Page 54 of Lying Hearts
Chapter Thirty-Three
Annie
In his kitchen. Alone with him. In his fucking kitchen.
There’s a middle island where Christiano – the most handsome older man I’ve ever met – hums as he slices tomatoes, basil and garlic cloves into separate piles. There’s a large round table off to the side that seats six, with a vase of red and orange wild flowers from his garden in its center. The window that leads to that garden is right behind me, and I can’t stop turning around to look, even though I can’t see much since the sun went down. When I arrived it was dusk and the garden took my breath away. It’s what I would call, controlled anarchy. Wild flowers were everywhere contained in masses by stone borders that were cut through by winding paths that lead to a fountain. So even though I can’t see it anymore, it’s still in my memory’s imagination. Between looking at the dark window and his home, I feel lucky to have such a wonderful view.
He seems to be enjoying speaking solely in English and while he’s very good at it, it comes slowly and there are questions. I help, answering things like, “No, we say hot when we mean ‘spicy,’ too. It’s both. But spicy doesn’t have to mean hot.”
He nods, chopping away and sliding lingering pieces of tomato from the knife into a sizzling cast-iron pan. “When did you arrive in Tuscany?”
“Yesterday.”
“Where are you staying?”
I feel a little goofy saying I’m staying in a hostel. Maybe if he were my age, it wouldn’t bother me. “Heart of Tuscany Hostel,” I answer, biting my lip and hoping he doesn’t think I’m too young for him. And I can’t stop staring at his hands.
He hands me a piece of tomato. Feeling daring, I open my mouth. He hesitates, and places it slowly on my tongue. The sweet, juicy ripeness of the fruit makes me close my eyes and moan. When I open them, I find he’s staring at me. Neither of us looks away and it takes him a second to focus back on the meal.
Chewing on more than the tomato, I lean on my elbows, watching him whip up the most mouth-watering meal I’ve had since I left America. And hell, probably a long while before that, too. I’m actually salivating, so I lean over and dip my finger into the sauce. “Mmm.” The deliciousness closes my eyes again and I’m savoring the delicate balance of herbs and salt. That’s the key – balance. “So good.”
I sigh and open my eyes. He’s looking at me again, but this time with open desire. I must appear surprised by the way he glances away, not wanting to scare me. But I saw that look. My whole body saw that look. I smooth down my hair and walk to the window, pulse quickening. I was looking out for my safety earlier, and I feel safe now. I do. But that he wants me in a healthy way, man to woman, never occurred to me. Serial killer or rapist I could understand.
I sneak a peek at him over my shoulder. He’s busy opening a bottle of red. “Would you like wine, Annie?”
I just nod and watch, waking up to the idea that I could be attractive to a man. This is a first for me. I reach out and touch the glass of the window, see only hints of the beauty on the other side. I feel dreamy, that’s the best way to describe it. Like I walked into a picture book where fantasies come true. “I’d love to live here,” I whisper.
I turn and see him working on the dinner, a glass of wine waiting for me next to him. I walk to it, tucking a short lock of hair behind my ear. I want him to know how I much I needed this feeling. Not just to feel attractive, but for someone to care for me enough to cook me a meal. I miss my family. I miss my only friend, who I lost. I’ve been so lonely.
“Thank you for this.”
He stirs the pan. “A zinfandel. Do you like red?”
“No. Not for the wine. For cooking for me.” I stop, a lump forming in my throat. I look down and take a sip, try to wash it down, but it only gets worse. “I was needing a friend more than I thought.”
His hand stops circling. The waiting oil sizzles and after a moment, he lowers the heat with a turn of a knob and comes around the island. He doesn’t touch me, but I want him to. “I’d like to be your friend, Bella.”
I know what bella means. But it’s never been applied to me by anyone besides my parents. With no buffer, no sarcasm, I ask him, “Why?”
He frowns and searches for the words. “Today… come si dice…”
“Earlier?” I offer, taking a guess.
“Si. Earlier. Earlier when I left you, it did not feel good. So I went back to find you. This?” He motions between us. “This feels good. No?”
“Si,” I answer, feeling I’m butchering even that one short syllable, but wanting to respectfully try. “Very good. This feels very good.”
My left hand has been resting on the island and he looks over and picks it up, taking it and weaving his fingers with mine while I watch. “Yes. It’s good.”
He brings me to him with the assuredness of a man who has experience. I let him lead, knowing I know nothing. My lips fall slightly open. His arms go around me and he leans in and presses his mouth to mine. A spattering, sizzling noise tears us apart, our eyes flying to it at the same time. The sauce is going wild, oil spitting out, and crackling like small fireworks. He leaves me quickly to tend to it and I touch my fingers to my lips as I watch. The concentration on his face makes him look more rugged and I love how the muscles of his arms contract and slice against each other as he picks up the wooden spoon and holds the pan high off the burner with a thick towel for protection.
I want him. I know I want him. Knowing this is something I would never normally do, I open my mouth and say exactly what I’m thinking. “I’d like to spend the night.”
Surprised, he looks up, the pan still held in his hand. He blinks and a sexy smile tugs at his lips. “Si.”
That was his only answer. I spent the night, and every night after for four and a half years.
I feel a hand on my cheek. I blink and see Brendan’s worried eyes asking questions his mouth isn’t sure he wants to know. I bring my hand up and cover his, press it into my skin as I struggle hard to keep a tear back. Dammit. If Christiano knew that I’m here with the man I left him for, and that I never told him that… he’d be crushed.
“I can’t do this, Brendan. I’m sorry.” My heart is breaking, but what can I do?