Chapter 36
COSIMO
Fabiana and I left the hotel and made our way down a worn limestone street leading toward the historic center of town. The weather was a hell of a lot nicer here than back in New York. Even now that the sun had set, the air was pleasantly crisp but nice enough to be out.
Fabiana’s hand was warm against mine as we walked. I wondered if she’d noticed how fucking well it fit there.
I had.
On the flight over, I’d stared out the window and tried to sort through the war being waged inside me. One part of me screamed to keep her. The other screamed that doing so would be a catastrophic mistake.
If the last few weeks of our marriage had confirmed anything, it was that one day she would lead me to my grave. I understood my father now in a way I never had before. When you wanted someone the way I wanted Fabiana, there was very little you wouldn’t do to keep them happy.
Bringing her here was risky. But after that moment in the shower—when she made me wonder for the first time whether she dreaded the end of our marriage as much as I did—I hadn’t had it in me to leave her behind.
It would be difficult enough to walk away from her believing she wanted something else. But what if she didn’t? What if this—us—was what she wanted too? Even turning that thought over in my mind felt dangerous. What if it wasn’t duty that made her stay? What if it was something else?
Something worse.
If either of us dared to name it, a Pandora’s box I couldn’t close would open.
The part of me that wanted to possess her hated her for that “I don’t know” she’d whispered in the shower with water streaming down her flawless body.
But the part of me still clinging to logic knew she’d spared us both by refusing to give me a straight answer.
It meant that I could still convince myself that leaving her when the time came would be for the best.
She shot me a curious glance as we passed by a souvenir shop spilling light onto the street.
“What?” I asked.
Some color appeared on her cheeks. “I’m not used to seeing you so dressed down. You seem so…normal.”
I’d ditched my usual uniform of gray or black suits for a pair of dark jeans, a gray button-up shirt, and a leather jacket. My leather desert boots echoed against the uneven cobblestone.
“Gotta blend in, Nettle. We’re here on vacation, remember?”
She laughed, and God, I loved hearing that sound. “When was the last time you took a vacation?”
I had to think about it for a second. “A few months before Dad gave me my last promotion. So over a year ago. Les and I took a short trip to Miami. Did a bit of work, but mostly we just sat on the beach, swam, and gambled.”
“Gambled? That sounds suspiciously like frivolous spending.”
I grinned. “Not if you win.”
Her gaze dropped to my lips, and something wistful flickered in her gaze before she looked away.
The street gave way to a pedestrian walkway, which meant we had to be getting closer to the center of town. A little farther ahead, artists had set up in a loose row, easels and canvases scattered around them.
“Oh. My. God.” Fabiana came to a stop so abruptly I nearly walked into her. “I think it’s a local art festival.” She tugged me toward the nearest artist. “How much longer are you here?” she asked him.
“One more hour,” the man said in a thick accent.
Fabiana turned to me, eyes wide and practically glowing.
Christ. She was fucking adorable.
“Can I look around, or are you starving?” she asked.
I brushed my thumb over her chin, unable to resist. “I can wait.” Did she really think I could tell her no?
“You can sit if you want.” She pointed to a nearby bench, though she was already half turned back toward the paintings.
I shook my head. “I’m not letting you wander through the crowd on your own.”
Her smile widened. “Then let’s go look.”
We drifted from artist to artist while Fabiana peppered them with questions, admired their work, and occasionally leaned close to murmur in my ear about what she thought their influences were.
Even to my untrained eye, some of them were clearly talented.
Mostly, I found myself watching her. The way she lit up.
The way her whole face changed when something delighted her. It was impossible not to.
A strong wind blew down the street, ruffling my hair. I slipped off my jacket and put it over Fabiana’s shoulders. “It’s getting colder.”
She glanced my way. “You’re going to freeze in just a shirt.”
“You’ve forgotten how I used to live before you moved in.”
“Ah, true. I guess you’ve been training for this.”
“Exactly.”
“Don’t you think it’s been nice having the house warmer the last few weeks?”
A group of male tourists were moving toward us, too consumed in their conversation to be paying much attention to their surroundings. I stepped closer to Fabiana to make sure they didn’t bump into her. “It’s disgustingly comfortable.”
She laughed. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but there’s no echo if you’re having a conversation in the living room now.”
I had noticed. She’d added a large rug in there, and in most of the hallways, and even in the bathroom by the sinks. I’d noticed the pillows and blankets draped over armchairs and sofas, the poufs and plants, and the ceramic vases that now occupied shelves and once-empty corners all over the house.
“I have noticed.” Something about seeing her make my house her own made my chest tighten.
As we walked by one of the stalls, I paused.
“What is it?” she asked.
It was a painting of a cliffside done in meticulous detail. The artist, an older man, noticed me looking. “This is one of my favorites.”
“It looks familiar,” I said, trying to place it.
The artist smiled. “Are you Americans?”
“We are. We’re here on our honeymoon,” Fabiana said.
“Congratulations. This is a painting of the Palisades Park just outside New York. I saw it when I went to visit my family in Jersey,” the artist said. “It made an impression.”
Of course. God, it had been over a decade since I’d gone to that place.
“You’ve been there?” Fabiana asked.
“My father and I used to go hiking there when I was younger.”
“Really?” She looked back at the painting. “Did you go there often?”
“For a while. We started going every few weeks when I was around eight and kept going until I turned twelve.”
“Why did you stop?”
“I don’t know. We just did.” I had my suspicions though. I was around twelve when Dad discovered the burns on my arms. When he chose to do nothing about it.
“Could we buy this one, please?” Fabiana asked the artist.
I pushed the unpleasant memories away and leaned down, bringing my lips close to her ear. “Are you getting me a gift?”
She turned her head, putting her mouth an inch from mine. “I’m not missing an opportunity to buy a piece of art you seem to actually like. Maybe there’s still some hope for you.”
I grinned, my gaze dropping to her mouth. The urge to kiss her nearly overwhelmed me, but I held myself back. Once I started, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop.
“Enjoy your honeymoon,” the artist said, snapping me from my trance and handing me the painting.
“Oh look. This must be the central plaza,” Fabiana said, pulling me down the street. “Let’s go look at the Christmas lights there and then grab something to eat.”
She took my hand again and tugged me along. The central plaza was small with yellow Christmas lights glowing overhead. Kids ran between families, a crowd spilled out of a café, and a busker played guitar somewhere nearby. The town might be small, but it was alive and welcoming.
“I love it here,” Fabiana said as she turned in a circle, taking it all in.
Longing panged through me. It was easy to imagine this being our real honeymoon. Easy to imagine spending weeks here with her, losing ourselves in each other, losing ourselves in this town that was far removed from our lives in New York.
It was a fantasy. The day we returned, reality would set in.
But maybe I could let myself live in that fantasy until then.