“Deal.” I place my hand on her arm, stopping her before we get too close to the vehicle. Little sparks seem to fly from my fingertips into her skin and I immediately stop touching her. “Are you okay with me going? I’ll back off if you want me to. I know you want your space—from me.”
“I’m okay with it,” Stella says with a little shrug. But her expression turns fierce. “Just please don’t mention anything about us living together.”
“Oh. Right. I figured that was the case since you kicked me.”
“Sorry about that.” And she does actually appear sorry. “It’s just—no one in my family knows you’re my roommate.”
My mouth drops open. “Seriously? Your dad still works at Sweet Dreams, right?” He could catch me going up the stairs, coming down the stairs…
“He does, but only part time.” She shrugs helplessly. “And he never comes to my apartment. Says it’s too tiny.”
“Huh.” She’s not wrong there. “You aren’t afraid of him seeing me coming and going from the apartment?”
She chews on her lower lip. “He won’t notice. And I can’t tell him. I can’t tell anyone. They wouldn’t approve of me living with a man.”
How old is she again? “But there’s nothing going on. We’re just roomies.”
“Who slept together,” she adds.
I can’t help it when I say this. “There wasn’t much sleeping involved that night, Stella.”
Her cheeks turn crimson. “Let’s not talk about it, okay?”
I’m about to say something else, but then the horn sounds again and I hear Graziella Ricci scream, “We don’t got all day!”
And with that, we pile into the car and head for Stella’s grandma’s house.
Ten
Stella
I should’ve warned Carter about my nonna’s driving.
But we didn’t have time and I wasn’t about to insult her in front of Carter, so I kept my mouth shut and let Nonna’s, um, skills speak for themselves.
The speed limit in downtown Carmel doesn’t go much above thirty, but somehow my lovely grandmother makes it seem like she’s Mario Andretti on steroids.
(The only reason I know about Mario is because he was her favorite racecar driver back in the day. Merely because of his Italian name.)
Anyway, the tires squeal as she goes around corners. She guns the engine when we’re only driving a one-mile stretch. She stomps on the brakes at stop signs, making us all jerk forward against our seatbelts. She even shakes her fist at a tourist pedestrian who jaywalks in front of her.
“Use the crosswalk, you heathen!” Nonna yells, the precious stones in her rings glittering in the sunlight.
I’m sitting in the back with my seatbelt strapped on tightly, going through my phone’s notifications, praying for the car ride to be over. I have a text from Caroline asking to have a get together at Tuscany for all of us later this week, and that fills me with unease. A repeat night of the time Carter and I had mind-blowing sex?
Not too sure if that’s a good idea.
I shoot a glance in Carter’s direction and notice that he appears petrified. His eyes are wide and his arms are stretched out in front of him as he clutches the dashboard for dear life. Poor dude. Nonna’s driving isn’t for the faint of heart. By the time we’re pulling into the gravel driveway in front of her house, I swear I witness him breathe a sigh of relief and whisper thank you toward the sky.
Riding with a crazed eighty-five-year-old behind the wheel could turn a person to religion real quick.
“Home sweet home,” Nonna says once she’s shut off the engine. “Welcome to la casa grigia.” She pushes open the driver’s side door, and it squeaks loud enough that I wince. Then she slams the door so hard, the entire car quakes, and I wince again.
Carter turns to look at me. “That was scary.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” I make a little face. “She’s a mad woman behind the wheel.”
He says nothing else. Well, nothing else I can hear, because I’m pretty sure he’s muttering under his breath as he climbs out of the car. I follow him, both of us approaching the fence made of weathered driftwood that surrounds her front yard, and he spots the wooden sign hanging from the front of the arbor gate.
“La casa grigia,” he murmurs.
“The gray house,” I interpret for him.
He scans the front yard as he opens the gate for me, and I walk along the stone path that leads to the front porch. The yard is my nonna’s pride and joy, filled with dense plants and flowers, and giant succulents that are as big as my face spill from the window boxes. It’s a huge undertaking. Maybe too much now that she’s gotten older.
“This is beautiful,” he says as he follows me.
Nonna has unlocked the front door and is already inside the house. I enter with Carter behind me, and he reaches out, sliding his fingers down the door. “It looks like a fairytale.”
“Most of the houses around here are in a cottage style,” I tell him.
“It was built in 1947,” Nonna says as we enter the living room. The ceilings soar, the walls are wood paneled and painted the palest blue, and one entire wall is dominated by a massive stone fireplace. “We moved in 1954, right after we got married.”
“My grandpa’s name was Francesco,” I tell Carter, to keep him up to speed. “But everyone called him Frank.”
“I lost my Frank in 2002,” Nonna says, her voice full of regret. “I miss him so. To this day, I wish he were still here, yelling at me to clean up the mess I made outside.”
My heart pangs for Nonna, and I go to her, wrapping her up in a big hug. “I’m sure he smiles down upon you every day.”
“Or curses at me for doing so many silly things.” Nonna pulls away and then waves her hand at Carter. “Come see the kitchen.”
The house may be a cottage and only 1,700 square feet, but every square foot is utilized to the max, with the exception of the kitchen. It’s small, and old, and could definitely use some remodeling. Even I can see that.
“How many bedrooms?” Carter asks as he looks around, grimacing when he opens the oven door and it squeaks.
“Three bedrooms, two bathrooms.” Nonna pauses, watching as Carter explores the kitchen, stopping in front of the window to stare out at the small backyard and the ocean view just beyond the fence. “There are two bedrooms downstairs and the master suite is upstairs.”
“Can I see it?”
“Take your time, walk around. Look your fill.”
Before Nonna can get the last word out, Carter is already gone, examining the house.
“He seems like a nice young man,” Nonna says to me.
I point at her. “Don’t get any funny ideas.”
“Who, me?” She rests a hand on her ample chest. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“We’re just friends.” Who had sex once. “It would never work between us.”
“How do you know it wouldn’t work if you haven’t tried? Trust me, the best sort of relationship starts out as just friends. What a wonderful way to figure out if you’re compatible or not,” Nonna explains.