A Place in the Sun(48)

“It’s already loads better than that tiny hotel room. This space feels like my own.”

She was standing in the center of the room with a proud smile on her face.

“It’s brilliant, right?”

I nodded and stuffed my hands into my pockets so I wouldn’t be tempted to step forward and wrap them around her waist.

I wanted Georgie.

Constantly.

Thoughts of her kept me up at night. That body of hers was enough to tempt any man, but I’d pushed off sex, laying down an arbitrary line and telling myself I couldn’t cross it. Georgie was more to me than a quick lay.

God, what utter bullshit.

If I was being honest with myself, I was scared shitless. I didn’t want to push things too far with her, to get to a point where I felt vulnerable again. I tricked myself into thinking that our mornings spent in her bed were nothing to worry about. If we were just having a bit of fun, fooling around and slacking off on work, there was no need to digest it, to take stock of my growing feelings. I told myself if we weren’t actually having sex, I was a safe man.

I was wrong.



…



One afternoon, Georgie and I were lying in her bed, taking our time waking up from an afternoon nap. Sunlight streamed in through her window, heating the room enough that climbing out of bed seemed impossible. I was on my back, staring up at the ceiling and drawing slow circles on Georgie’s back. It was the first time we’d been in a bed to sleep and it felt strange to have our legs tangled together with our clothes on. It brought up feelings of guilt I tried hard to keep buried. Allie would have understood my need to have sex, but this intimacy, this lying in bed with Georgie just to be close to her was different. It would have broken Allie’s heart.

“We should get up,” I said.

“One more minute,” she countered, her breath warm against my neck as she nestled another inch closer.

We’d agreed there would be no strings attached, but that wasn’t really how strings worked. It was just a platitude uttered months ago, back when I didn’t know what it felt like to lie with Georgie in my arms, to feel her fingers drag through my hair, to feel her soft breath drift across my chest. And her smile—being on the receiving end of one of Georgie’s smiles was like feeling the summer sun as it breaks through the clouds.

I pushed the unsettling thoughts from my mind, kissed the top of her head, and sat up. I needed to get out of her bed.

“C’mon, I think we should skip out on work for the rest of the afternoon. I want to take you out on the water.”

She blinked the sleep out of her eyes. “On the water? Like a boat?”

I grinned. “Exactly.”

That was one of the other great things about being with Georgie in Vernazza: everything was new and exciting for her. There was something about leading her through fresh experiences, even if they had become routine for me, that allowed me to recapture some of the wonder I’d lost over the years.

My old fishing boat was bobbing lazily in the harbor with faded red paint and just room enough for two. Without waiting for instruction, Georgie jumped in, clinging to the low railing to steady herself.

I handed her two fishing poles and then stepped in after her. I kept waiting for her to complain. With her wealth, I was sure she’d been on a few boats in her lifetime, none of which resembled this old clunker.

“How far do we have to go until we can catch fish?”

I smiled. “We could fish here, but I’ll take us out a little bit.”

I turned on the loud motor and directed us out to sea. Georgie held down her sun hat and laughed as we started battling with the choppy water. I didn’t take us out far, hardly a few yards beyond the breakwater. Vernazza sat behind us, the pastel buildings rimming Georgie on either side. She reached into the small bucket for a worm, slipped it onto the end of her hook, and grinned over me.

“I’ll bet you didn’t think I’d be able to manage that, did you?”

“You’re full of surprises.”

She spun her pole to the right and cast her line. It was a bit clumsy, but I was impressed she knew how to handle a fishing pole at all. I fixed my line and followed suit. For a while, we sat in silence out on the water, bobbing with the waves and enjoying the sounds of Vernazza in the distance.

A heavy gust of wind whipped up out of nowhere and nearly carried Georgie’s hat off before she reached up and grabbed it.

“Sometimes I can’t stand how windy it is here.”

I shook my head. “Italians love the wind. We can even tell the weather by it.”

“Really?”

I nodded, though she couldn’t see; she was facing the water, checking her line and watching for fish.

“There are the warm winds from the Sahara called scirocco, and westerlies from Corcisa called libeccio. They pick up moisture from the sea and carry storms into the villages. When we feel those winds coming, we know to close up our windows and stay off the water.”

“Hopefully we don’t have those today.”

I smiled. “We’re in luck—we have the wind from the north, la tramontana. It affects life in Cinque Terre more than anything. La tramontana sweeps cool air down the Alps, across the sky, and clears the clouds and rain away. Kids go out to play and it’s good for tourists.”

“Well then that’s the wind I like. What’s it called again?”