And yet when I was kissing her, she was giving herself to me.
She was surrendering.
I just hope that the kiss won’t push us back.
I want to move forward with her.
But I don’t know what she wants.
When the shirt is somewhat dry, I pull it on and head back into the gallery.
I thought that things would settle between us after we kissed, that I wouldn’t feel as nervous anymore, but the anxiety is back and bigger than ever.
Everything is set up, with Grace and Carla having a glass of Prosecco and chatting. For a brief moment, I think about how they would make wonderful friends, and I picture a future in which Grace never has to leave.
It makes my anxiety wane, just a little.
Jesus, how will I ever get over that kiss?
“Here is the man of the hour,” Carla says, plucking a glass of Prosecco off the table and handing it to me. “Cin cin.”
The three of us make a toast and clink glasses, but my eyes are locked on Grace. She’s been such an open book, but right now, when I really need to know, I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
“Looks like we have our first guest,” Carla says excitedly.
A little too excitedly.
Before I turn around to look at the door, I already know who it is.
I turn and see none other than Lorenzo Ducati step inside, Carla practically drooling on him.
“Who is that?” Grace whispers, her eyes expressively wide.
My heart seizes with jealousy. It’s always been possessive.
“That,” I say, gesturing to the giant man in a charcoal shirt who’s walking toward us, “is Lorenzo Ducati.”
“He’s … big.”
She’s not wrong. Lorenzo is taller and more muscular than I am, and covered in tattoos, so he intimidates most people. I’ve known him since I was young, so he’s always been Lorenzo to me, and despite his appearance, and his quiet nature, he’s actually a man with a heart of gold. Just takes a bit of digging to see it.
“Claudio,” Lorenzo says in his deep voice, giving my hand a strong shake. We quickly embrace and I slap him affectionately on the back.
He glances appreciatively at Grace. “Who is this?”
His eyes linger on her chest for longer than I would like. My jaw tightens for a moment, but I manage to say, “Lorenzo, this is Grace.”
I should add that she’s a guest of my ex wife’s, but I don’t. What I want to add is that she’s the woman I nearly fucked in the storeroom. My muse. Somehow I manage to rein it in. He may be bigger than me, but I have no problems in asserting my territory.
If I need to.
“Nice to meet you,” Grace says, then adds, “Piacere.”
It’s a pleasure. Her Italian is coming along nicely.
“Grace is an author,” I tell Lorenzo. “She’s extremely talented.”
“Is that so?” he asks in English. “What kind of books?”
“Murder mysteries. So far.”
“Any translations in Italian?”
She nods and gestures to me. “Claudio has read them all.”
Lorenzo studies me for a moment and then nods. “Ah.”
Yes. He understands now.
“Do you live in Lucca?” he asks her.
She shakes her head, looking forlorn. “I wish. It’s lovely here. I’m just visiting for a wee bit.”
Lorenzo looks at me. “You know, you need to come see me play. You have been saying for years you would.”
“Play what?” Grace asks.
“It’s called Calcio Storico,” he explains. “We have our final match in Florence on our feast day for St. John the Baptist.”
“It’s like rugby combined with soccer and wrestling,” I add. “With some boxing thrown in. It’s dangerous and it’s crazy. And so, of course, it’s very popular among the locals. Not many tourists know about it or watch it. But all of Florence comes together.”
“It can get pretty violent,” Lorenzo says with a wicked grin. “Everyone is covered in blood by the end.”
“Lorenzo is one of the best,” I tell her, patting him proudly on the shoulder. “He is a monster when he plays. They have no equipment either. They play in historical costume—nothing but an elaborate pair of pants.”
Her eyes go even wider, no doubt picturing Lorenzo shirtless.
“It’s not for a few weeks,” Lorenzo says to her. “So if you’re here, it would be great to see you. It’s sold out but I have extra tickets.”
I would love nothing more than to bring Grace to see Florence. Seeing the game would make it even more interesting. But Grace might be back home by then.
Plus, do you want to spend your last days with her there?
My heart sinks at the thought.
I can’t even say what our last days will be like when I don’t even know what tomorrow will bring.
Was that kiss we shared the beginning of something?
Or was it the end?
Thirteen
Grace
It stopped raining.
After gallery night came to an end, leaving me exhausted from meeting so many of Claudio’s friends and potential buyers (not to mention all the Prosecco I had), Claudio and I walked through the shiny wet streets of Lucca, back to the car.
We talked about Lorenzo and some of the friends he had in the gallery, as well as Florence and other places in Italy. Claudio was upright, sober, and I was stumbling. Occasionally his arm wrapped around my shoulder, holding me tight, and other times I was left on my own.
But I didn’t remember much of the walk.
My mind was locked in the past.
As in, a few hours ago when he told me he wanted to sculpt me, cupped my face, and kissed me.
The kiss that broke my world open.
It was better than I could have imagined, better than any kiss I’ve had before. A kiss that usually only lives in fiction, a kiss that’s born of art. Obviously, I could write about it for days.
His velvety soft lips felt sinful, awakening something inside me I never knew was there. He was right in some ways about unearthing something that already existed. When we came together, it felt as natural as breathing, and I needed it like I needed oxygen.
But it was terribly fleeting.
One moment his tongue was sliding against mine, his fingers trailing delicately over a bare breast, his erection pressed against my hip, and I was feeling the full extent of his desire.
In the next, it was over. Carla, none the wiser, was dragging me off to help her pour the sparkling wine for the guests.
I had to spend the rest of the evening trying to focus on meeting new people and smiling and not feeling awkward, but all I could focus on was the kiss that we shared. How much I wanted it again.
And what it meant.
We were silent as the car sliced through the puddles on the rain-soaked road, the reflection of the streetlights bouncing off the windshield. Claudio seemed tense, and not in a good way. Borderline moody, the way he gets sometimes.
It feels like forever before we finally pull up to the house and I’m practically scrambling to get out of the car just to escape the tension.
This is so awkward.
The kiss was a mistake.
Are we just going to pretend it didn’t happen?