A Place in the Sun(32)

When I arrived with our breakfast, Gianluca would take a break and we’d sit somewhere: on the floor of an empty bedroom, on top of dusty countertops in the bathrooms, on stacks of wood in the front foyer. At first, he’d pick a spot across the room from me, but over the last few weeks, I’d been able to coax him closer with flaky croissants. Just like the boat cats.

We’d talk about the progress we hoped to make that day. Well, I did most of the talking. I loved to tell him about the decor I envisioned for the rooms. Sometimes he’d humor me and offer up a hum, a grunt, a nod. It was all very caveman-esque, and without a translation guide, I was left in the dark. In general, I could guess he didn’t much care what sort of bedding I wanted to buy for the guests.

We worked hard after breakfast, sometimes in the same room, sometimes on opposite sides of the building. I’d borrowed Katerina’s spare stereo so I could play music in the background. We had to switch off on that too. Gianluca, as expected, quickly grew sick of my pop music, but I swore I saw him singing along to it one day. He denied it adamantly.

For lunch, I’d gently suggest (read: force) him to take another break and we’d head out into the square. There were so many restaurants and shops, but I liked having a light lunch and usually talked him into some sort of salad or veggies. He always snuck in a slice of pizza, though I had no clue where he put it. He was in such good shape; I figured he was the type who could eat whatever he wanted, especially while he was working like he did.

At the end of the fourth week, I realized we’d started sticking together for dinner as well, but every couple of days, I’d beg off with plans to meet Katerina.

“Haven’t you just seen her yesterday?” he protested one day.

“Not since Saturday.”

He frowned. “I was planning on taking you back to Massimo’s restaurant. I’m craving seafood pasta.”

“So go up and have some then.”

“It’s okay. I’ll wait and we’ll go tomorrow.”

It took more than a month of us working together before I realized that Gianluca and I had eased into a friendship that suited us. He might have labeled his growing affinity toward me as a symptom of Stockholm syndrome, but I think a part of him (a part hidden deep down inside, probably near his bowels) had become genuinely accustomed to my company—which was good, because I wasn’t going anywhere.

I loved Vernazza, and though I’d originally envisioned traveling all over Italy, I knew I wouldn’t leave this corner any time soon. I was beginning to sink my roots in, and I felt comfortable. In my free time, I walked through all five villages, hiking from one to another when I felt up to the challenge. I swam in the ocean in the evenings and on the weekends. I did long laps back and forth along the shore and I could see a real change in my body because of it. My arms and legs were toned and my skin was golden. Every day, my hair had a few more sun streaks, and it was growing long.

Massimo, Katerina, and Gianluca were still my only true friends, but I stopped and chatted with Chiara whenever she was working in the hotel, and most of the locals nodded and smiled when I walked along the main road. They knew Gianluca and I were fixing up the bed and breakfast, and I think they were starting to see me as a worthy visitor, if not yet one of their own. I really felt it too, this sort of confidence in my place there. I wasn’t one of the silly tourists stumbling out of the train station in the late morning, with their rigid visors and their chunky cameras hanging round their necks. I truly belonged. I knew the best spot to watch the sunset was right at the edge of the breaker, on the granite boulders, and I knew the best restaurant—Massimo’s—wasn’t in the main square, but up past the train station, in a part of Vernazza most visitors never even ventured.

Katerina was always quick to remind me to keep an eye out for good-looking blokes around the village, but it wasn’t the most important thing on my agenda or anything. More accurately, it was just this constant longing in the back of my mind. It’d been ages since I’d had sex or even had a decent make-out session with a man, and I was starting to go a bit stir crazy.

One morning, I arrived with breakfast and called out to Gianluca to come down and eat, but he didn’t answer. I dropped my things on the counter and took the stairs two at a time, following the sound of a hammer up to the top floor. I rounded the top of the stairs and froze, staring. I’d seen Gianluca shirtless in his villa, but that was during our war of words. Now in the context of our temporary peace, watching him tug the front of his shirt up to wipe his brow nearly made me trip over myself. My brain played the images in slow motion as if to safeguard my heart from bursting at the sight of his hard body in real time. He was facing me, wearing these low-slung jeans. His Calvin Klein underwear peeked out from the top, and from there it was nothing but tight, golden abs leading up to his toned chest.

I wanted to throw up. Cry. Stomp my feet.

He dropped his shirt, caught sight of me, and let loose a devastating smile.

“Morning G.”

He’d taken to calling me G, which in that moment, nearly made me cry from the unfairness of it all.

“Here, you go,” I croaked, dropping his coffee onto the floor and sort of toeing it toward him so I wouldn’t have to step closer. He could definitely see how severely I was blushing. Most blokes would have smirked and spouted off something crap like, Enjoying the view?, but Gianluca wasn’t like that. He was quietly confident, the kind of man who knew he was handsome, but didn’t make a real show of it. His chocolate-brown hair was wavy and tousled because that’s how it dried on its own. I knew because I’d asked him about it once. He didn’t know what pomade was, and said he hadn’t owned a bottle of gel since he’d quit his job in finance, which made me smile.