Chapter 17
Hanna
It happened again. Once again, I lost control of myself. And that's not all.
Vico saw it.
He knows that I was lost in my thoughts.
"Will you tell me where you were in your thoughts?" His hand rises, and for a split second, I'm sure he's going to stroke my cheek. But nothing of the sort happens.
Clutching my forearm tightly with my fingernails, I shake my head. No one can know. Especially not him.
"Why not?" He steps closer, looking at me with open curiosity.
There's something in that gaze that makes me hesitate for a moment. I don't know what it is, but I feel a part of me giving in.
"Is it so terrible?" he asks softly, taking another step. Then his expression softens. "I don't think so."
He shouldn't do that. He shouldn't make me feel like my daydreams are okay. Because they certainly are not.
They're ridiculous, nothing more.
My gaze shifts to Vico, who is now so close that I can feel his warmth. He still looks at me, and now he even nods. How would he react if I explained that the run-down room turned into a dreamy bedroom before my eyes? That I could see airy curtains in a delicate lemon yellow adorning the windows? That I knew which paintings should hang above the wrought-iron canopy bed and that a shabby-chic dresser with a candlestick and a bowl of fresh fruit would give the room a cozy atmosphere? All of it was so real to me that I could even smell the apples.
So many times I had the feeling that Vico was different from every person I had ever met. What if he could understand my dreams a little?
I could take the risk. And find out if he truly is different or if I had only imagined it so far.
"It's okay if you don't want to tell," he says, adding to my confusion. But his expression remains attentive, as if afraid to miss something. " But it would please me very much."
I can't do it. No matter how much I want to share my secret with him, I can't. He'll laugh at me, just like everyone else before him.
"It was just my absentmindedness, nothing worth mentioning," I say hastily, lowering my eyelids. As much as I dislike the checklist, at least it helps me focus now. What was I supposed to note about the rooms again?
While I frantically search for instructions, I can practically feel Vico's gaze on me.
Please, don't say anything. Let it be.
"I don't know… It looked like there was more to it than—"
The ringing of my phone interrupts him. With an apologetic smile, I take my phone out of my pocket. As I see the caller ID, reality comes crashing back.
I feel like I was just drunk a moment ago, but now I'm sober again. "It's Florian. I have to take this," I murmur and turn to leave so that Vico doesn't overhear our conversation. I don't know how well he speaks German, but my feeling is that Florian wouldn't approve either way.
Once I reach the landing, I answer the call. "Hey, my love." Florian's voice sounds tired, and his long exhale tells me he's worried about something.
This can't be good. "Is there a problem?"
"No," he responds quickly from the other end of the line, but I can tell he's not being entirely truthful.
Why? What is he trying to protect me from? Is he having trouble securing the loan, or is the intern still overwhelmed? Instantly, guilt washes over me. I realize that I haven't thought much about him and the challenges he's facing back home since our last call.
Of course, he misses me. After all, running the inn keeps him busy, leaving little time for anything else. And without my support, he has to bear the full weight of the responsibilities.
"How is Natalie doing?" I ask cautiously, not wanting to overwhelm him. I don't want him to think I doubt his ability to manage without me.
He clears his throat. "She's settling in well," he responds conspicuously controlled. "But that's not why I'm calling. I'm calling about the photos of that beach you sent me yesterday."
Automatically, I straighten my back. "Yes?"
"They are…" Uh-oh. He doesn't like them, and now he doesn't know how to tell me. Maybe I should finish his sentence for him. "Not good enough?"
"Sure, you tried your best. But I can't use them for the promotional brochure or the website." He types frantically in the background, as if he's stressed and multitasking.
"I'm sorry." I press my lips together, leaning against the cool stone wall of the hallway, supporting my head with my hand. After all he's done for me, I can't let him down.
"I just sent you a few sample images. We need something along those lines," Florian insists.
As I look through the photos in my inbox, I see endless wide beaches with white umbrellas and grasses stretching toward the warm light of the setting sun. There are detailed shots of a chic pool area, children enthusiastically jumping on trampolines, and a couple gazing lovingly into each other's eyes against the romantic backdrop of a vineyard.
"What do you think? Can you handle this?" Florian asks while a sense of unease churns in my stomach as I go through the images.
A professional must have taken these photos, and the people in them look like models. How am I supposed to pull this off?
"It's really important, Hanna. If the marketing isn't right, the expansion won't be successful," Florian says, sounding logical. The images will be the first thing potential guests see.
"Of course," I reply. "Maybe we should—"
"You'll figure it out." He interrupts me before I can suggest hiring a photographer.
"Yes." I nod as if trying to convince myself too. "I'll manage. I'll do some research on the internet. There must be tips for great photos. And if that doesn't work, I'll recreate the most beautiful pictures I find." I try to sound more confident than I feel, not letting on that I'm not entirely sure I can pull it off. Florian doesn't need to worry.
"Thank you, those are great ideas. I'm sure you'll do it," he says, trying to sound encouraging, but there's an underlying pressure in his words. Once again, I sense there are issues he's keeping from me for my sake.
"I'll send you new photos by the weekend," I assure him, though less certain than I let on. Our financial security, which we'll finally have with the estate, will be the foundation for a family—the thing I've been longing for.
"How else is it going? Have the craftsmen been on-site? And most importantly, have you found out if we can trust the sellers?" Now he's back to being the focused, driven person he usually is, his voice filled with fervent motivation.
"I'm on it," I say, feeling the need to tell him about the Olivetta family's reasons for selling, and how Vico reacted oddly when I asked him two days ago at Spiaggia bianche why none of the children wanted to take over the estate. But something holds me back from doing so.
"Good. Time is running out, you know?" he insists. "March will be over soon. The sale must be finalized by mid-April."
Right. I momentarily forgot that. I should try again with Camilla. Maybe that will finally give me clarity about the Olivettas' motives.
"The clock is ticking. Understood," I reply, feeling uncomfortable. To make matters worse, Vico's face now appears in my mind. He smiles at me with such longing that my heart suddenly feels heavy in my chest.