Chapter 13
Thirteen
Mark
This villa is the largest private property in Rome, and here I am, standing right behind Lexington Walker the way a level’s bubble always finds dead center. I swear ending up near her was as little of a conscious decision as liquid obeying gravity.
I thought no one else would venture this far from the lively, pulsing villa, though lanterns brighten the hedge-lined gravel path. The bell tower is a professional curiosity for me. So I’m where I should be. Don’t ask me why the event planner is so far from the event.
Lexington’s back straightens, and then she swivels, piercing me with her gray eyes, obviously vexed that I’m right behind her. You and me both, Lexington. Can’t fight gravity.
She spins back to face the photographer, halting mid-sentence. She must decide it’s obvious we’re not together, and maybe it is. All evening she’s sparkled with conversation and friendliness, and without this contest motivating me, my instinct would have been to stand around like a brick wall.
The photographer is already peering through her expensive viewfinder. It’s a Leica S3, and I’m impressed. This woman means business. “Okay, stand up, Ms. Walker. Sir, can you move a little closer and to her right? Arm around her and smile. This is a happy event.”
She’s been taking pictures of all the guests the whole evening and I’ve avoided her so far, but there’s no escape now.
I’m usually on the other side of this powerful social rule to obey a photographer’s instructions even if it’s the absolute last thing in the world you want or should do.
We’re lucky she didn’t instruct us to jump off the tower for a Bond-inspired action shot.
Although that might have been more comfortable than this.
But I’m not draping my hand over her shoulder like we’re friends. I settle for a hand on the small of Lexington’s back.
Blast, that was maybe an even worse idea.
My fingers settle into the curve of her back through her silk shirt and now I know something about her I shouldn’t—that this hollow spot is a perfect fit for my hand.
Both our smiles are stiff. The photographer pulls the camera away and grimaces at us. “Got it, thank you.”
She takes one step toward the shadowy tower, spins, and walks back toward the villa, leaving Lexington and me alone, facing each other. Her scowl—not quite the deterrent she must imagine it is—has returned.
“Want to tell me why I’m the only guest who doesn’t get polite treatment? I’m sorry I interrupted you and your friends earlier, if that’s why you’re so . . .” I wave my hand around her face to indicate the waves of negativity flowing off her.
She sets her hands on her hips. “Why I’m so what? Oblivious or disillusioned? Do I look like my trip has brought heartache? Did you not notice how smoothly things went this evening?”
Oblivious, disillusioned, heartache—those are my words from the plane when I tried to temper her enthusiasm for an idealized version of Italy that doesn’t exist. I don’t regret my stance, but I wonder briefly what it would be like to start over with her.
I decide to push it, because her anger shows she’s being honest, and I think that’s something she needs. “You hid it well, but yes. Earlier with my program. You did look heartbroken. What upset you?”
She does not take my offered concern well. Her eyes flash, and she takes a step closer, chin jutting. “That is none of your business, and it has nothing to do with tonight’s perfectly planned event or my time in Italy.”
Ouch. Except I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t confide in me either, under the circumstances. I don’t know what happened to her this evening—besides her not expecting to find her bet rival here—but I’m sorry for whatever it is she’s going through.
And honestly, I’d rather she sting me, yell at me, or shove me than close me off with a mask of composure. So . . . win? Not that it feels like it.
The bell in the tower gongs, counting up to twelve.
At the same time, the string lights and lanterns extinguish.
We’re standing in sudden, total darkness, and the first thing we both do is reach for each other.
She grabs a fistful of my jacket sleeve and I clasp her shoulder.
Just Survival 101, nothing more. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s because we both expect the other to attempt a desertion or a prank.
She groans. “Sorry—I forgot they set the garden lights to turn off at midnight.”
I pull my phone from my pocket and click the flashlight on. “As long as my phone doesn’t turn into a pumpkin by the last bell toll, we’re fine.”
She gives the tiniest snort, and I take my opening. “You’re very good at what you do. Tonight was elegant and surprisingly fun, and I’m sorry if I made things difficult. When we get back to the villa, I’ll leave, Lexington. I promise.”
She doesn’t reply, but she inhales, sharp and stuttering. Kindness might have been the wrong step—she sounds seconds from crying.
I aim the light toward our feet and slide my hand just under her shoulder blades—my spot—steering us back to the villa. “Like I told you, I got your back.”
I guess she remembers my pun from the plane because she lets out a tiny half-laugh, and it feels like all the fairy lights ignite in my head.
I’ll take that.
Under no circumstances can we be friends—the temptation to want more would kill me, and in our circumstances, there’s no future possible—but if she needs a momentary truce, I’m strong enough to give her that.
I hope.