Love in the Vineyard (Tavonesi #7)(24)
“It sounds romantic,” she said, wishing that she could put aside her troubles and spend a lazy few days in such a quiet, remote setting. And she shocked herself when she realized that she’d imagined Adrian into her fantasy.
“Do you like his work?” he asked as they started along the trail.
His question snapped her attention back from her daydream. “Pardon me?”
“Stevenson’s work—do you like it? A Child’s Garden of Verses? My mother used to read his stories to me and my siblings when we were young.”
She’d never read anything by Stevenson. And she sure couldn’t remember anything her mother had read to her except for The Cat in the Hat. And forget her foster parents. The only things they’d read regularly were lottery tickets.
“No, I’m not familiar with his stories.” She felt a pang of guilt that she’d never been able to read stories to Tyler. Except for the really simple ones.
“It is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim upon men’s hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air that emanation from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit.
“We must accept life for what it actually is—a challenge to our quality without which we should never know of what stuff we are made, or grow to our full stature.”
“You remember all that?”
“Had to. If we didn’t memorize one poem or a set of famous quotations each month, we weren’t allowed to go to Rome to—” He broke off. “I almost forgot the rules. Let’s just say we weren’t allowed treats that were important to us.” He gazed into the distance as if trying to pull back the memories. “I always wanted my mother to read the tales of scalawags and pirates or the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, but those made my sisters cry.” He laughed. “They wanted stories about princesses. I don’t remember how my mother reached a compromise.”
“I think I would have liked your mother.”
He touched his hand to a strand of hair that had pulled loose from her hairband and tucked it behind her ear. “I know you would have. And I’m sure she would’ve liked you too.”
Natasha’s thoughts drifted as the trail wandered pleasantly through the forest. Staying with their agreement, they skirted talk of their present circumstances, avoided information that would identify them in the here and now.
But wasn’t this the here and now? Wasn’t walking in the forest with him as real as anything she’d felt in ages?
In spite of their rules, abridged versions of their life stories began to flow. She asked him about his mother and was touched by his stories of his childhood in Rome. He asked her about her childhood, and she was happy that she had one solid memory of her mother to share. Tears stung, wanting to flow as she told him of going together to see a ballet rehearsal and her mother coming down off the stage and cuddling her during a break. But she wasn’t going to cry and ruin a lovely afternoon.
She felt affection bloom as they walked and talked, felt it twine with desire, a desire that had pulsed in her since meeting him, refusing to pause.
They shared water, and the simple passing of the blue plastic bottle took on a feeling of intimacy. The more they talked, the harder it was for her to hide the circumstances of her life. She couldn’t pinpoint when it happened, but she knew that she’d let him into her heart. Into a place no man had ever been before. And that scared her more than anything.
Not sharing the truth with him was beginning to feel all wrong. But she sure wasn’t ready to tell him about Tyler, or her disability, or the fact that she was living in a homeless shelter. Not yet. And she’d be lying to herself if she thought that there’d ever be a good time to tell him the facts of her life.
After about twenty minutes, the trail broke out above the forest, affording them a sweeping view of the valley in the distance. But as she surveyed the path stretching out toward the top of the mountain, the reality of the climb ahead hit her. She surveyed the steep path and cursed her tennis shoes. They squeezed her toes, and several blisters were already starting to form.
Without the shelter of the trees, the wind whipped through her hoodie. The sweat from the exertion of hard hiking clung to her skin, soaking her cotton T-shirt and chilling her. Goosebumps formed on her legs. She shouldn’t have worn shorts. But goosebumps were the least of her worries.
“You’re cold,” Adrian said as he dropped the pack to the ground and rummaged through it. He held her windbreaker for her as she slipped into it. Her fingers were like icicles as she fumbled with the zipper.
He bent down and closed his hand over hers.
“Let me help you.”
She dropped her hands to her sides and watched his hands as he fit the zipper together and tugged it up to just below her chin.
Their gazes met.
So close, their breaths mingled, and she felt the heat of his against her cheek.
She raised her hand and traced her finger along the strong plane of his jaw.
Longing drew her closer. She felt held in his gaze in a way that soothed even as it unsettled. He touched his lips gently to hers, inviting, asking. She closed her eyes, swallowing the dark shadow of fear that rose in her throat and met his invitation by parting her lips.
He pressed his hand to her waist and drew her closer. She felt the strong muscles of his back under her palms as she pressed her body to his. His tongue teased hers, and she melted into the dizzying bliss of their kiss. This melting, transporting bliss was what kissing a man was supposed to feel like. This was what movies showed and stories talked about.