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“This is definitely the nicest restaurant I’ve been to.”
He popped the cork on the champagne and removed the food from the basket. There was fresh octopus and oysters, cold pasta with olives and fresh parsley, salami and creamy mozzarella, crisp bruschetta with tangy tomatoes.
She ate with gusto, and he enjoyed watching her moan around the food every bit as much as he enjoyed the food itself. He told her about his great-grandmother on his mother’s side, a bohemian who had bought the house in Capri against her parent’s wishes, an extravagance they’d slowed only because they’d hoped she would eventually come home and settle down with a suitable husband. She did, but the house on the Italian island remained hers until she passed it to Damian’s mother.
She told him about her parents, their old-fashioned work ethic and the small apartment she’d shared with them and Primo. Her face had darkened when she’d come to the fire that had claimed both their lives. He’d waited to see if she wanted to talk about it, but she’d quickly moved on to the time afterward when Primo had taken care of her, when they’d had to rebuild their lives brick by brick, when Primo had started doing illegal work to get her through school.
He understood then why she felt the way she did about him. Why it was so hard for her to leave. She still remembered him the way he’d been. Still remembered all the things he’d done for her.
He wasn’t always like this, you know…
It was something his mother had said in the aftermath of his father’s anger. Damian hadn’t understood. It was the only way he’d known his father, but his mother wanted him to know there was more to his father than his rage, his violence. That it had somehow taken over the better parts of him. Damian didn’t believe it, and he didn’t want Aria to believe it either.
It was dangerous to think people were anything other than what they demonstrated themselves to be.
He let her talk, held her hand when the past seemed too close. It was a new kind of intimacy, one he hadn’t shared with anyone. He loved women — loved their softness and their curves and the way they moaned when you made them come — but until now it had been like loving ice cream.
All the flavors were wonderful but there was no one he couldn’t live without.
Now he was beginning to wonder if he’d crossed the point of no return, an invisible line in the sand where he wouldn’t be able to live without the woman in front of him. Where he wouldn’t be able to go back to convincing himself he was happy without her.
He watched her finish the champagne in her glass, her slender throat rippling, and wondered if he’d ever get tired of looking at her. When she was done, she stood and untied the dress at her neck. He watched as it pooled at her feet, her glorious body naked and shining in the dying sunlight.
“Maybe I should take you for a picnic every night,” he said, leaning back on his arms as he eyed her appreciatively.
She met his eyes. “Maybe you should.”
She walked to the tip of the bow, tossed her hair, and dived cleanly into the water. He watched her emerge, hair slicked back, drops of water on her face.
She backstroked away from the boat. “Aren’t you coming?”
He reached for the buttons on his shirt.
