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“Oh my God. Six? I have to get back. Yaya will be –,”
“Fine,” Raf promised gently. “She has an army of nurses looking after her.”
“But she’ll be looking for me.” She bit down on her lip. “She likes me.”
Raf studied her for a moment and then sighed, nodding once. “Okay, fair enough.”
She ignored the prick of disappointment.
“On one condition.”
“What is it?”
“Come back here with me another time.”
She hesitated for only the briefest moment. “Any time.”
Yaya was exhausted. As Lauren had suspected, the visit from her family, spanning several days, had refilled Yaya’s heart-well but depleted her energy stores. She ate only a little sweet donut for dinner, half a zeppole, with a tea, and fell asleep as Lauren sat at her side. Lauren remained longer than she needed to, the rhythmic breathing of Yaya’s sleep filling the room and making it difficult for her to leave.
It was relaxing, and Lauren realised that she’d been wound up the last few days. Wound up because Raf had become a part of her soul, he’d taken over her every thought, commandeered the direction of her dreams, so that avoiding him had demanded all her concentration. The first time they’d slept together, it had become worse, because she’d started to vibrate at a different frequency, her eyes had become attuned to him and would seek him out without her permission. Avoiding him had become difficult, because her body had seemed to want to draw her towards him, against her will. But now?
Now, here with Yaya, she breathed in and out and a smile crossed her face, making her eyes sparkle. For the first time in a very long time she felt excited. For the first time in a long time she felt…happy.
Chapter Seven
“STOP IT.”
Raf eyed his grandmother over the rim of his glass, the aperitivo they were sharing a zesty orange flavour.
“Stop what?”
She glared at him, nothing diminished in those eyes of hers.
“You are letting me win, Rafaello, and if you don’t stop it at once I’ll hurl the board across the room.”
He barked a laugh at the mere thought.
“You’re having good luck.”
Her eyes carried a threat. “How many times have we played chess?”
He couldn’t even begin to count. As a boy of eight or nine, it was every night for many years, then it became every Saturday morning. In recent years it had been less frequent, perhaps once a month or so, but the games were always challenging.
“A lot,” she supplied, when he failed to answer promptly. “And I’ve won perhaps ten per cent of those games, and very few recently.”
“That’s not my recollection.”
“Your recollection is being shaped by your desire to flatter my ego. As is your poor playing today.”
He didn’t have the heart to tell her that his mind wasn’t on the game. On the contrary, he was focussed almost exclusively on Lauren.
He forced himself to concentrate now, aware he wasn’t giving his grandmother the respect she deserved. “I’ll try harder,” he grinned.
“You’d better.” She slid a piece across the board, collecting one of his.
He took another sip of the drink, studying the play carefully, as instructed.
“You’re getting older.”
