Julia
Chapter Nine
I pick up a fry when the server walks out because I need something to do with my hands.
We are alone, and, now that my anger has drained out of me, I'm suddenly nervous.
Ricardo cuts into his branzino with the kind of precision that really shouldn't be as interesting as it is.
Unfortunately, everything about him is interesting. Especially here.
At the office, there are barriers. People, desks, Mario. The constant pressure of professional etiquette and appearances.
Here, there is only the soft clink of silver against porcelain, the faint murmur of other diners somewhere beyond the private room, and Ricardo’s undivided attention.
As we speak about nothing at all in a way that feels way too intense for such casual conversation, I can feel the way he watches me. The way he pays attention to everything about me: how I hold my glass, how I sit, how I drag a fry through ketchup.
Outside the tall windows, the green of the course has changed.
A few minutes ago, sunlight lay over the eighteenth green in clear gold strips. Now the light coming in is duller, the green of the grass less bright. Clouds have gathered over the far line of trees.
It makes the whole experience even more intimate.
I glance toward it.
“Looks like rain,” I say.
Ricardo follows my gaze. “I read that a possible storm was passing us by.”
“Seems like it had other plans.”
The first drops hit the glass a moment later.
A few scattered marks at first, barely enough to be called rain. Then more of them, gathering quickly until the window is covered in thin, uneven lines.
Ricardo watches it for a second, then looks back at me. “We should not wait too long.”
“No.”
But neither of us moves.
I take another sip of Coke, even though the ice has watered it down. My hand feels too aware of the condensation on the glass. My knees feel too close to his beneath the table, even though they are nowhere near touching.
The light keeps changing.
The room is still the same room. Same table. Same plates. Same quiet service and expensive chairs and polished windows.
But something about the storm makes it feel removed from the rest of the club.
Like whatever is happening at this table belongs only to us.
A deeper roll of thunder moves beyond the glass, distant but clear enough that several people in the main dining room react. Voices rise slightly. Chairs scrape somewhere outside our room. The sky darkens another shade.
“I guess we really should leave now,” I joke.
“Yes.”
The server walks back in and asks if we'd like coffee, and Ricardo tells him we're going to leave before the storm gets any worse.
“Of course, Mr. Conti,” the server says. “I'll have your car brought around.”
I guess lunch is officially over now, which saddens me more than it should. I fold my napkin and set it beside my plate, then reach for my bag. The file is inside, safe and dry and suddenly far less interesting than it was an hour ago.
Ricardo stands when I do.
The courtesy should feel formal. It should put distance between us.
It does the opposite.
He is closer standing. Taller. Broader. The private room feels less private now, and somehow more so.
I step around my chair at the same time he reaches for my bag where the strap has slipped against the edge of the table.
The backs of my fingers brush his.
Both of us stop.
The rain strikes the window in hard, steady bursts.
I look up.
Ricardo is watching me, and there is nothing light in his expression now.
No amusement. No polite mask. No harmless flirtation tucked safely behind restaurant conversation.
Just want.
Clear enough that I cannot pretend not to see it.
My breath catches once before I can control it.
He releases the strap first.
I take my bag.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
His voice is low when he answers. “Of course.”
We leave the room before either of us can do something that we should definitely not do.
The dining room is busier now that people are trapped inside. Men stand near windows, checking phones. A woman in pearls complains quietly about the valet. Staff move with umbrellas and towels.
The storm has fully arrived by the time we reach the main hall.
Rain lashes the windows. The terrace beyond the glass is empty, chairs shoved beneath awnings, striped umbrellas folded against the wind. The brightness from earlier is gone, replaced by a gray-green cast that makes the polished floor look colder.
For a brief moment, I wonder if Alastair Valecourt is still around here somewhere, and then I decide that I really don’t care.
Henry appears near the entrance as if summoned by the weather.
“Mr. Conti,” he says, approaching with an umbrella in hand. “Your car is waiting.”
Ricardo nods.
Henry glances toward the drive, then back at him. “A storm shifted in faster than expected, sir. They’re saying it may sit over this area for a few hours.”
“Flooding?”
“Possible in the lower streets. The main road toward the city is already backing up.”
Ricardo nods, but there’s no change in his expression.
Henry opens the door. Wind pushes rain into the entry, sharp and cold.
Ricardo takes the umbrella from him. “Thank you, Henry.”
“Of course, sir.”
The SUV waits beneath the porte cochere, close enough that we should not need the umbrella for more than a few steps, but the rain is coming sideways.
Ricardo turns to me. “Stay close.”
I step beside him, and he opens the umbrella over both of us. His hand comes to the small of my back to guide me through the burst of rain between the door and the car.
The contact lasts maybe five seconds.
I feel it long after it ends.
The driver opens the rear door. Ricardo helps me in, then follows. The umbrella disappears, passed off to the driver or Henry, I am not sure. I am too aware of my damp hair near my cheek, the cold on my skin, the warmth where Ricardo’s hand had been.
The door closes.
Rain hammers the roof.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
The car smells like leather and wet and the faint trace of him that has become far too familiar in the last few hours.
I settle my bag on my lap and check the file again because I need to remember I am a competent professional woman with a task.
The file is there and dry.
Ricardo gives the driver instructions, and the SUV pulls away from the club.
At first, the storm is inconvenient. Heavy rain, slow wipers, tires hissing over wet pavement.
Then it worsens. The sky opens completely, rain striking so hard that the world beyond the glass turns silver and smeared.
The road disappears in sections beneath fast-moving water.
Thunder cracks close enough that I flinch despite myself.
Ricardo notices.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” I tighten my grip on my bag. “I just hate being in cars during storms.”
The driver slows as brake lights gather ahead of us through the rain.
Another roll of thunder follows.
Ricardo leans forward slightly, watching the road through the windshield. The driver says something in Italian. My Italian is rusty—it's been years since I was in Naples—and this was too rapid for me to catch any of it.
Ricardo answers, just as rapidly.
His voice changes when he speaks Italian. Not softer exactly. More fluid. Sharper in places, warmer in others. Though the words go over my head, the order in the tone is unmistakable.
The driver responds once, then switches lanes carefully.
A few moments later, he turns off the main road.
I look from the window to Ricardo. “Where are we going?”
“My house.”
My heart gives one hard, stupid kick.
“Your house?”
“Yes. It is close.”
I glance toward the road we have left behind, then back at him. “W-Why?”
“Because it is not a good idea to drive into the city right now. The roads will be locked within twenty minutes, if they are not already. Wall-to-wall traffic, standing water, bad visibility.”
The SUV turns onto a narrower road. Rain pours through the branches in silver sheets.
“We’ll wait out the storm there,” he says.
At his home.
At Ricardo’s home.
Alone. Together.
I panic. “I have to get this paperwork to Mario.”
“I will have a courier take it in.”
I stare at him. “In this weather?”
“A professional courier with the appropriate vehicle.”
“What’s the difference if we take it in ourselves or a courier takes it?”
“The courier will take the fastest safe route, and only the document will be at risk of delay.” His gaze remains steady on mine. “Not you.”
Something tight pulls in my chest.
I look away from him.
The rain makes everything outside feel uncertain. Trees bend under the weight of it. Water runs along the road in fast, uneven streams, and the SUV moves through it carefully. The city feels much farther away than it did ten minutes ago.
“I think Mario would rather—”
“Mario would rather have the paperwork late than risk either of us in these streets.”
I opened my mouth to object again or make some other excuse. But Mario is his brother, and he knows him better than I do.
I close my mouth.
Ricardo’s mouth curves faintly, then he takes out his phone and makes a call.
His words are in rapid Italian, and my mind is swirling with so many thoughts that I don't catch many of them. Only enough to know that he's speaking to Mario and discussing the paperwork and a courier.
Is he telling him that we're going to his house?
Does my boss know that I'm going to be in his brother's house alone?
My stomach pitches, and I feel a little sick.
Ricardo ends the call and slips the phone back into his jacket. “A courier will be by to pick up the paperwork shortly.”
“Good. That's good,” I say nervously. I'm clutching the strap of my bag and trying to make my voice steady.
The SUV turns again, this time between two stone pillars and onto a private drive.
And suddenly, we’re here.
There is no gatehouse, no attendant waiting, as I expected. Just a dark metal gate already opening in the rain, a line of trees bending over the drive, and landscape lights glowing dimly through sheets of water.
The house appears slowly.
It is not what I expect.