Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
ZALEA | AMALFI COAST
“You want to rent one of these?” I ask, eyeing the bright red Vespa parked in front of us.
The last time I rode one was with Paolo. He knew exactly what he was doing, but I still tensed up at every turn. I’ve always preferred four wheels over two.
“Why not? It’s a rite of passage when you’re visiting Italy,” Gabriel says, handing a wad of Euros to the middle-aged man renting it out.
“Do you even know how to drive this thing?” I ask, snapping the helmet on. “Don’t you need a special license or something?”
“Relax, baby.” He presses a kiss to the crease between my brows. “We’ll be fine.”
He swings onto the seat and pats the space behind him. With a deep sigh, and a quick prayer, I climb on, wrapping my arms tightly around his waist. I keep my legs pressed together to one side, the way I’ve seen Italian women do in movies.
He takes off, jerky at first, and I stiffen instinctively. But within a minute, he smooths out, and we’re gliding along the coastal road.
The view of the sea and sunlight skipping across the water opens up beside us and I rest my cheek against his back and let myself breathe. Being here with Gabriel feels like something I used to daydream about.
Back when he was on tour, I’d secretly hoped he’d ask me to come along. That we’d explore cities between competitions. That I’d get to exist somewhere inside his world instead of orbiting it from home.
But back then, there was only surfing. He was determined to prove himself to his father and to every doubter who ever questioned him.
I understood it, even admired it, but I was always the thing waiting on the sidelines.
Waiting for his texts, his calls, and waiting to matter as much as the next competition.
Maybe that’s why having him here with me, on my timeline, feels so surreal—and tomorrow, I might blow all of it up.
My stomach tightens at the thought of the conversation waiting for us once we leave the resort.
Once he knows what I did, I don’t know if he’ll forgive me. I don’t know if I’d forgive me either.
“Are you okay?” Gabriel calls over the wind, and I realize I’ve tightened my grip around him.
I force myself to loosen my hold. “Sorry. Just nervous.”
His hand slides down to squeeze mine briefly where it rests against his stomach, steadying me.
“It’s just a scooter, Red,” he says. “You’re safe.”
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see it. Easy for him to say because he’s the one driving.
I exhale slowly, trying to think of ways I can keep myself busy so that my mind doesn’t wander back to the impending conversation.
I slide my hand from his stomach, drifting a little lower along the front of his shirt.
He doesn’t seem to notice at first, but when my fingers brush the front of his pants, his shoulders tense.
“Zalea,” he wants.
I bite back a smile. “What?” I ask, innocently.
“You’re trying to kill us.”
“I’m trying to distract myself,” I say as I brush the front of his pants again, very deliberately this time.
The vespa wobbles slightly and I squeal. “Jesus—” he mutters, straightening it quickly. “Put your hands higher.”
“But you said I was safe,” I tease.
“You are,” he says. “From the road.”
When I don’t move my hand, his comes down and catches my wrist, dragging it back up to rest against his firm stomach, and he doesn’t let go.
“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters.
I laugh into the back of his shoulder, the nervousness finally fading as I enjoy the rest of the scenic ride. It lasts for over an hour, and just when I think we’re heading back, he turns off the road and into a narrow alleyway tucked between stone buildings.
“What are we doing here?” I ask when he kills the engine.
He pulls off his helmet, grinning. “I booked us a pasta-making class,” he says, glancing at his wristwatch. “Looks like we’re right on time.”
He climbs off and turns toward me, breaking into a fit of laughter.
Heat creeps up my neck. “Why are you laughing at me?”
“You look adorable in that helmet,” he says, unclasping it. “Kind of reminds me of that bright pink one you used to wear.”
“It was purple,” I correct, hopping off.
“Pink, purple—same thing.”
“There is no universe where those two colours are the same thing.”
He grins and takes my hand, leading me toward an iron door around the corner. He holds it open for me as I walk through, and we climb a narrow staircase that opens into a bright open kitchen space filled with long wooden tables. A few other couples are already here.
“Ciao!” A tall, slim man greets us. “You must be our last couple, Gabrielle and Zalea?”
“It’s Gabriel,” he corrects.
“That’s what I say,” the man replies with a wink in my direction. “Today we make ravioli and spaghetti,” he tells us, placing a bottle of red wine at our station. “Unlimited wine is included, so please enjoy.”
Gabriel doesn’t hesitate as he pours me a glass, then one for himself. I watch him swirl the wine slowly before bringing it to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhales then takes a sip—his throat working as he swallows.
My mouth goes dry because everything he does is just one big turn on. When his eyes open again, and a satisfied smile tugs at his lips, I quickly look away and mimic him, swirling my own glass.
“Good, right?” Gabriel asks softly.
I nod. “Very.”
His gaze doesn’t leave my mouth, and I’m positive he’s about to lean forward and kiss me when the instructor claps his hands together.
“Okay everyone, my name is Ramon, welcome to the best pasta making class in all of Italy. We start with the dough first using flour, eggs, and our hands—no machines because the best pasta is made with human touch. Yes?” Several heads nod.
Gabriel arches a brow at me as he ties my apron strings from behind, fingers brushing the bare strip of skin at my lower back.
“Touch, huh?” he murmurs near my ear.
I elbow him lightly. “Behave.”
“Never.”
I pour flour onto the wooden counter in a soft white mound. Ramon demonstrates forming a well in the centre before cracking the eggs inside. Gabriel copies him, but he makes the well too shallow and the egg immediately spills over the side.
“Gabriel,” I laugh as yolk creeps toward the edge of the table. “You’re supposed to keep it in the hole.”
“Story of my life,” he mutters dryly, trying to scoop flour back in.
I burst into laughter and he grins, completely unapologetic.
“Here,” I say, stepping closer. “Move.”
I reach in, guiding his hands and pushing flour inward with my fingers. My chest brushes his arm and his body stills in response.
“You’re very bossy,” he says quietly.
“And you’re surprisingly very bad at this.”
He leans close, “I’m good at other things.”
Heat rushes to my face as I glance around to see if anyone overheard him. The other couples and Ramon are laser focused on their own pastas, deep in conversation.
“We’re in public,” I hiss.
“For now.”
We start mixing the dough together, our fingers sliding through flour and egg. It’s so messy and sticky and way more intimate than it should be. At one point he traps my wrist, gently smearing a streak of flour across my cheek.
“Gabriel.”
“You had something right here,” he says innocently.
“Oh, did I?”
I dip two fingers into the flour and drag them slowly across his black t-shirt, leaving white streaks over his chest.
He looks down, then slowly back at me.
“That’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Red,” he says.
“Is it?”
Without warning, he steps forward until I’m pinned between him and the counter, his hands braced on either side of me. And although the room is full of people, laughter, wine glasses clinking, Italian music playing softly in the background, right now it feels like it’s just us.
“You’re flirting with me,” he says quietly.
I scoff, a small smile pulling at my lips. “You’re imagining things.”
Gabriel leans in slightly, nose brushing my temple. “Let me show you exactly what I’m imagining.”
He pushes his rock hard groin against me and my stomach flips. There is no way he’s hiding this from the strangers in this room.
Ramon calls out something in Italian and the other couples cheer as they begin rolling out their dough, but Gabriel doesn’t move right away. He drags his thumb through the flour on the counter, then he lifts his hand and gently brushes another streak along my collarbone.
My breath catches as I hold his gaze, seeing absolute adoration in them.
“Focus,” I whisper.
“I am.”
He finally steps back, but his eyes stay on me as we start rolling the dough flat. And for the rest of the class, every time I look up, he’s already staring at me.
“Okay everyone,” Ramon says at the end of the class. “Your pasta is finished, they all look amazing, and now is time to eat.”
“Which one do you want to try first, the ravioli or the spaghetti?” Gabriel whispers as we each take a fork from Ramon.
“The spaghetti is calling my name,” I say, my stomach grumbling.
We take a seat at our assigned table with our plates, and as I twist spaghetti around my fork, Gabriel reaches over with his and does the same. The strands are so long, it feels like we might be twirling them for hours, quietly competing to see whose fork gets the biggest bite.
After a minute, we both give up on the twirling and lift our forks toward our mouths at the same time. Halfway there, the noodles stretch between us and we both look down at the same strand of spaghetti connecting our forks.
A grin spreads across his face as he looks back up at me.
“Oh no,” I mutter, already laughing.
“Too late,” he says.
Before I can pull my fork away, he leans forward and takes a bite, the noodle shortening between us.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, but I take a bite too.
The pasta keeps disappearing until he’s suddenly closer than I expected, his nose brushing mine before he closes the distance. His lips press softly against mine, tasting like tomato sauce and fresh basil, and I can’t help but laugh against his mouth.