Page 8 of I Think Olive You
“You must be desperate since we’re an hour from the coast and it’s a long way to travel for a lone fish… especially with how you drive.”
She’s joked back, her eyes softening, and the knowledge spreads through me like a shot. The color is dark spiced rum, and they make my chest burn the same way. Her lips tilt up into the ghost of a smile and my own stretches against my cheeks.
“So, what do you say?” I venture—feeling like a kid—giddiness bubbling in my chest. I try to make it sound cheeky, even throwing in a wink for extra measure.
“I say… only if you follow my rules.” It’s stern. Her tone is grave though her eyes glint with amusement.
“Name them.”
“No questioning what we eat.” She ticks it off on her index finger.
“No comparing it to American food.” A second finger now.
Stopping to think for a second, her expression turns pensive, and I know I’ll do as she asks if it means I can turn that frown into a laugh.
“And lastly?”
“Lastly…” A smug smile curves up her mouth. “I drive.”
“Drive? I just bought this thing!” I protest halfheartedly.
“Those are my terms. Take it or leave it.” She shrugs, but I can tell she’s enjoying this little exchange almost as much as I am.
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Giuliana Santoro.” Sticking her hand out for me to shake, I shift my hold on the handlebars to respond in kind. My hand swallows her palm. The touch is a juxtaposition of velvet skin and calluses on the pads beneath her fingers. Given how small her hands are, I wouldn’t have pegged her for having calluses, but her grip is firm, and her introduction friendly.
“Matteo de Palma.” I offer.
Why didn’t I go with Matt Palmer the way I do back home? There’s no need to use my government name out here. It’s not the goddamn TSA line. Maybe I want to convey I’m not a total stranger—not a mere pathetic tourist—but possibly something more.
“Okay, Matteo… move back on the seat and get ready for the ride of your life.”
Hanging her ruined bag from one of the handlebars, Giuliana settles herself in front of me and I have to tuck my legs around her in order to fit us both.
The Vespa surges beneath us and somewhere between my hands around her waist and the thundering of her heartbeat against my chest, I might have pulled an Icarus… because Giuliana’s skin burns so hot against my hands, I wonder if I’ll have any fingerprints left when I pull away from touching her.
To say Giuliana knocks me off balance is an understatement. I’m used to women. Hell, I spend a lot of time with women—mostly in a state of undress—as the recent articles can attest. But, I realize in rising alarm, precious little of that time consists of talking.
I’m sure some of the women I’m acquainted with must be smart with sparkling wits, but I can’t speak to it. Not when the conversations we share lie in the sway of hips and the seductive curl of a smile. They want something from me and they know how to get it. It’s a mutual respect of desire.
Giuliana has far less guile. I don’t want to say she isn’t like the other women because that’s condescending. But pretending to be Matteo has me wishing I was a better person. Had I been back home, my mouth would’ve sampled the divot of her dimple by this point. I’d be halfway drunk on straight spirits and her kisses—though I’m not sure she’d allow it. This lady takes no prisoners. Instead, she pulls over outside a little store and I follow like a lost puppy.
“What are we doing here?”
Giuliana gives me a look over her shoulder, eyebrow raised with an unsaid ‘What did I say about questions?’ before strutting into the shop like she owns it.
“Giuliana?” The cashier asks, confused. Eyes darting between us and the ruined bag dangling from her fingertips, he purses his mouth.
“Mi è caduta la bottiglia. Posso avere dell'altro vino rosso?” she asks.
The man springs to action, grabbing a clear bottle from under the counter and turning to the wall behind him—lined with tapped casks. Maroon liquid drains into the bottle and swirls around the inside.
“What is this place?”
Innocuous from the street, I’d have assumed it was a bar except there’s nowhere to sit and drink.
“It’s called vino sfuso. You bring in your own container and they fill it with local wine priced by quantity. Unfortunately, my bottle broke.” It’s so pointed I can feel her words pierce my skin. “Dario is kind enough to give me one of their bottles instead since I’m a regular customer.”