Chapter 17
Ben has business in fucking Venice this week. Some meeting with a client to go over plans for a renovation that apparently can’t be done over a Teams meeting. Sounds mafia coded to me.
And he wanted me to come with him. To Italy.
So I went from never having been on a plane to a nine-hour flight across the ocean pretty quickly. Tequila and iced coffee got me through the night flight, at least. And I’m glad I said yes, glad that Ben wanted me to come with him, because I’m not sure I would have ever made it here if I’d never met him.
Which would be a shame, because this country is beautiful.
The smell of the sea, the splitting canals and all the boats, and gondolas, and people walking the streets. And the architecture is gorgeous. The only reason I’m fawning over it more than Ben is because he’s been here before. Show off.
The first thing we did after getting off the plane was take a water taxi down into Venice and through the Grand Canal. Our hotel is right on the water, a tall balconied building and the epitome of what you’d envision when someone says Italy. I love it.
And when we get to the room, I flop on the plush bed and stare up at the ceiling, feeling a little bit nostalgic—like I’m waiting to meet my Paolo, except we already know how this movie ends and my Gordo is standing right here as he unpacks our suitcases.
Everything about the room is maximalist and vibrant as I trace the people painted into the dark pink ceiling with a finger in the air. They look like they’re out of a classic painting I couldn’t begin to tell you the name of.
“Since my meeting isn’t until tomorrow morning, dealer’s choice on what we do today.”
I hum, finishing the outline of the woman’s flowing, white dress before dropping my hand to the sheets and running my fingers along them like I can sus out the thread. Six hundred? Eight hundred?
“Eating. Shopping. Gelato.” I’m just a little giddy, already thinking about what flavor I want to try first as I stretch my arms above my head and relax into the mattress. I already don’t want to leave.
“Mmm, do you want a shower and change of clothes first?”
Now that I think about it, that sounds kind of nice. It’s late morning here, and even though I slept on the plane, it wasn’t the greatest rest I’ve ever gotten—which is saying something. But the time change is definitely doing something to me.
“Only if you wash my hair for me,” I say, eyes fluttering shut at the memory of his hands working through my hair.
His fingers circle around my ankle, and he drags me down to the end of the bed in one swift movement. My knees automatically lift to frame his hips as he steps between my legs.
“And what else can I do for you, little bird?” Ben asks, his gaze sweeping up my body. Even when I’m dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, he makes me feel worthy of being wanted.
I lift a socked foot, pressing into his chest to hold him off of leaning into me before I lose all self-control. It’s going to be hard enough to resist him in the shower. Spoiler alert: I can’t.
“Do you know how to braid hair?”
His head tilts, fingers tracing under the hem of my pants and working the fabric up on my calf so his fingers trace my skin, making my breath catch. “Yeah, actually. Perks of having nieces, I suppose. You want me to braid your hair for you?”
“Yes, please.”
Ben runs a brush through my wet hair as I sit on the bedroom floor. If it were night time, I’d ask him to do it until I was so sleepy I couldn’t keep my eyes open. But as it is, it relaxes my nerves enough that I’m not constantly thinking of everyone speaking Italian around us when we go out.
“Do you want a French braid or Dutch braid?”
My eyebrows raise, looking over my shoulder at him before turning back to the spread of skincare in front of me. “I didn’t know there were different kinds, honestly. Whichever you prefer.”
“My brother has two daughters under the age of ten, so I picked up some things from my sister-in-law when it comes to their hair.”
“That’s really sweet. My sister, Isabelle, has twin boys. They’re almost six now and into all things playing in the dirt. I’m waiting for my sister to have another in hopes it might be a girl, but I’m not sure she wants any more.”
“That’d be tough,” Ben muses, fingers starting at the top of my head and beginning to separate the strands of my hair into sections. “Twins are a lot to deal with regardless. Boys can be wild.”
“And they absolutely are. I don’t blame her.” I pop open the lid of my toner and shake the liquid out into the palm of my hand to press to my skin.
He starts crossing the sections of hair over each other, making sure to pull tight. My head tilts back to the pull as he works down the back of my head. I brush my bangs out with my fingers once I’ve got my moisturizer and sunscreen on.
He holds his hand over my shoulder once he gets to the end of the strands. “Hair tie?”
I hold my wrist up and he pulls the tie off, finishing my braid.
“All done. Take a look.”
I lift up off the floor with his assistance, and he leans back on the bed as I head toward the mirror and turn around to look over my shoulder. Not a hair out of place. Now my hair is going to dry in tighter waves than usual, and I relish that I won’t have to do much tomorrow except take the braid out.
“It looks good,” I say, impressed. “You could charge for your services.”
“I’ll accept payment in the form of you taking my dick in your tight little ass later.”
I nearly choke on spit. He looks much too smug about it, sitting there on the bed and appraising me still in my towel.
“Just gonna spring that on me, huh?”
He raises a brow. “Do you want it or not?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t. I just need some time to prep beforehand.”
“Good thing about being overseas, bidets a plenty.”
My cheeks flush and I spin away from his gaze, suddenly feeling shy. “We’ll worry about that later. What should I wear out?”
It’s a short four-day trip, but I brought double the clothes I needed because I never know what I’m going to feel like wearing until the day comes. Sometimes I have decision paralysis and sometimes I need the options, or I feel stuck all the same.
I don’t understand it either, don’t worry.
Ben’s chest presses into my shoulders and he leans over me, his arm coming up alongside mine as his fingers float over the clothes now hanging in the wardrobe. The warmth seeps through his black button-up and spreads along my back even through this fluffy towel. He already dressed in the time I was puttering around in the bathroom and looking for my toiletries after we finished showering.
“How about a dress? It’s rather warm today, at least.”
I’ve brought two, one more casual and one that I consider my little black dress that seems too formal for a day out in the city center. I pluck the floral dress off the hanger; it’s velvet bronze with beige flowers on a background of navy.
“Lovely,” Ben says, his voice in my ear before he steps back.
I step around him to where our suitcases are laid out on the luggage racks to pull out a pair of undergarments much to his displeasure.
“Don’t pout.” I untuck my towel and toss it at him.
He catches it in one hand, the other tucked in his pocket. He glances at it before looking me over through lowered lashes, like he didn’t just have me bent over in the shower with wet hair in my face, drowning me while he fucked me. Though I’m just as bad with the way he has his sleeves rolled up to the elbows with his forearms and tattoo on display. Sexy. The collar of his shirt unbuttoned until I can see the hair on his chest. Slutty. A pair of jeans that make his thighs look even more rideable. Sinful.
I turn around, giving him the full view of my back and ass as I step into my panties and bralette, the same plain beige as the flowers on the dress that I pull over my head. I tug on the sleeves until they sit right about my wrists and do a little twirl.
“How’s this, then?”
“A vision in the fall,” Ben says, a small smile on his face as he moves to hang the towel back up in the bathroom.
“I look like I’m ready for a day of wine tasting.” I look over my shoulder in the mirror, checking the back of the dress. The line of it dips down pretty far, showing off the freckles scattered between my shoulder blades. The braid was a good choice for this dress.
“Do you want to do a wine tasting?”
“I hate wine.” Cora’s always trying to get me into the stuff, but I just can’t do it. Champagne is the closest I’ll get.
“So is that a no?”
“It’s a hell no. A food tasting is more up my alley if we could do something like that.”
He gives me a thoughtful look, pulling out his phone. “I’ll ask Luciano for some suggestions.”
Ben has been texting that man the entire flight. I’d think it was his secret lover if not for the glance I had at their conversation. It was all business and technical architecture shit that went right over my head. I’m glad I don’t have to be anywhere near that meeting tomorrow.
I slip into my sandals and grab my cardigan, not caring at all that the floral patterns clash. The weather is just a little warmer than back home, and I’m looking forward to soaking up some sun while getting some treats. With my purse hooked over my shoulder, I spin back toward Ben and point my chin at the door.
“Let’s go.”
The hallway is just as nicely decorated as the rooms, full of rich character in every aspect. I want a house someday that’s similar, something that has warmth and memories seeped in its bones.
Maybe in Italy.
I’ve been here all of three hours, and I’m ready to move countries.
We step out onto the street, and it’s already a bustle before we even get to St. Mark’s Square. The smell of the food is amazing and all the little shops look so inviting. Ben pulls me along with a destination in mind as he reads off his phone.
“It’s a bit of a further walk, like ten minutes, but Luciano said to go to this restaurant—the Bistrot de Venise, which just opened for lunch hours. Let’s head that direction, and you can browse through the shops on the way if you like.”
“That’s way too much freedom,” I say, already gazing at the windows as we pass building after building. I’m liable to spend all his money on useless shit if he lets me, because dopamine is the best drug and shopping is a quick hit. And I’m more than willing to let him spend his money on me in freaking Italy. Like right now, I want to go into this blown glass shop because I can’t resist the rainbow of color inside.
So I pull Ben into the store and spend twenty minutes picking up every piece before I find a suncatcher that is a kaleidoscope of color with delicate flowers etched into the frame. I can only hope I’ll be able to find enough paper or bubble wrap to get this home in one piece.
“Can we get gelato before we eat?” I ask as we step back out onto the street, my purchase dangling from his fingers in a brown paper bag.
“You’re so impatient that you want dessert first before your meal?”
“That is the best way to live, Ben. I can always take leftovers from a meal home. Kind of hard to do with an ice cream cone.”
“Gelato,” he corrects, overdoing the Italian accent by a million miles.
“Yeah. We have time right? Restaurant closes for lunch at two forty-five?”
“Two-thirty, so we should have time, yes.”
I grab his free hand and pull him behind, on a mission as I dig in my purse to pull out my phone.
“I’m going to Google the best gelato shop near us.”
“I could ask Luciano about this, too—”
“Google is fine, surely it won’t lead me astray. We won’t have to wait for his reply if he’s busy.”
“He literally lives here, I’m sure he knows the best place we should go—”
“It’s fine!” I groan, stabbing my thumb into my screen, because for some reason I’m so fixated on finding a place myself in a foreign fucking country. My chest gets tight with emotion because I’m such an idiot, but I can’t stop now. “Let’s go to this one, it’s only a couple blocks over.”
Ben heaves a sigh, and it tickles my nerves in that fight or flight response kind of way. But I stamp down whatever is threatening to come up my throat with an iron hot poker because I don’t need to ruin a good time. I don’t.
He doesn’t say anything else, but his hand slips into mine and squeezes. But I still feel so fucking crazy for the way I think.
I need more dopamine.
When we finally come to the gelato shop, it’s freezing cold inside. But it helps me focus, even when I let Ben take over and simply stare at all the flavors in the tubs beneath the glass display case.
I can hear him talking back and forth with the shop attendant, but now that I’m here, I can’t decide what I want to try.
There’s lemon, vanilla, dark chocolate, mango, hazelnut—
“And for you, miss?” A warm voice calls out to me, a proper Italian accent. I lift my head to the older gentleman who is waiting with the scooper in his hand. I look up at Ben in a panic, but he squeezes my hand again and my heart stops its frantic fluttering.
“Whatever your favorite flavor is,” I answer, and the way his face lights up in a smile makes my heart clench. Sometimes my indecision isn’t the worst thing in the world, even if I do fall back on this a lot.
“Sì, sì. Suso,” he says with a nod. I watch as he scoops a big dollop from one of the tubs onto the waffle cup. The flat waffle chip he sticks into the gelato has the same word on it, and then I realize that’s the name of the shop.
He hands it over the counter to me with a smile, nodding to Ben where he’s paying at the register. “Gustare. Voi due siete una bellissima coppia.”
“Grazie, e buona giornata,” Ben says back and my mind completely whites out.
“I’m sorry, do you speak Italian?”
I noticed him talking with the taxi driver of the boat and the hotel staff, but I was too busy in my head taking everything in to register that he might have been speaking their language.
“Not well.” He shrugs. “I can understand it better than I can speak it. And my accent is terrible,” he says, nudging my shoulder in jest as we walk out of the shop. “My grandmother was Italian.”
“No wonder you love Italian food. This is your freaking home country.”
“I was born in America,” he says with a laugh.
“Whatever. What did he say? What did you say?”
“Nosey little thing,” he tuts as he guides us to a bench to sit and I hand him a napkin that I don’t remember picking up. “He said we were a beautiful couple. I said thank you and have a nice day.”
That’s crazy.
Isn’t it?
I imagine us standing next to each other, sitting on this bench, walking down the street—and fuck, maybe we do look good together. My heart flutters in time with my stomach, flipping over itself. I like the idea of us a little too much. I gotta stop thinking about something that isn’t in the realm of possibilities.
Peering over my light brown gelato, my gaze lands on what Ben has in his waffle bowl—green with a red compote, reminding me of Christmas in a bowl.
“It’s pistachio and cherry,” he offers, holding it out to me.
Leaning forward, I circle his wrist to lick a swipe up the side of the gelato, and the sour cherry flavor bursts across my tongue.
“Oh shit, that’s good.”
And when I take a bite of mine, it’s caramel heaven. The crunchy bits on top taste like butterscotch. Or maybe toffee.
“This was such a good choice, regular food can fuck off.”
Ben lays an arm on the bench behind me and the breeze blows my bangs around, but I’m glad my hair isn’t in my face or sticking to my gelato right now. Though I’m thankful for my cardigan as I pull it around me, because this is already making me cold.
“You warm enough?” Ben asks, reading my mind.
His arm drops around my shoulders to tug me close, and even though I would love nothing more, I shake my head at him, glancing around.
“I’m okay—good. All good.”
He gives me a tilt of his head before putting his arm back up along the bench, and I lean into him slightly.
“Just not the biggest fan of affection in public, but I’ll maul you when we get back to the hotel, promise,” I say, casting my gaze down and taking a big bite of the gelato until my front teeth hurt.
“Mmmm, I picked that up when we went ice skating, but I was more focused on your hands and what you were telling me to address it then.”
“Does it bother you?”
“No. I just want you to be comfortable. So tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable.”
“I’ll try—”
“No. You will.”
I glare at him in between stealing another bite of his gelato. “I’ll try, but it’s less about you making me uncomfortable and more about other people around me making me uncomfortable by existing in my space. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. I’d like to fade into the background more often than not.”
“No, that makes sense. Just make sure to communicate with me, okay?”
“Okay,” I say in between bites of the waffle cup and gelato. “I promise.”
“Good. Now don’t tell me you’re going to be too full for us to go to lunch.”
“Never.” I make a face at him. “I actually like to eat. And I love snacking. Food is my best friend.”
Ben laughs, holding out the last of his waffle cup as I lean over and take a bite.
Even though I am getting kind of full, I’ll enjoy whatever we eat all the same. Dessert is just superior.
So when we get to the Bistrot de Venise, it’s an easy choice for us to share a tasting menu that consists of several courses—prawns in “saor” with spiced onions, lasagnette gratin, and of course, tiramisù to add to my ever-growing love of all things dessert.
Then it’s back to walking around the city, which is more walking than I ever even do back in New York, but because it’s Italy, I don’t mind it as much.
Except when Ben pulls me inside a sex shop.
“This is not the kind of souvenir I want to take home on the plane.”
“Oh, come on, no one’s going to know but us.”
“Except for the security at the airport when they decide to randomly search my luggage. Because that would absolutely happen to me.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
Ben walks further into the store anyway, and I trail behind him with my attention crossing back and forth over the floggers, paddles, leather cuffs—
“So you’re saying you don’t wanna be double stuffed with this dildo in your pussy and my cock in your ass?”
I gape at the glass dildo in the ornate box that he’s holding up. “I said I didn’t want to take it on the plane.” My cheeks are burning as I glance around looking for those who might be able to hear us. Even though anyone else in this shop would probably be more understanding than someone on the street.
But no one else in the shop is paying us any attention, and I feel crazy all over again.
I reach out and grab the box from his hand, latching the lid back down and tucking it under my arm. “This is going home in your suitcase.”