Good Lord, there is something sexy about a man who knows how to handle a car. If Ferrari execs saw Gabriel driving this, I’m certain they’d try to hire him as a spokesmodel.
“Of course you’re on a list. Why am I not surprised?”
He glances my way. “How do you know about this car, anyway? From what I’ve heard, you don’t even know how to drive.”
“Hey, a lot of New Yorkers don’t.”
“This sad state of affairs must be rectified as soon as I buy a proper car to teach you in. Now, answer the question.”
“I read your car magazines when I got bored one day.” I turn a little in my seat to face him. “You realize they’re the male equivalent of Vogue.”
He gives me a sly grin. “But far sexier.”
The drive goes quickly, in part because the car is speedy and luxurious, in part because the scenery is so blindingly beautiful, but mostly because I’m with Gabriel.
We never run out of things to talk about, whether it be music or movies or speculating on history as we drive by through the area where they’ve excavated parts of Pompeii and Herculaneum—both sites he promises to take me on day trips to explore. And I realize that no one else sees him this way, as the man who has tons of tidbits of knowledge stored up, the man who smiles frequently and with ease, and who teases me with jokes as lame as my own.
It’s afternoon when we arrive in Positano, a town so picturesque it brings a lump to my throat. Colorful stucco buildings that look almost Moorish in architecture cling to the steep green mountains that plunge toward the turquoise sea. The air is fresh, tinged with hints of sweet lemon and salty ocean.
Gabriel’s house is a little way out, nestled between the crags of two mountain outcrops and guarded by a tall gate. You can’t tell much about it from the drive, but inside it’s all crisp white stucco walls, airy spaces that face the blue sea, with endless French doors open to the breeze.
A small, elderly lady greets us. Gabriel kisses her cheeks and talks to her in Italian. I’ve never had a fetish for foreign languages until I heard him speak in one. He introduces her to me. Martina, who is both cook and housekeeper, doesn’t speak English, but she doesn’t need to. Her welcoming smile says enough. She leaves us, bustling off toward the back of the house.
“How many languages do you know?” I ask him. I’ve heard him speak French and Spanish on the tour.
“English, of course. Italian, French, Spanish, a little German, and a bit of Portuguese. A few phrases in Japanese.”
“You’re killing me.”
“Languages always came naturally to me.” A smug smile unfurls. “Your expression, Darling… You like that?”
“I’m going to demand that you speak to me in Italian in bed.”
His expression goes thoughtful and he leans down and whispers in my ear, his voice hot cream. “Sei tutto per me. Baciami.”
I swear my knees go weak. “Jesus, give a little warning. What did you say?”
His smile grows secretive. “I said ‘kiss me’.”
It sounded like more than that, but I lift to my toes and place a soft, lingering kiss on his lips. He kisses me back, keeping it light and gentle.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you fed before you become hangry.”
“You know me so well.”
Hand to the small of my back, he guides me out to the terrace. It’s enormous, surrounding the property and carved out of the hill. It’s part garden with lemon trees and rustling palms, part slate-lined terrace with an infinity pool hovering along one cliffside, and a dining area shaded by a trellis covered in bougainvillea. Sunlight filtering through the fuchsia blooms tints the air pink.
Gabriel watches me take it all in, then comes to stand by my side, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“You own a slice of paradise,” I tell him, staring out at the sea.
His shoulder brushes against mine. “Paradise is a state of mind, not a location.”
“Fair enough. You own the perfect place to evoke paradise.”
Behind us, Martina sets the table. She waves off my offer to help, and we’re soon sipping icy limoncello.
“This tastes like summer in a glass,” I tell Gabriel.
He lounges in his chair, stretching his long legs out before him. “Wait until you taste Martina’s food.”
When she plunks down two bowls of pasta, I can see why. Clams and mussels tangle with linguine, all glossy with olive oil and fragrant with little bits of garlic, parsley, and lemon zest. It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in my life, and I sop up the juices with crusty white bread.
For a while, we are silent, simply enjoying the food and the sea breeze that cools our skin. When we’re done eating, Martina comes and takes the plates away, and Gabriel says something to her again.
It’s fairly ridiculous how much I swoon when he speaks; he’s probably saying something banal like, hey, thanks for the meal. But it sounds like pure sex coming from his mouth.
I sit back with a sigh. He seems equally content, his hands folded over his flat belly, his expression calm as he stares at the sea.
“I don’t understand it,” I find myself saying.