1. He smells nice
ONE
HE SMELLS NICE
Tourist
Isola di Monteverro’s summer heat reminds me of growing up on Galveston Island, Texas. Even at nine at night, after sundown, the humidity makes me want to shower over and over again. Since I’ve spent all day at the beach, my hair’s frizzy and full of sand. I need a long bath.
But I don’t want to walk to my rental unit on the other end of the island before cooling down. The bar next to the lobby of the finest, and only, hotel on the island provides a much-needed reprieve from the heat. In the restroom, I freshen up and feel like I’ve transitioned from an elephant seal that slept on the beach all day back into a human.
I want to milk every minute of my last night here, so I slide into a bar chair a respectable distance from the only other occupant, a man in a sharp obsidian suit.
“Hi.” I greet the bartender, who rises from a crouching position behind the bar. “May I please have a vodka and Sprite? With a cherry and some oranges. Lots of ice. It’s extra humid out there, you know.”
The bartender, a man in his midtwenties (around my age), smiles politely and says, “We’re closed. There’s another bar just around the corner past the gift shop.” He ducks under the bar again.
My shoulders deflate. “I really would appreciate it if you let me cool off for a bit. Do you mind if I just…I don’t know…sit with him?” I gesture to the man. “I’ll only be ten minutes.”
At my mention of him, the patron lifts his gaze from his whiskey glass, and I hold back a gasp. I hadn’t expected him to be stunningly beautiful. A sophisticated kind of beauty, almost royal in appearance, with jet-black hair, a square jaw, and a perfectly straight nose. Blue eyes the color of the deep sea pierce me with a glare that could cut through glass.
I don’t think this man wants company.
I gulp and explain, “Didn’t mean to intrude, sir. But I’ve spent the day on the beach with only a quarter of the sunscreen left in the tube, so I burned, and it’s my last night on the island, and I walked all the way from the other side to tour the hotel. I’ll just be a minute.”
“Ten minutes,” he corrects. “You said ten minutes.”
I’ve gotten so used to heavily accented Italian-English that his fluency takes me by surprise. I think he’s an American tourist like me, so I smile wide and approach him. I pull up a chair next to him and offer him my hand to shake. “Oh hey, I hail from Kentucky. You?”
“Rome.”
“Oh.” He’s Italian. You never know these days with people traveling, working, and attending universities all over the globe. Regardless, he appears at home here in his sharp suit and expensive watch while he leans away from me as if I have cooties.
But I sat next to him, so I might as well make the best of it. “Your fluency in English made me think you’re American. Or Australian, maybe, since you didn’t say much.” I watch his profile because he’s not looking at me. This is how I catch the subtle nod he gives the bartender before the bartender starts to make my drink.
Whoohoo! Scored a drink.
As soon as the glass hits the bar, I pick it up and start gulping, finishing it in one toss. I dab my mouth with a napkin. “Perfect. I don’t like the taste of alcohol when I drink, but I love buzzing just enough to make it adventurous.”
The man grumbles something.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“A glass of water,” the man says, and just when I think the water is for him, the bartender serves it to me.
“Thank you. I would have ordered one but didn’t want to seem too needy.” I drink the whole glass and reach for the napkin I used already, but the stranger produces a handkerchief.
“Thank you, sir.” I use the handkerchief and notice the letter A embroidered into the corner. “A for Antonio?”
He shakes his head.
“A for Angelo.”
A shake of his head again. “You won’t guess.”
“Alessandro?”
“Close.”
I snap my fingers. “Damn. Three strikes and I’m out.” I expect him to tell me his name, but he keeps his gaze on his whiskey. “Are you okay?” I ask. He’s not drinking, just staring at his glass. I’d like to chat with him, maybe flirt a little, but I don’t want to bother him if he’s going through something and needs solitude and a whiskey neat.
The man chuckles. “I’m fine.”
“My ex would come to the bar I used to work at. He would order a whiskey and coke and watch me work all night. He couldn’t walk away from me or the liquor, you know.” I chuckle nervously because this is how I deal with my trauma. Laughter and jokes. “But I walked away from him.” I clear my throat. “And here I am, single again.”
Facepalm. Usually, I’m a better flirt and much more subtle, but drawing this man into a conversation feels like pulling teeth, so I figured I’d hit him over the head with my availability in case he’s interested.
Look, it’s not every day I meet a wealthy, beautiful, late-thirties man who wears diamond-studded watches and smells like he walked through a cloud of bergamot over lavender, crushed under heavy charcoal.
A smile tugs on his lips. “You smell nice.”
“You think so?” I say excitedly, because I was just thinking about the way he smells too! “It’s this lotion. Hold on.” I dig into my sack. It takes me a moment to sort through all my stuff, but I find the gardenia lotion I bought from a local shop. “Got this when I first arrived and then bought three more for the road.” I pop open the lotion and offer it to him.
He indulges me and sniffs.
I continue. “It’s from a place called Kiki’s. A green building with two neon green umbrellas in the front.” I squeeze more lotion into my palm and rub it up to my elbows. “Want some?” I turn over the bottle, ready to dump the last few drops of it into his hand if he wants some, but he shakes his head at the same time that he catches a drop of lotion that drips out before I put the bottle back in my purse.
He gently rubs the lotion into his palm. His fingers are long, with manicured fingernails, and as I lean in, I catch a whiff of his cologne, which makes my breasts tingle.
I lean in closer and inhale. “You smell nice too.”
The man throws back his whiskey and turns toward me, his body language telling me he’s about to pounce. He grabs my chair and pulls it toward him.
I yelp at the sudden movement. Holy crap. It’s getting hot in here.
The man leans forward, and in order to maintain distance, I should lean back. But I don’t, because his blue eyes lift at the corners when he smiles.
“That’s Antonio,” he says, a jerk of head toward the bartender, who briefly waves.
“Nice to meet you, Antonio.”
The patron leans in even closer, lowering his head so that his nose grazes my shoulder. I can hear him scenting me the way a wolf might. “Antonio was just leaving.”
The bartender drops the towel and leaves the unpolished glassware, along with us, at the bar.
Suddenly nervous, I bite my lip.
The man picks up on my hesitation. “You are welcome to leave with him. But I guarantee you will have a very pleasant night if you stay.” He shrugs off his suit jacket and starts to unfasten his cuff links.
“Your ten minutes in the bar are up. The only way you’re staying is if you stay with me. Decide,” he orders.
He’s taking off his clothes. “You want to do it here?” I ask. Oh my God. What? What is happening? Am I doing this?
He starts to unbutton his white shirt. “Mmhm.”
“I’ve never done it in a bar,” I say.
“Me either.”
“Somehow, that makes it special,” I reply, and I know this is my vagina talking. She’s in need of a pounding, and we have an eligible candidate.
The man whose name starts with an A takes off his shirt.
All muscle. All beautiful peaks and valleys of naturally tanned muscle.
“I’m afraid someone will walk in.”
“Antonio will guard the door.”
The man picks me up and sets me on the bar. My legs part right away so he can step between them. Strong arms encircle my hips, holding me down even as he asks, “What’s it going to be, Sunshine?”
Sunshine. I laugh. “Well then, I can’t resist a midnight romp from Mr. Grump.”