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Marco leaned forward and, with a flourish, took two champagne glasses and a bottle out of the basket, and set them in front of her, followed by a selection of small fruit and custard tarts, beautifully presented in a lavishly decorated box.
‘It’s far too early for dinner,’ he explained. ‘But I thought you might enjoy a picnic. And don’t worry, I’ve remembered your ‘no drinking in January’ rule. The bottle is actually lightly sparkling grape juice, although it really should be Prosecco.’
Sophie didn’t need Prosecco, the unexpected sweetness of the surprise he had so carefully planned more intoxicating than any drink could possibly be. The grape juice wasn’t too sweet, the tartness a welcome relief against the flaky pastry and sugared fruit of the delicious tarts. Replete, she snuggled back against Marco’s arm and watched Venice go by. She’d spent many hours on the canals, but the city felt closer, more magical from the gondola, as if she were in a dream, part of the city’s very fabric.
Marco had obviously planned the route with his friend in advance and the gondola took them into several hidden corners of the city, going through water gates into some of the palazzos and even slipping beneath churches into secret passages. Their route took them through the back waters and quieter canals and at times it was as if they were the only people in the city, even their gondolier fading into the background as, with a final burst of orange and pink, the sun finally began to sink into the water and the velvety dusk fell.
‘I don’t know why you said a gondola was a tourist trap. It is the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me,’ Sophie said as the last of the day disappeared, their way now lit by the soft gold of the lamps, their reflections glowing in the murky water.
‘More romantic than you knocking me over in the snow?’
She pretended to think about it. ‘Almost. Even more romantic than you chasing me into a cupboard on New Year’s Eve.’
‘I have fond memories of that cupboard,’ he said and she elbowed him.
‘Nothing happened in that cupboard, unless you’re mixing me up with someone else that night.’
‘Oh, no, you are definitely one of a kind,’ Marco said softly. ‘The first girl who ever ran away from me.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’ But she didn’t. She found it hard to believe that she ever had run away, that she had had the strength of will to walk away that first night and again on New Year’s Eve. ‘Is that why you asked me here, because I walked away?’
‘Ran,’ he corrected her. ‘One sight of me and you were tearing through that ballroom like an Olympic medallist in heels. And maybe that’s why. I was intrigued for sure, wanted to spend more time with you.’
And now? She wanted to ask, but she didn’t quite dare. The carefully orchestrated romance of the evening was perfect but could so easily be a farewell gesture. ‘You didn’t bargain for quite so much time,’ she said instead. ‘Thank you, Marco, I know you were blindsided by your sister, but thank you for making me feel welcome, for making me feel wanted...’
He leaned over then, pulling her close, his mouth on hers, harder than his usual sweet kisses, more demanding. He kissed her as if they were the only two people in the whole of Venice, as if the world might stop if she didn’t acquiesce, fall into it, fall into him. The world fell away, the heat of his mouth, his hands holding her still, holding her close all she knew, all she wanted to know. Her own arms encircled him as she buried one hand in his hair, the other clutching at his shoulder as if she were drowning and he all that stood between her and a watery grave.
It was the first time he’d kissed her for kissing’s sake, she realised in some dim part of her mind. That first night they didn’t lay a hand on each other until they were in the hotel room, New Year’s Eve she had walked away from his touch—but if she hadn’t, she knew full well they would have ended up in that same hotel room, the kiss a precursor, a promise of things yet to come. It would have been another hotel, not his house; close as it must have been, that was too intimate for Marco, not her flat, too intimate for her.
Even here in Venice they were curiously separate... Oh, he kissed her cheek in greeting, held her arm to guide her, but there were no gestures of intimacy; no holding hands, no caresses as they passed each other, no cuddles or embraces. No kisses on bridges or boats. Kisses, caresses, embraces—they were saved for under cover of darkness, saved for passion and escape. But there could be no passion or escape here in the middle of a canal, visible to anyone and everyone walking by. This was kissing for kissing’s sake. Touching for touching’s sake. This was togetherness.
