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She bit down on her lower lip, the danger of their circumstances something she knew she should beware, but in that moment—on her twenty fifth birthday—Phoebe simply wanted to exist—to enjoy.
He removed a simple pair of slides for her and loafers for himself. “Ready?”
She nodded, eyes scanning the town, excitement in her belly. When he took her hand, she jerked her face to his, her heart leaping, but he was already moving, so she knew the gesture meant nothing to him, it was simply a way for him to guide her.
“Atrani is just outside of the Amalfi, and doesn’t attract the same number of guests, which is in some ways a shame, but in many, a blessing, for the true fabric of the town is preserved. Traditional life carries on here. It is still a fishing town, but there are cafes and restaurants.”
The beach was shaped like a cove, and a wide ramp emerged from the sand, leading them to the top of the bridge she’d spied from the water. Once on top of it, she paused, looking out at the glittering ocean. He drew close to her, ostensibly so he could point into the ocean. “My boat.”
She laughed then. “It’s a little hard to miss.”
He grinned and her heart bounced wildly in her chest. His smile was beautiful. She could easily grow addicted to it.
They walked through the narrow winding streets, hands held, to all the world looking like two lovers on a date, and Phoebe felt like that, though she knew there was danger in forgetting the truth of their circumstances.
It was a beautiful town to explore, with little alleys leading to shops and restaurants, children playing happily in the streets and grandfathers watching on, some in singlet tops, others smoking, all chatting, watching, laughing with hoarse, dry voices. The sun was high, and life was simple.
A bird flew overhead, and just as Phoebe looked up to follow its path, it relieved itself, a perfect droplet falling and landing on Anastasios’ shoulder. It was so absurd to think of such a thing happening to a man like Anastasios that she burst out laughing.
“Oh, you think this is funny, do you?” But he grinned, angling his face to survey the damage.
“Just a little,” she lifted her finger and thumb, to indicate a small amount.
“Perhaps you would not be laughing if it had happened to you?”
“Perhaps,” she agreed, still smiling. She pulled her hand from his, her stomach instantly dropping to her toes, but her fingers lifted to his shirt, pulling it a little from his shoulder, and then, the laughter disappeared, leaving only sizzling, suffocating awareness.
“Let’s find somewhere to clean you up.”
“It’s only a little bird poo. I’ll survive.”
She looked around. “There’s a café. Come on, they’ll have some kind of restroom, I’m sure.”
For hours they’d walked but those twenty or so strides to the small café with its tables and chairs on the footpath and two orange trees in pots by the door were strained with an unbearable tension.
Anastasios spoke in flawless Italian, gesturing to his shirt, then Phoebe, then shrugging, so she was at a loss as to what had been said, but the woman behind the counter laughed and pointed towards a set of saloon doors, so they slipped through together.
She could have left him to clean the shirt himself, but Phoebe went, drawn as if by a powerful magnetic force. The bathroom was small, clearly not for public use, as it was filled with personal artefacts.
“Here,” she said, her voice husky. “Pass me the shirt.”
He cocked one brow as he lifted it over his head, avoiding spreading the offending mess any further.
“I can do it,” he said, without handing it over, without making any efforts to clean it, either. They stood like that, toe to toe, eyes hooked, their breath sounds filling the small space.
Slowly, she lifted a hand, gripping the shirt, but he didn’t release it. Eyes met, breath intertwined, hearts raced. Phoebe swallowed, her throat thick and parched.
“Here,” she murmured, tugging the shirt a little.
He frowned, releasing it, but stayed where he was, so close.
“You know,” her voice was impossibly husky. “They say it’s good luck.”
“Do they?”
She made a gargled sound of agreement, letting the water run out the poop, careful to keep most of the shirt out of the stream so it remained dry, not taking her eyes off what she was doing, because the alternative was to look at Anastasios and if she looked, she’d want to touch, and if she touched, well, she’d be lost. Even more lost than she already was.
“And what do you think, Phoebe?”
