I shut the door and swallow hard, needing to compose myself yet again. Thankfully once we get to the gallery, we will no longer be alone. In some ways, I can’t trust myself not to do or say the wrong thing when I’m alone with her, which is why I’ve been trying to give her as much space as possible for the last while. Even last night we weren’t truly alone, and in the moments that we were … well, we were close to something we wouldn’t be able to come back from.
But perhaps you won’t want to go back.
“I can see why you choose to drive this over your other vintage cars,” she comments as I get in my side, buckle up, and start the engine.
I flash her a smile. “You haven’t been in the others.”
She blinks at me, her eyes gleaming. “Maybe you’ll have to take me for a ride in all of them.”
Damn. She’s not going to make this easier on me, is she?
“If you’re a good girl,” I tell her as the car roars out of the driveway. “Maybe.”
“A good girl?” she repeats, looking incredulous. “I’ll have you know you can’t get more of a good girl than me.”
“I believe it,” I tell her, my eyes flitting over her chest as the Ferrari bumps along the rough road.
Also, I believe I told myself to stop flirting with her.
It’s fucking hard.
“Do you think it’s going to rain?” she asks, staring out the window at the dark clouds. “The air feels electric.”
As does the air between us, here in this car.
I’m about to answer her, but there’s another crack of thunder, and like God was trying to prove a point, the clouds spill over.
We’re immediately engulfed in a torrential downpour, rain soaking the streets, my windshield wipers working overtime.
“You are something magical,” I tell her. “God listens to you.”
She makes a snorting sound, gazing at the rain streaming down the windows.
“You really are, Grace,” I go on, my hands feeling damp on the steering wheel. “You sell yourself short but your work is phenomenal. You’re a true creator.”
She shoots me a wry gaze, just as I knew she would. “You haven’t read my work.”
“But I have,” I tell her. “I read every book, from Dopo Tutto Sei Arrivato Tu, all the way to your last, Tutti Muoiono a Volte.”
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t know what those are.”
“Those are the Italian titles for The Mystery of Princess Street and To Catch a Killer.”
She rubs her lips together, and I can see the wheels turning in her head. She doesn’t believe me.
“Go on, ask me anything,” I tell her.
“Oh, I’m sure.”
“I mean it. I’ve read them all.”
“Fine. What is Caroline’s cat’s name?”
“Mr. Claw.”
“Okay. You could have read a review. What is the name of the guy that Susan dates in book three?”
I have to think for a moment because that character was all over the place. “George?”
“James,” she says. “Nice try.”
‘That is not fair. Ask me something else.”
“All right.” She drums her fingers along her thigh, thinking. “Tell me what your favorite part was. In any of the books.”
“I have many favorite scenes, but my favorite part is your character. Caroline.”
“How did you know I wrote her?” she asks quietly.
“She has your stamp all over her. She’s thoughtful and observant. That’s why she’s such a good detective. But she loves with all her heart. She cares very much for her partner. And she’s not a, how you say, doormat. She’s strong when she needs to be, and when she knows what’s right. That is just like you.”
Grace stares at me for a moment, her eyes growing wet with tears. Then she looks away, out the window.
Something about her breaks my heart. Something I wish I had the power to fix.
“You did read them,” she says after a moment.
“Would I lie to you?” I say. “You know we are both terrible liars.”
“That’s true.” She glances at me, eyes soft. “I can’t believe you read them. Why?”
“How could I not? I have a famous author staying in my house, the least I can do is read her work.”
She seems touched by that, her fingers resting gently against her chest.
Good.
It’s not long before we’ve parked. Only problem is, you have no choice but to park outside the walls of the city, which means it’s at least a five-minute walk to the gallery.
It’s still pissing down with rain.
I turn off the engine and the sound of the rain hitting the roof engulfs us. The windows are already fogging up. The electricity outside the car is no match for the building electricity inside.
“Shall we wait it out?” Grace asks.
The space between us feels smaller and tighter than ever.
“We can,” I tell her, my voice feeling too harsh, too loud, for this small space.
“You might be late for your event,” she notes. Her pupils are wide, overtaking the pale blue of her eyes, and though she gives me a small smile, there’s something strained about it.
“This is true. But we don’t have an umbrella.” I pause, licking my lips. “And it would be a shame if you got wet. No?”
She visibly swallows, eyes brightening for a moment. Then she puts her hand on the door handle. “I say we go for it.”
So then we do.
I get out of the car and take off my suit jacket, running to her side, water splashing on my legs. I immediately hold the jacket high above her head, trying to protect the both of us the best I can.
“But you’ll get wet,” she protests.
I put my arm around her, pulling her right up to me, the only way the both of us will be somewhat sheltered. “It’s not the end of the world. Let’s go,” I say, and we head off through one of the arches that lead into the city.
As we walk, the rain becomes less of an issue. It’s still pouring, but the only thing I can think about is Grace, the feel of her body pulled close to mine. She fits against me perfectly, and it feels easy and natural and … right. Like it’s always been this way, like it should always be this way.
But, by the time we finally reach the gallery, reality comes rushing back. My shirt is soaked and she’s quite wet as well.
She shoots me a grateful, albeit anxious, glance as I knock at the door to the gallery.
“Thank you for that,” she says. “But you look like a drowned rat.”
Carla opens the door, her eyes wide.
“Mio Dio!” she exclaims, holding the door open. “Entra, entra!”
We rush inside, dripping water onto the floor.
“You are soaked!” Carla cries out. “No umbrella?”
I shrug, taking my jacket and hanging it up on the coat rack by the front door. “All the hot weather has been misleading.”
She looks us up and down, shaking her head. “Okay. So you need to go dry off. I need to run out and get some more Prosecco. We have everything else set up.”
She gestures to the tall quartz table in the middle of the gallery where all the appetizers have been set up. Then she grabs the umbrella by the door. “I will be back soon. Guests won’t arrive for another half hour, so you have time.”