My eyes drop to his beautiful lips and they part slightly.
But when I look up, he’s staring deep into my eyes instead, and I can count every thread of gold in his dark irises, every black lash that frames them.
“You just needed to let go,” he whispers. His gaze turns hot, desire flickering across his face.
Then he straightens up. “More wine?”
He removes his hands from my arms and grabs the bottle, pouring us both another glass. With space between us, it feels like all the air has come back into the room, sobering me up a little. I sit up straight, remembering to breathe.
“Thank you,” I say, grabbing the glass.
“Prego,” he says. He sits back on his stool, hooking his feet around the legs. “Now you know how to create. Now you can do it on your own. You just needed someone to show you. Just like Robyn showed you how to be an author. Now you are an author. Just you.”
I take a sip of wine and give him a grateful smile. In some ways I feel like Claudio has taken it upon himself to fix me, help me face some things about myself, help me deal with moving on.
And that’s all you are to him. Just a project, something to mold. You’re like another piece of clay, ready for transformation.
Nothing more than art.
Ten
Grace
A knock at my door pulls me out of a deep sleep.
“Grace.” Claudio’s voice sinks into me like I’m still dreaming. For a moment I’m confused, because I could have sworn I dreamed about him, a dream that was vague and nebulous, but the feeling still remains. The feeling of having a heart so swollen with love that I still feel it coursing through my veins, leftover fragments of my imagination.
Then the feeling turns into one of pain.
Ow. My damn head.
I sit up slowly, the room spinning slightly, and tap my phone on the side table.
Nine-thirty.
I’ve slept in.
“Grace,” Claudio’s voice comes again, soft, supple.
I could listen to that man say my name all day long.
I clear my throat. “I-I’m awake.”
There is a long pause, long enough for my ears to pick up on the beat of my heart in my head, and then, “Time to get up.”
I hear the floors creak outside the door as he moves away, and my stomach growls at the thought. I sure had a lot to drink last night, though at least I remember everything.
I turn my hands over in my lap. Red clay is caked under my nails, while there are smudges of it on my arms, the clay having dried to a shade of rust.
That clay is from his fingers.
They are memories of his touch, imprinted on my skin.
I don’t want to wash them off.
If I do, I might forget what it felt like to have his arms around me, to have his calloused hands hold me.
Good lord, last night was a doozy.
After our attempt at recreating the pottery scene from Ghost, we drank the rest of the wine and continued to work on our own stuff separately. I have to admit, it was still a lot of fun. We just talked about everything, Claudio coming through with his wicked sense of humor. We stayed up until midnight, at least, and at the end we both had created and smashed about four different works of art.
Well, at least his were all works of art. Mine were blobs and they never turned out as good as when he had his palms pressed against my hands, guiding me. Perhaps I wasn’t able to let go the same way, perhaps I could only do so when he was holding on to me.
I close my eyes, my mind drifting back to how it felt. When was the last time I had someone touch me like that? I’ve been starved for affection for far too long. Now that I’ve had a taste of it, I’m craving it.
I’m craving him.
This isn’t good.
I get up, slip on joggers and a t-shirt, not bothering with a bra, and then head down stairs. I’m bleary-eyed by the time I get to the bottom floor, almost running right into Claudio who is standing in the middle of the room, wearing a fucking Speedo, holding a couple of towels.
“Catch,” he says, throwing a towel at me.
The towel whacks me in the face and falls to the floor. I’m too stunned by the Speedo, to be honest. I mean, it’s black and it looks fucking amazing on him, something I never thought was possible, but also, what the fuck?
“We’re going swimming,” he says.
I blink at him, finally snapping out of it enough to bend down and pick up the towel. “What?”
“Come on.” He nods to the front door.
I wave at the back door to the patio. “But breakfast?”
He grins, shrugs like he doesn’t make the rules. “I slept in and missed my swim. I can’t start breakfast until I go swimming. That’s the schedule.”
“But why do I have to go?”
“What do you have against swimming? I saw you do it before.”
I ignore that. “Besides,” he adds, “it will make you feel better. I know you’re hungover, too. You got me drunk last night.”
My eyes bug out. “I did not! You got me drunk!”
Another sly grin, another quick shrug. “Whatever you say, naked girl.”
“Naked girl? Is that my nickname now?”
“If you keep it up, maybe?”
I groan. “Let me go get my bathing suit.”
“Go in your underwear.”
“I’m not wearing a bra.”
His eyes move to my chest. He raises a brow. “That’s not a problem. One step closer to naked girl.”
“I’m going to go get my suit.”
He gives me a wry smile. “I’ll be by the pool.”
He turns and walks to the front door, and I take a millisecond to appreciate his damn fine arse, before I go running up the stairs to my room. I quickly slip on my bikini, a red high-waisted one, then go back down and outside.
Claudio is already in the pool, doing laps back and forth in the crystalline blue water. The birds are chirping softly from the trees, the morning sun soft and hot, the air fragrant with the opening roses.
I throw my towel down on the lawn chair beside his and sit down on the edge of it, watching his body cut through the water. The muscles in his back and arms are strong and rippling, his skin looks extra dark against the crisp light blue, and he moves like a shark, smooth and calculated. The way he slices through the water reminds me of the way he is out of water, both at ease and in control.
Eventually he pulls up at the end of the pool and looks at me, water dripping down his face. “What are you doing?”
“Watching you,” I admit.
His face lights up playfully. “Is that so?” He starts swimming toward me and pauses at the edge right in front of my chair, a lock of black hair stuck to his forehead. “And do you like what you see?”
Oh, how do I answer this?
I could tell him yes.
But that would be too bold, too bare. I don’t have it in me.
I decide to hedge it. “You look like a professional. Did you ever swim on a team?”
His eyes narrow thoughtfully at me and he spits out water. “No. But I did spend my youth swimming off of Elba. My parents’ house is right on the beach. The water is beautiful.” He pauses, licking his lips. “I should take you there.”
My heart feels like it stutters. I swallow. “To Elba?”