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She’d bit down on her lower lip; she hadn’t been able to help it, and his eyes had narrowed at the gesture, his features tightening. He’d lifted his hand, breaking their contact, but only to usurp it with one far better. His thumb shifted across her pale pink lip, freeing it from her teeth’s imprisonment, and then curved at her cheek, holding her there, steadying her as though he knew she needed it.
“Come home with me.”
Something had passed between them. A heat. A fire. A promise.
It had rocked her to the edges of her sanity.
And now he was doing the same thing to someone else.
Jealousy had no place and yet that didn’t stop it from burning the edges of her being. She threw the covers back with a groan of impatience and paced to the window in her room. There was a small balcony jutting off it. She opened the French doors and stepped out. In the distance, Rome glittered like magic, its golden glow beautiful, beautiful in a way that should have offered comfort but didn’t.
Nothing did.
The night was warm, the breeze gentle. She curved her fingers over the balcony rail, her long hair pulling away from her face. At the time, she’d believed their night together was somehow fated. It had been easy to imagine that – everything about it had been perfect. A warm night, just like this one, she’d shivered when they’d left the restaurant, and despite the balmy evening, he’d shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulder, so she’d been enveloped by him, by the masculine scent of him, and it had served as a prelude and yes, a promise of what was to come. She’d inhaled deeply, relishing in everything about that small gesture – the chivalry, the hyper-awareness of her actions, the feeling of the silk lining against her naked arms, the pleasant warmth – still warm from his body. Everything.
It was unspeakably erotic.
Now, she saw it differently, of course.
Elodie had dated before, but never seriously, never for long. She didn’t like the way boyfriends seem to expect her to have endless time to binge watch Netflix shows on weekends when she’d had work to catch up on. She hadn’t liked the way they’d silently disapproved of the hours she kept, the long days, the constant presence of her phone at her side, her willingness to let it make incursion on any time of her day or night.
She’d had no real experience to speak of. Not with someone like Fiero Montebello. He’d overwhelmed every single one of her senses.
Or maybe it was that losing her parents as she had, so unexpectedly and in a way she couldn’t absolve herself of guilt from, had woken her up in some way.
She’d made wholesale changes to her life almost immediately, unable to believe the decisions she’d made, the ways she’d treated them. She’d sworn she wouldn’t let life pass her by, that she’d do what they’d always wanted her to – get out and see the world.
Meeting Fiero had been in the midst of the ‘gap year’ they’d wanted her to take, which she’d refused to have any part in. Mum, you don’t get it. This internship is like a one in a billion chance. I’m not going to stuff it up to go backpacking and stay in feral hostels.
She cringed now at how dismissive she’d been of their wishes. How unwilling she’d been to listen to them, to see that there was wisdom in their experience, and to recognise that they knew her better than she knew herself. Life is a marathon, Rosie. Your career will wait. Go and explore. Open yourself up to new opportunities.
Rosie. Her lips curved in a wistful smile.
Her mother had always used her middle name, only calling her Elodie Rose when she was in trouble. Otherwise, it had been Rosie, and every year, there’d been a beautiful bunch of roses on her birthday.
Roses just like the ones she’d looked out on from the hospital as she’d recovered, roses that had almost seem
ed like a sign from her mother, a hug, an embrace, a reminder that they were still with her.
Not in a spiritual way, so much as the way all great parents were with their children, always and for all time. They were a part of her soul, her decisions, her life – their biology had informed hers, and their attitudes had shaped who she was. And now, they were a part of Jack.
Her eyes swept shut as she pictured her son, their son. She and Fiero had created him; he was a reflection of them, even when he looked as though he had been cast solely in Fiero’s image. She knew she was in him, in his smile and laugh, and that her parents were there too.
She’d given him her father’s name, so he’d grow up to know of them, to understand his grandparents had been wonderful people, even though he’d never get to meet them.
A small sigh parted her lips, and then a noise had her eyes bursting open and shifting towards the noise – to her left.
And her mouth went dry, her heart began to pound hard against her ribs, adrenaline screamed in her ears.
Just a metre or so across, there was another little Juliette balcony, this one occupied by Fiero. He’d taken his jacket and shirt off, so he wore only jeans, slung low on his hips, and in his hand he cradled a single scotch tumbler.
He was watching her unashamedly and unapologetically.
A thousand things occurred to her, all at once.
If she reached her hand out and he did the same, they could touch. Her fingers could brush his.
His bedroom must be there, on the other side of the wall to hers, so close.
