Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
The metallic click of the latch feels like a gunshot in the still evening air. I stand there, a ridiculous figure holding an empty wine bottle and a bag of trash, staring at the beautifully carved wooden door of the villa that has just betrayed me. The warm breeze does little to soothe the surge of frustration bubbling up inside.
I have locked myself out.
"Perfect," I mutter to myself, a little slurred. Today, of all days, when my emotions are as fermented as the Chianti swirling through my veins, this is not what I need. The sun casts long shadows across the cobblestones, a beautiful end to a day where I've been drowning my sorrows, and now, I'm locked out.
" Problemi, Signorina ?" His voice floats over to me, tinged with concern, and that unmistakable Italian lilt makes even the most mundane words sound like an invitation to dance.
Not him! Not again!
I turn a bit too quickly and have to steady myself against the wall. Giovanni stands there, leaning over the low hedge that separates his property from mine, his dark curls tousled by the wind, a look of genuine worry etched across his handsome face. He's the picture of ease in a simple white shirt rolled up at the sleeves and jeans that fit him just right—a stark contrast to my disheveled appearance.
"Ah, it's nothing," I say, trying to wave him off with the hand not clutching the neck of the wine bottle. "I just locked myself out. Happens to the best of us, right?" I attempt a laugh, but it comes out as more of a hiccup, betraying my tipsy state.
"Let me help you," he offers, already moving toward the gate that connects our properties. There’s no judgment in his eyes, just a readiness to assist. A neighborly gesture, indeed, but part of me wants to tell him I can handle it on my own. That's what I do; I handle things on my own. But the other part, the one swimming in a sea of wine-induced self-pity, wonders how bad it would be to accept a helping hand.
I stumble back from the wall, planting my feet more forcefully than necessary. "Really, Giovanni, I'm fine. Just a minor hiccup in my evening routine," I insist, though the wobble in my knees tells a different story.
"Minor hiccup?" He quirks an eyebrow, concern lacing his voice as he steps closer, the scent of fresh herbs clinging to him like a Mediterranean breeze. "Sophia, you seem a bit?—"
"Tipsy? No, no." I straighten up, trying to ignore how the ground feels like it's swaying beneath me. "I've just been… celebrating," I lie smoothly, or at least as smoothly as my wine-soaked tongue allows. "Alone."
"Ah, celebrare da sola . Sounds like quite the party." The corners of his mouth twitch upward, and despite myself, I feel a smile tugging at my lips. His chuckle is warm and enveloping, and for a brief moment, I want to laugh with him and share in the joke that is my current predicament.
"Let me guess," he says, taking another step forward, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.
Why does he have to be so annoyingly handsome?
"You locked yourself out while disposing of the evidence of this solitary fiesta ?"
"Something like that," I mumble, crossing my arms defensively. Why does he have to look so put together while I'm a mess?
"Listen, Sophia," Giovanni begins, his tone shifting to gentle persuasion. "I have a set of lock picks. I used to help my nonna whenever she misplaced her keys—which was often enough for me to become quite skilled at it." His eyes glint with a mischievous spark, and I can't tell if it's from the excitement of the challenge or the hilarity of seeing me so disheveled.
"Lock picks? Are you some kind of secret agent or a burglar moonlighting as my neighbor?" Despite my attempt at humor, my voice carries an edge of real skepticism. Who has lock picks in their home?
"Neither," he replies, his grin widening. "Just a man who likes to be prepared. And right now, I'm prepared to help you get back inside your villa."
I bite my lip, torn between the mortification of needing help and the admittedly tempting offer before me. The thought of sleeping on the patio isn't appealing, but neither is showing weakness—especially not to Giovanni Bianchi, with his easy charm and disarming smile.
"Come on, what do you say?" He edges closer still, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my heart race for reasons that have nothing to do with alcohol.
I shuffle my feet, the cool tiles of the patio a stark contrast to the frustration boiling inside me. My head spins slightly, and I blame the Chianti, not the proximity of Giovanni Bianchi standing just a step too close for comfort. He's offering me a lifeline, but pride clings to me like the summer humidity, unrelenting.
"Really, I'm capable of handling this," I murmur, even as my eyes betray me, tracing the outline of his jaw and the broad shoulders that block out the setting sun. Who gave him the right to look so effortlessly handsome? The way his curls fall just over his brow, the warmth in his deep-set eyes—it's all too much. And those abs pressing against his shirt as if they're trying to escape and come to my rescue. Ridiculous.
"Capable, sure," Giovanni says with a knowing tilt of his head, "but why struggle when you have help?"
"Because I—" My thoughts scatter like the ocean breeze through the olive trees. Because what? Because I don't want to admit I need help? Or because I don't want it to be his help?
"Look at me, Sophia," he coaxes gently. "You've had a day. Let me do this for you."
Every fiber of my being screams to send him away, to prove I can fend for myself—like I've been doing ever since my world turned upside down. Heck, even before that. Daniel was never very helpful with anything around the house—probably because he was so busy screwing my best friend.
In my bed. In my sheets.
But the wine whispers seductively, urging me to lean on someone just for tonight. It's only a door. It's not like I'm handing over my heart.
"Okay, fine," I concede, my voice barely above a whisper, "help me then."
" Bravissima ," he says, and there's an annoying twinkle in his eye that makes me want to smack that smugness off his handsome face—or maybe pull him closer.
"Let's check if any windows are open first," he suggests, and I nod, trailing behind him like a lost puppy.
I try to push up the first window, but my coordination betrays me. My hand slips, and I stumble back into Giovanni's solid chest. A surprised laugh bubbles out of him as he steadies me with hands that are both firm and gentle.
"Maybe you should leave this part to me, eh?" he teases, and I can feel the heat flood my cheeks.
"Right. Of course." I carefully step away from the security of his touch, chastising myself.
You're here for a fresh start, not to swoon over the first man who offers you a kind word and a lockpick.
"Here," he says after a moment, and I watch, mortified, as the window gives way under his skilled hands with ease.
It was open all this time. I feel so embarrassed.
"After you."
"I could have done that,” I say, then add, “but thank you." The words stick in my throat. This isn't surrender; it's strategy. That's what I tell myself as I climb awkwardly through the window, my movements more akin to those of a clumsy cat than a graceful woman. Giovanni crawls in after me way more gracefully than I just did.
Once inside, I straighten up and brush off my dress, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. "I could have done that myself, you know," I say, lying smoothly—or as smoothly as one can while tipsy and disoriented.
"Of course, you could have," he agrees, and there's no mockery in his tone, only warmth and perhaps a hint of admiration.
I turn away, hiding my conflicted smile. Maybe Giovanni Bianchi isn't the worst thing to happen to me today. I walk to the kitchen, Giovanni right behind me, and as I reach for another bottle of wine, I can't help but think that sometimes, just maybe, it takes getting locked out to find a new way in.
I offer him a glass of wine as a thank you, and we drink it in silence. He keeps looking at me with that smirk, and I try to hide how it makes me blush.
"Thank you," I say again, feeling a flush creep onto my cheeks.
"Anytime, Sophia." His voice is soft, and there's something there, a note of something deeper, that makes me wonder if this is more than just a simple act of kindness.
As I step forward to pour more wine, Giovanni steadies me, his hands firm and reassuring on my waist. I allow myself the briefest moment to lean into his touch before pulling away, reminding myself I'm not here to fall for charming men with easy smiles and capable hands.
"See? Not too bad," he quips, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m not too bad to keep around.”
"Now you’re just flattering yourself," I say, allowing myself a small smile.
There's something about Giovanni Bianchi that feels disarmingly genuine, and for the first time in a long while, I find myself entertaining the thought that perhaps not all surprises are bad. With a deep breath, I let go of my reservations, just for a moment, and let the warmth of his presence drape me like a blanket on a chilly evening.
"Thank you, Giovanni," I say, my gratitude deep and warm. "I thought I'd be sleeping outside tonight."
His smile is gentle, a touch proud. "I wouldn't have let that happen," he assures me, and I'm struck by the sincerity in his tone.
For a moment, we stand in the kitchen, the night air from the open window crisp around us, the connection between us an unspoken promise hanging heavy in the space.
"Goodnight, Sophia." He puts the glass down, then nods. He steps toward the door, granting me the solitude of the villa once more.
"Goodnight, Giovanni," I reply, lingering on his name. And as I close the door behind him, the echo of his persistence stirs a flutter in my heart that feels suspiciously like hope.
I lean against the cool wall just inside the door, my pulse still racing from the evening's unforeseen escapade. The villa's quietness fills me softly, but it's a sensation that's quickly invaded by the echo of Giovanni's parting words. They hang in the air, heavy with an intention I'm not sure I'm ready to understand.
His persistence wasn't just about the locked door, was it? There's a tenderness there, a steady patience that feels akin to how vines persistently reach for sunlight. It's been so long since someone has cared enough to help without expecting anything in return.
"Stupid," I murmur to myself, pushing away from the wall. I shuffle through the dimly lit kitchen, taking off my shoes as I go.
He's just being friendly, Sophia. Don't read into it.
But the warmth that spread through me at his touch and nearness refuses to be rationalized as mere gratitude.
In the window's reflection, my green eyes catch me off guard—they're bright, almost hopeful. Is this what Giovanni sees? A spark that's been missing for far too long?
"Definitely the wine talking," I scoff, reaching for a fresh bottle. The cork gives way with a satisfying pop, and I pour the ruby liquid into a glass, watching as it swirls and settles.
Yet, as I take a sip, the rich flavor on my tongue can't quite mask the sweetness of possibility that lingers in my mind. Could Giovanni's kind-hearted tenacity be the key to unlocking something more than just a stubborn door?
"Too drunk for this kind of thinking," I decide, taking a larger gulp. But even as the alcohol warms my insides, a small part of me wonders if sobriety would really change the budding curiosity about the man who just left my doorstep.
With a deep breath, I head toward the comfort of the living room couch, glass in hand. Maybe tomorrow, I'll be brave enough to explore these thoughts with a clear head. For now, I'll attribute the flutter in my chest to the lingering effects of the wine and an unlocked door.