Chapter 13
ROXY
Later that day, Carlo let us borrow the sleek wooden motorboat to cross over to a secluded cove where they sold the best fish on the island.
I was still coming off the high of sleeping in Angel’s arms.
Was I foolish to want more of the same?
Stop hoping, I cautioned myself as my heart flew, eyes on him as he guided the skiff over the waters. He was just being a gentleman.
Still, I couldn’t help feeling that we were getting closer and not just in a platonic way.
I moved nearer to him, coming alongside as his hands sat easy on the wheel.
His cologne wafted into my nostrils, and with no warning, my nipples pebbled.
Then he turned to me and hit me with a chin raise and a growly reverberation.
‘Hey you.’
Be still, my heart.
‘Hey. Done a little boating in your lifetime?’
‘Dad’s an Aussie; we love the ocean, and we learned how to swim in it and pilot boats from childhood.’
‘Sounds idyllic, did he teach you?’
Angel glanced at me for a moment over the top of his sunglasses before turning to face the water.
‘My dad is the most hands-on father you’ll meet, ever-present, pushy as fuck, but he’s the reason I’m the man I am today.’
I tamped back an ache because I had never experienced fatherhood the way Angel described it.
We docked at the fish stalls by the sea and, following a list from Mrs C., as we now called her, we picked a selection of seafood.
From fresh local shrimp caught on the sea floor between Capri and Massa Lubrense, to red seabream, octopus, and totani, a type of calamari.
However, when we returned onboard with our newspaper-wrapped packages, the engine failed to spark.
‘Need a wrench,’ Angel muttered, rooting around the hold until he found a tool chest.
He got into the engine’s metal housing and tinkered as grease splattered his gray shirt.
The fabric strained against his flexed triceps, and my breath hitched in my throat.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the muscled contours of his back.
Damn, the way his thick thighs bunched, and his ass contoured in his shorts as he moved was delicious.
‘You’re also a boat engine expert?’ I asked, balancing on the rocking fiberglass hull.
‘I spent three years tinkering with busted army trucks in Afghanistan,’ he grunted, tugging a wire and tightening a bolt until the engine roared back to life.
I arched a brow, impressed, reminded again why I found this man so delectable.
We returned to the villa with our catch and, to my surprise, Angel offered to cook.
After descaling and washing the fish, he threw the shrimp and bream into a bowl.
He covered them with olive oil, lemon juice, minced garlic, sea salt, and fresh oregano.
By noon, the sun beat down on the pool deck, warming my bare shoulders as the delicious scent of charred seafood filled the air.
The grill crackled on the patio, releasing white smoke that drifted over the turquoise swimming pool.
Angel brought out a platter stacked with grilled bream, crisp green salad, toasted sourdough, and cold slices of watermelon for dessert.
We ate at the wooden outdoor table, cracking shrimp shells with our fingers while a light summer wind played with our hair.
The simple feast and wine were incredible, settling the nervous fluttering that plagued my stomach when I was around Angel.
‘Eat up, beautiful,’ my husband rasped, sliding a generous piece of fish onto my plate.
I jolted.
Beautiful?
That was new.
‘I’m eating as fast as I can, handsome,’ I replied, offering him a tiny smile.
After lunch, we washed up and, drowsy from the sun, we ended up crashing on the couch with books, where I soon slid into an afternoon nap.
‘Rox,’ a deep-timbred voice murmured.
I knifed up from sleep and peered up at Angel.
He was holding out a glass of wine to me as the eventide light streamed through the shutters, painting golden ribbons across the floor tiles.
‘Wake up sleepyhead, dinner’s ready.’
‘How long was I out?’ I breathed, sitting up.
‘Enough to hear you snore,’ he rasped.
‘I do not snore.’
He arched a brow at my defiant tone.
‘It’s cute too, starts with the gentlest whimper and ends in a roar.’
I flung a pillow at him as he ducked, chuckled, and strolled away.
‘When you’re ready, I’m on the terrace with prosecco, calamari in chili oil and lemon and the most delicious bread rolls from Mrs C.’
I freshened up and joined him, narrowing my eyes as he continued to tease me.
I let him, because seeing a smile on Angel’s face was the world’s best gift to me.
We ate, sipping chilled prosecco from tall glasses while a soft breeze rustled the olive trees.
After the delicious meal, we settled on an outdoor lounge in comfortable silence, Angel’s eyes on the view and mine on my worn leather journal and art book, sketching the landscape.
Angel leaned back, resting an ankle over his knee as he swirled his glass.
‘Show me your sketches, Rox,’ he rasped, turning his smoky eyes toward me.
My heart skipped a beat as I handed it over, holding my breath.
I tracked the movement of his long, calloused fingers as he turned the pages of drawings, charcoal portraits, and color studies.
‘You’ve got real talent,’ he murmured, his thumb tracing a sketch of the coastline. ‘These lines carry so much emotion.’
Emboldened, I found my courage. ‘Now your turn, show me yours.’
His lips quirked, then he rose and sauntered to his room, returning with his battered black notebook, filled with scribbled song lyrics, guitar chords, and rough doodles.
We spent the rest of the evening sitting close, sharing our private worlds through paper and ink, closing the distance between our guarded hearts.
When night settled over the lake, Angel walked me down the hallway to my bedroom door.
‘Sleep well, Roxy,’ he whispered, brushing a thumb over my cheek before stepping back.
His gentleness sent a warm pulse through my chest, my heart expanding with how much care he gave me.
As he turned and strode away down the corridor, every instinct in my body screamed at me to call him back.
I wanted him to come inside, wrap his arms around me, and hold me all night long, just like he’d done the night before.
Instead, I stood in the doorway, staring after his receding form until his shadow disappeared into the dark.
Our third excursion the following day introduced a different brand of drama as I haggled at a market stall over lemons.
A pair of elegant Italian matriarchs swarmed Angel, who was standing guard nearby, exclaiming at his beauty.
One bold grandmother pinched his ass cheek with a loud cackle.
‘Holy hell,’ Angel growled, his face flushing crimson as I doubled over laughing at his helplessness.
That evening, I recounted the story with glee to Mrs. Campanelli while Angel cursed under his breath and rolled his eyes.
‘Must have been the Rossi sisters,’ the housekeeper cackled, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘They’re notorious in town as the Black Widows, and they’ve snagged quite a few toy boys in their time. Watch out, Roxy, your husband might be whisked away before the week is out.’
Angel huffed, but his lips twitched with amusement as we locked eyes again and a sudden arc of pure electricity hit us both.
I mulled over our growing connection once more.
He was thawing, but that also meant the fervor between us was rising at a dangerous speed.
What would happen if we let it rip?
The speculation and anticipation became a heady thrill the more we spent time together.
The next day out on the island, the oppressive Mediterranean heat broke as a massive black wall of clouds swallowed Mount Vesuvius and the surrounding sea.
We were at the tail end of our fish selection just as the heavens opened, unleashing a torrential downpour that flooded the stone gutters of Anacapri within three minutes.
Angel and I raced to the taxi hub, only to find a line of stranded commuters reading a handwritten sign on cardboard.
‘A flash flood’s blocked the main road,’ Angel shouted to me over the roar of the thunder, deciphering the Italian script. ‘No cabs are running, and the bus service is suspended.’
‘What do we do?’ I asked with a sigh.
Angel wiped a stream of water from his chin, twisting his lips in thought.
‘Seems like we’re hiking the mountain trail back to the villa. First an umbrella or two.’
We raced back into the small market and procured umbrellas in the pouring rain.
Holding them over us, we locked gazes and headed out towards the winding road leading to the villa.
We navigated the narrow stone paths as the wild wind buffeted our clothes.
The rain stung our skin, turning the dirt tracks into slick rivers of mud.
Wind hit us from every angle, and in a rip of draft, our new brollies snapped back, exposing us.
‘Fuck,’ Angel cursed as he battled to maintain control.
It was no use; the tempest was too fierce, and seconds later both parasols got whipped out of our hands, launching into the air before disappearing in a gust of driving sleet.
The sheer absurdity of trekking in the savage deluge with bags of drenched groceries, the wetness in my sneakers, and the loss of our flimsy covers hit me.
I stopped dead in my tracks, tilted my chin toward the black sky, and screamed a string of profanities into the face of the storm.
Angel paused and stared at me, his hair plastered to his skull, chest heaving.
Then with a huff, he matched my energy, letting out a raw, guttural roar that echoed off the limestone cliffs.
We lost it, collapsing into each other in convulsive, breathless chuckles under the deluge while the turbulence raged on.
Stumbling on, we finally reached the massive wrought-iron gates of Villa Isola Dell’Amore, drenched from head to toe.
Our clothes clung to our bodies, and wet hair plastered our foreheads as we scrambled for shelter beneath the archway of the front door, setting our loads down.
‘Look at us,’ Angel growled, wiping rivulets from his face. ‘We look ridiculous.’
‘Hey, speak for yourself. I was aiming for ‘disheveled chic.’
Angel huffed, wringing out his shirt.