Page 6 of All is Not Lost
"After you."
"I could have done that,” I say, then add, “but thank you." The words stick in my throat. This isn't surrender; it's strategy. That's what I tell myself as I climb awkwardly through the window, my movements more akin to those of a clumsy cat than a graceful woman. Giovanni crawls in after me way more gracefully than I just did.
Once inside, I straighten up and brush off my dress, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. "I could have done that myself, you know," I say, lying smoothly—or as smoothly as one can while tipsy and disoriented.
"Of course, you could have," he agrees, and there's no mockery in his tone, only warmth and perhaps a hint of admiration.
I turn away, hiding my conflicted smile. Maybe Giovanni Bianchi isn't the worst thing to happen to me today. I walk to the kitchen, Giovanni right behind me, and as I reach for another bottle of wine, I can't help but think that sometimes, just maybe, it takes getting locked out to find a new way in.
I offer him a glass of wine as a thank you, and we drink it in silence. He keeps looking at me with that smirk, and I try to hide how it makes me blush.
"Thank you," I say again, feeling a flush creep onto my cheeks.
"Anytime, Sophia." His voice is soft, and there's something there, a note of something deeper, that makes me wonder if this is more than just a simple act of kindness.
As I step forward to pour more wine, Giovanni steadies me, his hands firm and reassuring on my waist. I allow myself the briefest moment to lean into his touch before pulling away, reminding myself I'm not here to fall for charming men with easy smiles and capable hands.
"See? Not too bad," he quips, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m not too bad to keep around.”
"Now you’re just flattering yourself," I say, allowing myself a small smile.
There's something about Giovanni Bianchi that feels disarmingly genuine, and for the first time in a long while, I find myself entertaining the thought that perhaps not all surprises are bad. With a deep breath, I let go of my reservations, just for a moment, and let the warmth of his presence drape me like a blanket on a chilly evening.
"Thank you, Giovanni," I say, my gratitude deep and warm. "I thought I'd be sleeping outside tonight."
His smile is gentle, a touch proud. "I wouldn't have let that happen," he assures me, and I'm struck by the sincerity in his tone.
For a moment, we stand in the kitchen, the night air from the open window crisp around us, the connection between us an unspoken promise hanging heavy in the space.
"Goodnight, Sophia." He puts the glass down, then nods. He steps toward the door, granting me the solitude of the villa once more.
"Goodnight, Giovanni," I reply, lingering on his name. And as I close the door behind him, the echo of his persistence stirs a flutter in my heart that feels suspiciously like hope.
I lean against the cool wall just inside the door, my pulse still racing from the evening's unforeseen escapade. The villa's quietness fills me softly, but it's a sensation that's quickly invaded by the echo of Giovanni's parting words. They hang in the air, heavy with an intention I'm not sure I'm ready to understand.
His persistence wasn't just about the locked door, was it? There's a tenderness there, a steady patience that feels akin to how vines persistently reach for sunlight. It's been so long since someone has cared enough to help without expecting anything in return.
"Stupid," I murmur to myself, pushing away from the wall. I shuffle through the dimly lit kitchen, taking off my shoes as I go.
He's just being friendly, Sophia. Don't read into it.
But the warmth that spread through me at his touch and nearness refuses to be rationalized as mere gratitude.
In the window's reflection, my green eyes catch me off guard—they're bright, almost hopeful. Is this what Giovanni sees? A spark that's been missing for far too long?
"Definitely the wine talking," I scoff, reaching for a fresh bottle. The cork gives way with a satisfying pop, and I pour the ruby liquid into a glass, watching as it swirls and settles.
Yet, as I take a sip, the rich flavor on my tongue can't quite mask the sweetness of possibility that lingers in my mind. Could Giovanni's kind-hearted tenacity be the key to unlocking something more than just a stubborn door?
"Too drunk for this kind of thinking," I decide, taking a larger gulp. But even as the alcohol warms my insides, a small part of me wonders if sobriety would really change the budding curiosity about the man who just left my doorstep.
With a deep breath, I head toward the comfort of the living room couch, glass in hand. Maybe tomorrow, I'll be brave enough to explore these thoughts with a clear head. For now, I'll attribute the flutter in my chest to the lingering effects of the wine and an unlocked door.
Chapter
Four
"Would you join me for a picnic today?" Giovanni's voice is hopeful, laced with an accent that wraps around each word like vines on an old Tuscan villa. It’s the next morning, and I have a terrible hangover that I’m trying to kill with Tylenol and loads of water… before I get back to the wine, that is.