Chapter Twelve
TWELVE
CHARLIE
Last night, Charlie had not been prepared for how hot Dario looked in that low-cut, old-timey, one-piece swimsuit. Today, he’s even less prepared for how hot Dario looks in a sailor’s cap.
Shiver me timbers, Captain! Charlie would get down on his hands and knees and swab the deck if Dario Cotogna asked him to.
Dario’s hair naturally curls at the ends from the Lake Trasimeno mist spraying up against his sailboat.
His outfit consists of a smart, navy blue, double-breasted suit with brass buttons over a striped collared shirt and huge aviator sunglasses.
They are mirrored, so Charlie has no idea if Dario sees how often he’s checking him out and swooning, which is probably for the best.
Charlie already thought Dario competent and accomplished yesterday during the chocolate-making workshop.
Before the room, Dario discussed the growth patterns of Theobroma cacao—a type of evergreen tree—with conviction and authority.
He did not even shy away from dour topics such as the effects of climate change on places like Ghana and Ivory Coast, where much of the world’s cocoa is harvested.
Presently, Dario steers the sailboat, which was once his father’s, toward a pop of land on the south side of the lake called Isola Polvese.
Charlie lounges, snug in his orange life vest, on the seat of the boat between Michelle and Beau.
Beau wears a wide-brimmed hat that smacks Charlie in the head each time he looks around to check out the view—or more accurately, to check out Selina, who drapes herself in a sarong on the deck of the boat, relaxed and growing tanner by the millisecond.
Michelle clutches the nearby handrail, clearly scared of falling overboard.
A charcuterie plate gets passed from Dario to Charlie. He throws a fresh grape into his mouth and savors the juicy burst of flavor.
The main sail catches the wind as if Dario set an expert trap for it and ensnared it to his will. For the most part, their ride is smooth, but that doesn’t stop Michelle from dashing below deck to puke up breakfast.
“At least it wasn’t me this time,” Beau jokes.
Everyone is too sun-drunk to let out more than a brief chuckle.
Charlie checks the time on his phone. They’ve been sailing for forty minutes already.
The lock screen on his phone is a photo of his family on Thanksgiving.
Charlie stacked up a pile of books on the table and propped his phone against it with the timer on.
He rushed to kneel in front of his grandparents; his parents stood behind their wheelchairs.
“Say ‘giblets’!” he cried before the smiley moment got captured.
Last night—that heated moment in the heated pool that spurred a hot solo session up in his Ansel-less room after—makes this whole marriage plot seem possible.
Pheromones were practically floating on the surface of the water, drawing them into each other with the kind of chemistry that can’t be faked or ignored.
The other thing that couldn’t be ignored was Dario’s hard, enormous dick pressed to the inside of his leg as they’d kissed.
Short kings always pack the biggest surprises, and Charlie can’t wait to get Dario alone again.
The clouds overhead are thin white wisps slashing across a cornflower blue sky.
A bit of mist hangs on the horizon, giving the rich brown hills a sense of movement, like they are a litter of overgrown, sleeping cats curled up together in a basket; their backs rise and fall with each slow, passing breath.
Eventually, they come to a stop on a sandy beach dotted with permanent umbrellas made of straw. People lounge in their shade, smiling and watching boats come in for anchor.
Beau passes out bottles of water from the cooler to everyone before they disembark.
They start up a dirt path that snakes around a squat visitor center. A bird with inky black feathers and a bright white beak skims the tops of the foliage before landing in the nearby water with a splat. Michelle, who’s trying and failing to get her land legs back, identifies it as a coot.
“Where are the picturesque gardens and villas? The decadence? The opulence! I need it. I crave it,” Selina says, casting a disapproving eye around the reedy expanse interspersed with purple sprigs of wildflowers.
“In the sixties, a count owned the island and built a villa using existing structures, but in the seventies, the island became public again. This is a protected wildlife oasis overseen by the province of Perugia,” says Dario.
Charlie can sense Selina rolling her eyes even behind her humongous sunglasses.
The day swelters around them, but Charlie holds excitement close to his chest. This is his first time on an island. Landlocked Pennsylvania has nothing on this sort of natural wonder. He relishes getting to watch Dario play tour guide again.
Their first destination is a pentagonal fortress with watchtowers at every corner.
Sandstone and limestone stack up into the sky.
Dario leads them inside, where they climb centuries-old stairs to the top walkways that give them an aerial view of the lake and the surrounding land.
The factory was stunning, but this structure takes Charlie’s breath away. He snaps a photo on his phone.
“Would you mind taking one of me?” asks Selina, coming up beside him and glancing at the picture he took. “I had to fire Michelle. I think she’s purposefully trying to make me look bad now after my oily comment. I thought I was being helpful. I didn’t realize she’d be touchy about it.”
“Sure,” Charlie says, stowing his phone away and accepting Selina’s.
“Where do you want me?” she asks.
He glances around for the perfect spot, nervous he’s going to do a lousy job. “How about by the watchtower?”
Once she’s situated, she smooths down her top and pokes a long leg out from the part in her sarong. “Tell me when.”
Selina, a total professional, tilts her head up to find her natural light. The sunrays kiss her already-bronze cheeks like they are thanking her for existing. Charlie counts down from three, then takes a bunch so Selina has options.
“You have a good artistic eye,” Selina says afterward.
“You think so?” Charlie asks, uncertain of the compliment.
She nods and flips her long black silky hair over her shoulder.
“You wouldn’t believe the number of photographers I’ve shot with who don’t understand lighting or composition.
When I’m working solo, I’m the subject of the image, but everything in the frame needs to tell a story, especially in fashion editorial, which I’m doing more of.
I can’t stand artists without confidence or vision. ”
“I can understand that,” Charlie says as they walk on, feeling bad about how he assumed she was singularly self-involved. It sounds like her quest for beauty isn’t out of narcissism but about creative satisfaction. Charlie relates to that life goal.
Up ahead, Dario looks out on the lake with reverence, a small smile playing on his lips.
“I feel the same way about men,” Selina says almost conspiratorially. She whips around so she’s in front of Charlie. He trips over his own feet at the sudden roadblock. “Tell me. Is Dario a confident kisser?”
“Oh, um—” Charlie fumbles for words. He’s never been one to kiss and tell.
“?Fue tan malo?” Selina asks.
Even though Charlie doesn’t remember much Spanish from his school days, he understands her meaning from her torqued expression.
“No, it was good. It was nice,” he says, uncertain what she’s looking for. He’s not about to explain how his heart thundered, his pulse raced and his head spun with newfound feelings. That would be too embarrassing.
She purses her lips like she doesn’t believe him. “Who made the first move?”
“I did,” he says.
She sighs. “I assumed so. I do prefer to be chased, but my mother would say ‘Selina, ponte las pilas.’ I need to get going if I’m going to get my man. Hasta luego, Charlie!”
Down the walkway, Selina hooks Dario’s arm in hers, tugging him into a stroll. Once they disappear from Charlie’s line of vision, a stab of jealousy punctures him in the gut.
Last night, as he kissed Dario, it was easy to forget all about the other contestants. Easy to forget that they were not the only two people on the entire planet. But now, without a clear view of what’s happening between Selina and Dario, Charlie’s mind runs wild and his stomach sours.
Selina has high-up connections in the fashion world and legions of followers to sweeten the marriage deal for the chocolate maker.
Charlie has no dowry to speak of. No platform or influence or flair for public image.
Plus, Selina hasn’t seemed all that serious about Dario until now, acting more like someone who just enjoys flirting as opposed to someone who could settle down if a proposal were made.
Next to the fortress is the Church of San Giuliano. Charlie kneels and prays for patience and objectivity to get him through this week. He signed up for this, and it is going to be an uphill battle.
Literally.
The next part of the hike takes them up through a picturesque olive grove. Stout, bushy trees bracket them as they weather the incline. Beau splits off from the water-glugging pack and stomps through the tall grass. He plucks an olive from a low-hanging branch.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were—” Dario starts.
Too late.
The mushy lump of a barely chewed green olive slides off Beau’s outstretched tongue.
“Fuck, that was putrid!” he shouts.
He rushes back to the group, obviously in search of the cooler, only to curse that they left it on the boat.
“Here.” Dario offers up his untouched water bottle. Beau’s gratitude is telegraphed in his eyes. “Olives need to be cured after picking to remove the compound in them that makes them bitter.”
Beau flicks his tongue like a lizard. “That was nasty! How do I untaste that?”
Dario chuckles like this is adorable.