‘No!’
‘Then either post what you’re doing or call Mum.’
She hangs up just as a yellow ambulance boat streaks past, siren wailing.
Jacopo tilts his head. ‘I did not understand. But you sound very fierce. Like the Lion of San Marco.’
My accent always gets stronger when I’m wound up. Jacopo isn’t judging. Leo might be, though. He’s watching me carefully from the bow.
‘The lion of what?’ I ask, steering us away from my call.
Jacopo points the oar towards a banner strung between two balconies. ‘See the lion with wings? That is San Marco, our patron saint.’
Right. St Mark’s Square and all that. I’ve seen yellow landmark signs pointing to it – sometimes right next to each other, pointing in opposite directions.
‘Any other Venetian creatures I should know about?’
Leo looks over, suddenly thoughtful. ‘You like that kind of thing?’
I shrug, not about to admit it. He’d probably think it’s immature.
‘So is it difficult?’ I nod towards the oars.
‘Rowing?’ Jacopo grins. ‘Even abambinocan do it.’
I watch Leo lean into the oar, the smooth drive of his movement. The defined arms and broad shoulders reflected back at me in the bathroom mirror yesterday morning start to make sense.
‘Hmm. Not sure I believe that.’
‘Want a turn?’ Jacopo asks, already grinning.
I glance between the boys. ‘Where would I go?’
‘The front oar is the motor. The back oar steers. Depends on the build.’ He gives me a slow once-over. ‘You could do either.’
Leo and I share an eye roll.
‘Chicken,’ Jacopo calls as I step carefully to the bow to join Leo.
Leo moves behind me, voice low in my ear.
‘It’s not about strength. It’s efficiency. Move your whole body, not just your arms.’ His hands brush over mine as he adjusts my grip on the oar. I go still, my brain glitching at his touch.
‘Like this?’
‘Looser.’ His hand moves to my hip, guiding mejust a fraction. ‘Soften your knees. Go with the water.’
It’s awkward at first, but not terrible. Leo stays close, helping me find the rhythm again when I get stuck.
‘You’re getting it!’ He sounds genuinely pleased. I risk a glance back. He’s doing that whole-face smile. At me.
I almost forget Jacopo until his voice cuts through.
‘Would you like to see some street art by a very talented unknown artist?’
Leo’s smile drops away.
‘What?’ Jacopo is the picture of innocence. ‘Tourists love our Banksy.’
