserts, and at the end of the meal, I asked him which one he wanted. “I don’t know how to choose,” he said, staring at them with wide eyes. “They both look amazing.”
“Then we’ll share them.”
I picked up a spoon and fed him a dollop of chocolate mousse, and he dropped his gaze and became slightly flushed. When I tried to feed him another spoonful, he took the spoon from me and said, “I think I like that too much.”
“The mousse?”
“No, being fed by you.” If that was the case, I didn’t know why he put such a quick stop to it.
After we finished dessert, he said, “Thank you again, Tory. Next time, dinner is my treat. I’ll cook for you if you want.”
“I’d love that.”
We got up from the table, and he lightly caressed my arm as he told me, “As much as I hate to say it, I should go pretty soon. I still need to find a room for tonight.”
“Oh. I assumed you’d booked an additional night at that other hotel.”
He shook his head. “My son and son-in-law had treated me to two nights there for the wedding, but I can’t afford those prices. I figure I’ll head south, maybe find a motel near the airport, or—”
“Absolutely not. You’re staying here, with me.”
“I can’t impose on you like that.”
“It’s absolutely no imposition,” I said, “and there’s no way I want you driving around late at night, in an unfamiliar city with no place to stay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank you again, Tory. You really are the sweetest person ever.”
He took my hand and led me to the sofa. After we settled in on opposite ends with our bare feet meeting in the middle, I said, “Tell me your story, Arie.”
“I like that nickname.”
“Well, you renamed me, so I thought I’d do the same.”
“I did?”
I nodded. “When we met and I told you my name, you asked if anyone called me Tory. The answer was no, but you rolled with it anyway.”
He looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’d totally forgotten that.”
“No, don’t apologize. And please don’t stop calling me Tory. I like the fact that you have your own name for me.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
“I am.” He smiled shyly, and I prompted him by saying, “Now, about your story. Is it both fast and furious?”
He chuckled and said, “It’s better than that. How much do you know about Formula One racing?”
“Ah, so you’re a famous race car driver.”
“No way. It’d be awful to be in the spotlight like that, but being part of the crew is awesome.”
“The pit crew? The people who run out and do two-second tire changes during the races?”
“No, the crew that works on the cars in between races to get them in top shape.”
“I see. What do you like about that?”
“Besides the nice paycheck and getting to work on those incredible cars, it’s like an extended family—all these people from different parts of the world, working together toward a common goal. You’re also part of a bigger community made up of all the different teams, which is pretty great.”
I nodded. “What else do you like about it?”
“The fact that you get to travel to some pretty incredible places while you’re doing your job—Monaco, Singapore, Australia, Japan, you’re always someplace interesting.
I used to bring my son to work with me when he was little.
I always wanted to give him the world, and with this job I could literally do that. ”
That last part was tinged with sadness, even though he kept a smile on his face.
It occurred to me that even though this story was made up, it still revealed a lot about him.
He’d said some things when he was drunk about wishing he could have done more for his son, and now here it was again.
But he’d obviously done the very best he could as a parent, and it sounded like his son had ended up with a pretty great life.
I didn’t know why he was so hard on himself.
I tried to keep him talking by asking questions, and as he elaborated on his story, something else struck me.
It seemed like most people rewriting their history would invent a larger than life persona, not an anonymous guy working behind the scenes.
When we’d first talked about this, he’d said he was looking forward to being someone new for an evening.
But now, it seemed like he was holding himself back, instead of dreaming big.
Maybe life had disappointed him one too many times, and now he was used to settling for less. That was the impression I got, anyway.
Once he finished his story, I said, “That was fantastic.”
“Thanks. Now tell me your back story.”
I’d liked this idea when I’d suggested it.
It meant I got to keep my past to myself, and I didn’t have to worry about coloring Armando’s opinion of me.
But now, I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t lie to him, even if it was all in fun and what we’d agreed to.
I wanted him to know who I really was… and I realized in this context, I could go ahead and tell him the whole truth, because he wasn’t going to believe me anyway.
So I told him, “I’m an artist. My paintings hang in the homes of some of the richest people in the world.”
“Oh, nice! So, you’re famous.”
“No, not at all. What I am is a truly excellent forger. For nearly a decade, I worked with a pair of art thieves, who stole paintings throughout Europe and replaced them with my copies. That way, no one knew a crime had been committed.”
He laughed delightedly and asked, “Is this the plot of a movie?”
“No. It’s just my life.”