Chapter 9
JUNIOR YEAR
Ifall asleep with my Kindle still glowing on my chest. The words blur and double until they mean nothing
My dream pulls me under quickly.
I’m standing in the flower garden at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy’s estate.
The air’s thick with sweet red roses and warm stone. Sunlight presses down on my shoulders this bright month of May.
Bees buzz around me.
Then Darcy strides toward me. His tailored coat looks sharp against the softness of everything around him.
With his firm jaw set, his dark eyes fix on mine.
But he isn’t the brooding Darcy of the 2005 film.
And he’s not actor Colin Firth’s portrayal of the cool, restrained Darcy from the BBC miniseries.
In my dreamlike state, I’m thinking he looks like the Lorenzo who rescued me from the near horse attack in Central Park.
Dark eyes, broad shoulders, and that same coiled stillness before he takes an action.
Dream Darcy’s eyes burn with hunger rather than their usual supercilious cool.
“I want you,” he says, his voice rough and low, barely above the buzzing bees.
The words startle me.
Finally, Darcy is vocalizing his desire for me.
At long last.
Heat explodes between my legs.
I should push him away.
Instead, I moan his name.
Dream Darcy closes the distance between us in two strides.
He presses me back against the warm garden stone, one hand braced beside my head.
His mouth finds mine while his other hand slides up from my waist.
When his thumb grazes my nipple through the thin fabric, I hear myself make a sound I don’t recognize.
His fingers make quick work of freeing the tiny buttons on my bodice.
Then he pushes down my summer dress in one rough motion, leaving me in my low-cut chemise.
In a sudden motion, he rips that off too, baring me to the waist.
Cool flower-scented air wafts over my nipples, teasing them erect.
The thrill of being exposed where anyone could see sends a rush of wetness between my thighs.
Darcy’s dark eyes devour me. “You excite me, Emily.”
He spreads his jacket on the marble bench and lowers me on top of it.
Then he’s on top of me, heavy and commanding.
The full weight of him pins me to the cool marble through his jacket.
The thick, hard length of him presses against my entrance through the fabric of his silk trousers.
The brass buttons of his coat feel cold where they graze my bare skin.
“You’re mine,” he growls, eyes locked on mine as he rocks against me, slow and deliberate.
My lips say no, but my hips speak “yes” as they lift, chasing the pressure and the pleasure.
I want him inside me.
I want him to take me right here in the open garden.
“Yes—”
Bright light suddenly blasts across my face.
What’s happening to my dream?
I jolt upright, gasping.
The Kindle slides off my chest and hits the floor.
My heart still beats wildly. I feel my skin flushed and damp at the collarbone.
Then I hear slow clapping.
It’s real-life Lorenzo. He’s standing at the foot of the bed in a crisp blue suit, white shirt open at the collar.
A wicked smirk pulls at one corner of his mouth.
His dark eyes glitter with amusement.
“What are you doing?” I say, yanking the duvet up to my chin.
“You were moaning for me in your sleep, schoolmarm. That was the loudest version of a wet dream if I’ve ever heard one.”
“Schoolmarm!” What’s this nickname of his?
Heat floods my face. “You have quite an imagination.”
“No,” he says with a lopsided smile. “You do.”
I throw a pillow at his retreating figure as he calmly leaves the room.
But Lorenzo brings it out in me.
Rising from the bed, I yank off my great-aunt’s nightgown.
Then I check it carefully for any tears or signs of tampering.
I do the same with the granny pants.
Everything is intact.
Even myself.
For better or worse, Lorenzo was right about that dream.
After a fast shower, I pull my auburn hair into a tight, high ponytail.
It naturally has a hint of curl.
I resent the way it bounces in such a carefree manner.
That’s absolutely not the mood I’m trying to convey.
After slipping into jeans and a simple T-shirt, I walk into the open kitchen.
I’m still rattled from the dream and Lorenzo’s mocking clap. But I force a smile on my face when I see Ciro standing in the kitchen wearing one of his perfect suits.
“Good morning, Miss Emily. Sleep well?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“Coffee? Black or cappuccino?”
“Black. Nothing else, thanks.”
Ciro places the mug in front of me without a word.
The front door opens. Gina enters with a little dog in her arms. She’s glowing and today, clearly showing her pregnancy.
Gina kisses Ciro on the cheek like a favorite uncle, then turns to me with a warm but assessing smile.
“Morning. You survived the night,” she says.
I flash a tight smile in return.
When Gina slides onto the stool beside me, Ciro prepares her cappuccino without being asked.
It may be Lorenzo’s apartment, but clearly Gina treats it as her own.
“I think you’re a perfect fit for Lorenzo,” she says, sizing me up.
“You do know it’s not a ‘real’ marriage,” I say, after a brief hesitation.
Gina smiles and shrugs. “Time will tell,” she says mysteriously before sipping her cappuccino.
“Regardless, I hope we can be friends. Who’s your best friend back home?”
“What kind of a question is that?” I sputter, coffee nearly flying from my mouth.
I don’t know why, but for some reason I feel protective about my friendship with Anna.
I don’t want to share her with anyone, even in conversation.
And Gina already seems like the kind of person who’d pester me with questions about Anna and her life in Rome.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to hit a nerve. It’s just that I haven’t had a girlfriend to talk to in months. I’m around Dante and his brothers all the time.”
“And I didn’t mean to snap,” I say, putting my hand on hers as a silent apology.
“To answer your question, my best friend’s name is Anna. We’ve been friends since we were kids.”
I take another sip of coffee, wondering how much more to reveal.
“Now she’s spending her junior year studying in Italy. La Dolce Vita and all that. I miss her but I speak to her all the time on the phone so it’s like she’s here. What about you?”
“Almost the same story for me. When I first arrived, my bestie and I spoke together constantly. Now with the baby coming it’s different.”
Smiling, Gina moves her hand below her dog to rest it on her belly. “It’s going to be a boy. Dante can’t wait,” she says as the house phone rings.
Ciro answers it, speaks softly, and turns to us.
“Miss Angie’s on her way up.”
I look at Gina. “Angie?”
“Dante’s and Lorenzo’s cousin. You met her at the wedding. Wild black hair. Red lipstick. I asked her to come today and take you to the Equinox Fitness Center downstairs.”
“Oh, yes. Now I remember.”
“I would take you myself, but I’m supposed to take it easy until this little guy’s born.”
A moment later, the front door opens automatically. Angie struts her way toward us, wearing cherry-red exercise leggings and a cleavage-popping matching top.
“Hiya, Emily,” says Angie, walking toward me, giving me one of those double kisses this Italian family is so fond of.
Her long dangling gold earring nearly hits me in the face. “Recovered from your wedding night?” She asks with a wink.
I force a smile.
“Gina says you’re taking me to work out in the fitness club below. I’ve never taken a class in my life. And I don’t have exercise clothes.”
“Figured as much,” she says, reaching into her bag. “That’s why I brought you this.”
She hands me something hot pink wrapped in cellophane.
“What is this?”
“Your workout outfit. I bought it at the same time as I bought the one I’m wearing and haven’t worn it yet. We’re about the same size, though my boobs are bigger. Put it on.”
I look to Gina. She nods encouragingly.
“I can’t wear this in the elevator,” I say, looking at the handful of pink spandex. “Or the lobby. Everyone will stare.”
“Then change in the locker room. C’mon. Let’s go.”