Page 5 of All is Not Lost
I stumble back from the wall, planting my feet more forcefully than necessary. "Really, Giovanni, I'm fine. Just a minor hiccup in my evening routine," I insist, though the wobble in my knees tells a different story.
"Minor hiccup?" He quirks an eyebrow, concern lacing his voice as he steps closer, the scent of fresh herbs clinging to him like a Mediterranean breeze. "Sophia, you seem a bit?—"
"Tipsy? No, no." I straighten up, trying to ignore how the ground feels like it's swaying beneath me. "I've just been… celebrating," I lie smoothly, or at least as smoothly as my wine-soaked tongue allows. "Alone."
"Ah, celebrare da sola. Sounds like quite the party." The corners of his mouth twitch upward, and despite myself, I feel a smile tugging at my lips. His chuckle is warm and enveloping, and for a brief moment, I want to laugh with him and share in the joke that is my current predicament.
"Let me guess," he says, taking another step forward, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.
Why does he have to be so annoyingly handsome?
"You locked yourself out while disposing of the evidence of this solitary fiesta?"
"Something like that," I mumble, crossing my arms defensively. Why does he have to look so put together while I'm a mess?
"Listen, Sophia," Giovanni begins, his tone shifting to gentle persuasion. "I have a set of lock picks. I used to help my nonna whenever she misplaced her keys—which was often enough for me to become quite skilled at it." His eyes glint with a mischievous spark, and I can't tell if it's from the excitement of the challenge or the hilarity of seeing me so disheveled.
"Lock picks? Are you some kind of secret agent or a burglar moonlighting as my neighbor?" Despite my attempt at humor, my voice carries an edge of real skepticism. Who has lock picks in their home?
"Neither," he replies, his grin widening. "Just a man who likes to be prepared. And right now, I'm prepared to help you get back inside your villa."
I bite my lip, torn between the mortification of needing help and the admittedly tempting offer before me. The thought of sleeping on the patio isn't appealing, but neither is showing weakness—especially not to Giovanni Bianchi, with his easy charm and disarming smile.
"Come on, what do you say?" He edges closer still, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my heart race for reasons that have nothing to do with alcohol.
I shuffle my feet, the cool tiles of the patio a stark contrast to the frustration boiling inside me. My head spins slightly, and I blame the Chianti, not the proximity of Giovanni Bianchi standing just a step too close for comfort. He's offering me a lifeline, but pride clings to me like the summer humidity, unrelenting.
"Really, I'm capable of handling this," I murmur, even as my eyes betray me, tracing the outline of his jaw and the broad shoulders that block out the setting sun. Who gave him the right to look so effortlessly handsome? The way his curls fall just over his brow, the warmth in his deep-set eyes—it's all too much. And those abs pressing against his shirt as if they're trying to escape and come to my rescue. Ridiculous.
"Capable, sure," Giovanni says with a knowing tilt of his head, "but why struggle when you have help?"
"Because I—" My thoughts scatter like the ocean breeze through the olive trees. Because what? Because I don't want to admit I need help? Or because I don't want it to be his help?
"Look at me, Sophia," he coaxes gently. "You've had a day. Let me do this for you."
Every fiber of my being screams to send him away, to prove I can fend for myself—like I've been doing ever since my world turned upside down. Heck, even before that. Daniel was never very helpful with anything around the house—probably because he was so busy screwing my best friend.
In my bed. In my sheets.
But the wine whispers seductively, urging me to lean on someone just for tonight. It's only a door. It's not like I'm handing over my heart.
"Okay, fine," I concede, my voice barely above a whisper, "help me then."
"Bravissima," he says, and there's an annoying twinkle in his eye that makes me want to smack that smugness off his handsome face—or maybe pull him closer.
"Let's check if any windows are open first," he suggests, and I nod, trailing behind him like a lost puppy.
I try to push up the first window, but my coordination betrays me. My hand slips, and I stumble back into Giovanni's solid chest. A surprised laugh bubbles out of him as he steadies me with hands that are both firm and gentle.
"Maybe you should leave this part to me, eh?" he teases, and I can feel the heat flood my cheeks.
"Right. Of course." I carefully step away from the security of his touch, chastising myself.
You're here for a fresh start, not to swoon over the first man who offers you a kind word and a lockpick.
"Here," he says after a moment, and I watch, mortified, as the window gives way under his skilled hands with ease.
It was open all this time. I feel so embarrassed.