“We’re supposed to be relaxing—“
“Careening down mountain roads on this toy is not relaxing.”
“It will be fun, and that is relaxing to me. You want me to relax, don’t you?”
“Gah. Don’t give me that sad puppy look.”
“I wasn’t aware I was giving you any look.”
“Dial it back, sunshine. You’re burning my retinas.”
“I will if you get on the scooter.”
“Fine. Just don’t go driving off a cliff and getting us killed.”
“I plan on dying when I’m very old and fucking you while hopped up on Viagra.”
“You really do say the sweetest things.”
“Sono pazzo di te.”
“Okay, what did that mean? It sounded sexy as hell.”
“I’ll tell you if we survive the ride to town.”
“Gabriel Scott—ahheee!”
* * *
“Now, listen up, I rode on that speed demon from hell here—“
“It’s a scooter. Its speed is limited.”
“It has a top seed of sixty miles per hour. I checked. That’s fast.”
“That’s hardly what I’d call fast.”
“Coming from someone who drives Ferraris, I guess you would think that.”
“Precisely.”
“Bully for you. You won that argument, but you’re not winning another. We’re eating here.”
“Darling, this place is a hole in the wall. There are literally holes in the wall.”
“Maybe they’re bullet holes from the war.”
“Which one?”
“Ha. But you see my point.”
“That it’s run down?”
“That it’s been here long enough to have a history. Look, it’s filled with old Italians eating.”
“I hadn’t noticed. I was too distracted by the rat skittering by.”
“That wasn’t a rat. It was a cat.”
“A rat as big as a cat.”
“Stop being such a snob. Jesus, didn’t you grow up in poverty?”
“Which means I know enough to stay away from dives.”
“Argh. Look, you want great food, you go where the grandmas cook. See? There’s a little nonna in that kitchen.”
“Well, I suppose that’s—“
“We’re eating here.”
“Did you just tweak my nipple?”
“Is that rhetorical?”
“Beware, chatty girl. I can retaliate.”
“Promise? Ooh, I like that smolder, it’s very Flynn Ryder.”
“You’re comparing me to cartoon characters now?”
“Animated characters. Huge difference. And it’s cute that you know who he is. Come on, sunshine.”
“Wait—”
* * *
“See? Didn’t I tell you? Delicious food.”
“Yes, you’re very smart. Shut up.”
“Another Princess Bride quote. You, Gabriel Scott, are my perfect man.”
“You say the sweetest things, chatty girl.”
“Now, tell me what you said in Italian on the death scooter.”
“Sono pazzo di te. I am crazy about you.”
“Gabriel…”
“Eat your food, Darling.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Gabriel
* * *
I thought I’d find it difficult to let work drop and simply be. I’d never done it before, and honestly, I wasn’t sure I’d know who I was if I wasn’t working at all hours.
Sophie makes it remarkably easy to enjoy the simple things in life.
Days pass, and we fall into a sort of lazy rhythm. We sleep in until one of us wakes, make love, then drift off to sleep again. We eat when we’re hungry. And when we’re horny, we fuck again, which is all the time and all over the house—my favorite spot being on the terrace where the sun gilds Sophie’s fine skin and her cries echo off the cliffs.
If we are feeling particularly motivated, we take the Ferrari or the Vespa—which, despite Sophie’s initial panic, she now loves—into town and explore. And we argue. Over everything: where to eat, where to shop, how fast I should go on the Vespa. The Italians approve because they know it’s foreplay.
And, truly, there is nothing more alluring to me than Sophie’s eyes snapping with intelligence and building desire, her cheeks flushed, and her breasts rising and falling with each verbal exchange. I swear, I hobble around half or full-on hard most of the time. Completely worth it.
At some point during each day, by some silent agreement, we do our own thing.
Though Sophie is social where I am reticent, we both need time alone to recharge. Even when we were touring and stuck on a bus together, we found ways to give each other space. This has its perks now since our reunions are that much sweeter, a few hours apart feeling more like weeks.
And so I’m alone now, waiting. Sophie has gone to town with Martina’s daughter Elisa. Since my phone has been confiscated, Sophie cannot text me, but I know she’ll be back soon. I don’t know how I know, I simply do.
Minutes later, I hear Elisa’s car in the drive.
It’s easy to track Sophie’s movements; the woman sounds like a marauding yeti whenever she invades a space. The front door opens and slams shut, shoes clatter onto the floor. She’s singing “Ruby Tuesday” off key and getting the lyrics wrong.
I bite back a laugh.