Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
ZALEA | FLORENCE
I stare at the intercom outside the student residence, my reflection faintly staring back at me in the scratched metal panel.
I don’t know why I told the taxi driver to drop me off here of all places.
I just knew I couldn’t go back to the hotel, not when Gabriel would inevitably show up, knocking on my door, and asking questions I’m not ready to answer.
I scroll through the list of names, realizing too late that they’re organized by last name, and I don’t know Paolo’s.
I sigh and turn to leave, only to nearly collide with him as he approaches with arms full of canvases, and tote bags overflowing with art supplies.
“Lea?” His brows knit with concern as he studies my face. “Are you alright?”
The instinct to deflect is almost immediate, but when I look into his warm brown eyes, I decide I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of pushing my feelings so far down that even I believe everything is fine. Why should I hide how much I’m hurting just to make others comfortable?
“No,” I admit quietly. “Not really. But I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
His expression softens, but his concern deepens.
“I was just heading up to my studio,” he says, nodding toward the building. “Would you like to join me?”
“Sure.”
He enters the code, the intercom buzzing loudly before he pulls open the heavy glass door and gestures for me to go inside first. We step into the elevator together, and he presses the button for the top floor.
“My room is on the fourth,” he explains as we begin to ascend. “But I managed to reserve one of the studios on the twelfth floor for the year. It has the best views.”
The doors slide open, and I follow him down the quiet hallway. At the final door, he scans his student ID and the lock clicks open.
“Welcome to my second home,” he says, pushing it wide. “And please ignore the mess.”
I step inside and my breath catches. The whole space is alive with colour. Paolo has large canvases leaning against the walls, each one bursting with colour and emotion.
Paint-splattered drop cloths cover the floor, and jars of brushes crowd every available surface. I walk closer to a nearby worktable where open tubes of paint lay scattered between charcoal sticks and stained rags. A large sketchbook sits near the edge, its pages warped slightly.
“May I?” I ask, lifting it carefully.
He offers an embarrassed smile. “Sure. But most of what’s in there is just rough ideas.”
I nod and open it, flipping through the pages of loose figure studies, gesture sketches, and what looks to be quick explorations of hands and movement, but I stop about halfway through the book, stunned.
A portrait of me takes up the page, not very detailed, but unmistakably me.
My profile is angled as if I’m leaning against something, hair falling forward, eyes closed.
The longer I stare at it, the more my mind starts to piece together that this must have been when I fell asleep on the bus ride to Florence.
I swallow and turn the page, finding another portrait of me. This time I’m laughing, my head tilted back slightly—the night we went out for drinks and karaoke.
I flip through several more pages of similar portraits of me before I glance over at him slowly,
“...Paolo?”
His posture is stiff, and he suddenly seems fascinated by reorganizing brushes that clearly don’t need reorganizing.
“These are…well they’re all…me,” I say gently. “Starting from the day we met.”
He exhales through his nose, a sheepish half-laugh escaping from his lips. “I didn’t plan for you to see those.”
I glance back down at the sketchbook again, fingertips brushing the edge of the page. “You’ve drawn me a lot.”
His voice is quieter when he answers. “You’re…interesting to draw.”
I don’t know what to say to that, but thankfully Paolo continues before the silence becomes uncomfortable.
“Something about your expressions,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “makes me want to create art, instead of just producing it. You bring life back to my art.”
A laugh slips out of me. “I didn’t realize I was your artistic breakthrough.”
A small smile tugs at his lips. “That's why I asked you to model for me. I want to see what else you inspire me to create.”
“And here I was thinking you were interested in me and using that as an excuse.”
The words leave my mouth before my brain has a chance to intervene. Regret hits me instantly, and an embarrassed heat creeps up my neck.
Paolo pauses, then smiles gently. “I can tell that man at the hotel isn’t just history to you,” he says, his tone calm and sincere. “And I don’t want to complicate whatever that is…or get in the middle of something unfinished.”
He leans back against the worktable, arms loosely folded across his chest, his expression open instead of guarded.
“So I’m going into this without expectations,” he continues. “No pressure or assumptions. I asked you to model because you inspire me artistically and because I want to capture something real and honest in my work. That’s all.”
His gaze softens slightly as I struggle to hold eye contact.
“But…if something more ever grew naturally between us, I wouldn’t pretend not to welcome it,” he admits. “I just want to make it clear that that isn’t why you are here. You’re here because you’re beautiful, expressive, and human in a way that translates onto canvas perfectly.”
I shift on my feet, considering his words.
“I think I’d like that,” I say quietly. “Just seeing where it goes, without expectations…creating something beautiful together.”
A soft smile passes across his expression.
“And if all we ever make together is art,” he finishes with a small shrug, “that would still be enough for me.”
“Then I guess we should make something worth remembering.”
Paolo drops me off at the hotel on his vespa, despite me telling him I’d be fine walking back on my own, after giving me a complete tour of his studio. I try to sneak into my room without Gabriel hearing, but of course I can’t find my key card fast enough and his door swings open.
He steps out wearing a tight black T-shirt that hugs his sculpted torso, and sweatpants—my kryptonite.
“I thought you were in your room this whole time,” he says, a line forming between his furrowed brows. “Where were you?”
“With Paolo,” I reply.
His brows furrow further as he stares at me, eyes jumping between mine.
“You walked out of my car after we just picked out our home, and took a cab to go see another guy?” I can hear the hurt in his voice.
“I went to go see Paolo, not some random guy,” I say, monotonously. “And relax, he was just showing me the art studio that we’ll be working in together.”
He scoffs. “Oh, the private studio he mentioned?” I can see him vibrating from anger, and knowing Gabriel, he’s getting too into his head, running through every possible scenario.
“Nothing happened,” I say firmly, finally retrieving my key card from my purse. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go to bed.”
“Wait,” he says, holding a folder out to me. “I’ll leave the adjoining door unlocked. You can slide it through, or bring it in when you’re done.”
“What is it?” I ask, taking it carefully.
“The purchase agreement for the apartment,” he replies. “I want you listed as the sole legal owner.”
I frown, glancing down at the folder before looking back at him. “But I’m not paying for any of it—you are. Why would I own it?”
He shrugs. “Consider it an early birthday present.”
I hesitate, then nod slowly. “Okay…I’ll bring it over once I’ve signed everything.”
He clears his throat, suddenly more tentative. “And…If you want to sleep next to me too, or just leave the door cracked open, I’m fine with that.”
I roll my eyes, though a small smile creeps onto my lips. “Good night, Gabriel.”
“Good night, Zalea,” he replies, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth. He turns toward his door, then pauses. “But just so we’re clear, we will be continuing that conversation from the car soon.”
Before I can answer, he steps inside and closes the door behind him, leaving me alone in the hallway with my stomach twisting, feeling like I’m slowly sinking into the carpet.
“I’m so mad at you,” Zale says the second he answers my video call, anger and worry mixing across his face. “I’ve been calling you for three weeks, Z.”
“I know, I know,” I lift my hands in surrender. “I just needed time to figure some things out. I’m sorry I made you worry.”
He sits upright in his bed, eyes searching mine. “Can you just tell me what’s going on? Why did you bail on the Hawaii qualifiers?”
I consider telling him about the diagnoses that sent me spiralling, but I’ve barely processed it myself. I’m not ready to unpack it with anyone else.
“I’ve decided to quit surfing,” I say, steadying my voice. “Indefinitely.”
He blinks, then drags a hand down his face. “Sorry, can you say that again? I thought I just heard you say you’re quitting the career you’ve worked for your entire life.”
I give him a small, tight smile. “It’s not for me anymore, Zale. I’m not happy doing it.”
Silence stretches between us.
“So what’s your plan then?”
I force a laugh, already bracing for his reaction. “I’m staying in Italy for the year. And before you start worrying—don’t. Gabriel’s here, and it looks like he’ll be staying as long as I am.” I glance down at the folder beside me. “He’s even buying an apartment for us to live in.”
His expression hardens instantly. “I knew that asshole was lying about not knowing where you were.”
“Wow. Try to contain your excitement for me,” I say dryly, rolling my eyes.
“You already know how I feel about Gabriel, Zalea,” he replies, frowning. “I’m not going to pretend I’m thrilled you’re living with the guy who ruined your life and made the whole family sick with worry.”
“He didn’t ruin my life,” I say quietly. “And please stop telling him that. He’s asking too many questions.”
His jaw drops, fury flashing across his face. “Does he not know what you went through?”
“Zale—”
“No, Zalea. There’s no way you’ve kept that from him all these years.” Disbelief sharpens his tone. “And you’re just moving in with him like this is some fairytale where the past doesn’t exist?”
I let out a frustrated groan, tugging at my hair. “I’m going to tell him. I just haven’t found the right time yet.”
Okay, that might not be entirely true. There have been chances, I just haven’t taken them.
He studies me silently, breathing through his anger before finally exhaling. “Send me your new address,” he says, calmer now, but I can tell there’s still some tension between us. “I want to send you a housewarming gift.”
“I’ll text it to you” I say. “But we don’t move in for three weeks.”
“Okay,” he pauses. “Good night, Zalea.”
“Good night, little brother.”
After my call with Zale, I sign and initial every page in the folder before carrying it to the adjoining door. I unlock my side and ease it open, finding Gabriel’s door already cracked.
“Come in,” he calls, surprising me. I’d assumed he’d be asleep by now.
I push the door wider and peek inside. He’s sitting on his bed, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, wearing the sexiest pair of reading glasses I’ve ever seen. A large book rests open on his lap as he studies the pages, turning one absentmindedly.
“You read?” I ask.
He glances up, a brow arched.
I clear my throat. “I mean—you wear glasses?”
“I do,” he says, closing the book and sliding the glasses up onto his head. “Do you have the signed papers?”
I lift the folder and give it a small wave. “I’ll leave it on your desk?”
He stands, and my mouth goes dry when I realize he’s shirtless. He walks toward me, hand outstretched, and I pass him the folder while trying—unsuccessfully—not to stare. He flips through it, checking each page.
“I’ll have these sent over to Antonio and the lawyers,” he says, closing the cover and lifting those blue eyes to mine.
“Okay,” I reply softly, focusing very hard on his face.
“Okay,” he echoes, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Okay,” I repeat, swallowing as my gaze betrays me and drops to his lips.
“You said that already,” he murmurs, voice lowering.
“Right.” My eyes drift again, down the strong line of his chest, the definition of his abs, and I hate how obvious I’m being.
“If you want something, Z,” he says, setting the folder aside on his desk, “all you have to do is ask. You know I’d give you anything”
I swallow hard and force myself to meet his gaze.
He’s enjoying watching me fall apart for him.
He knows exactly what he’s doing, and a part of me wants to give in.
But another part of me is scared he’ll bring up our earlier conversation after we’re finished, and it turns out the fear of facing it outweighs everything else.
“I’m all good,” I manage, my voice trembling as I step back. “Good night, Gabriel.”
His lips pull into a grin as he raises one brow in surprise. “Good night, Zalea.”
I rush back to my room, diving head-first onto my bed. Because while I may have found enough strength to walk away from Gabriel, I am nowhere near strong enough to ignore the ache he leaves behind.