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“I’m going out for an hour. We still need something for the walls.” I track his eyes as they scan the empty walls. Four large spaces interspersed throughout the shop are bare, the painted plaster standing out like a blank canvas. I hadn’t noticed this before, but now Gianni has pointed it out, the spaces on the walls appear stark, their emptiness crying out. In a blur of heavy fragrance, Gianni gathers his things and leaves the shop.
As soon as Gianni is gone, Lewis turns to me, a frustration plastered across his face that reminds me of the burned milk.
“I’m sorry, Lewis. I don’t know how I burned the milk. I’ve done it enough times to know what I’m doing, but there’s something about that guy. He makes me so nervous I can’t seem to think straight when he’s here.” I ready myself for the scolding he looks set to deliver, but as he’s about to explode, his shoulders slump, and his eyes fall to the floor.
“Don’t worry about it. I know you can make coffee, and I don’t blame you for being nervous around him.” He lets out a large expulsion of air as his chest deflates with each word. “Piero was right when he said the guy wasn’t a people person.” For the first time, I feel a little glow of warmth for Lewis. I also feel relieved Gianni seems to treat everyone with the same contempt. Maybe I’m taking his mood too personally. But then I remembered the conversation he’d had with Piero. Gianni is harboring resentment toward me, but I am still baffled as to why.
“Do you want me to start reorganizing this shelf?” I smile at Lewis, grateful he hasn’t taken his bad mood out on me. He thrusts the paper into my hands.
“Be my guest. I can’t make head nor tail of it.” I take the paper, waiting for Lewis to skulk back down into the stockroom before I cast my eyes over the sketch.
The pencil lines are soft, which surprises me. I expected a heavy hand, but the delicacy of his marks sends a shiver through my core. The sketch had been beyond Lewis, but it is clear to me, and I can already see how Gianni’s changes will help the merchandise be more eye-catching. I place my hand over the lines, tracing his print with my fingertips, wondering how someone so brutal could have such a delicate touch. The precision and accuracy of his hurried drawing have made him even more captivating. I scold myself for my feelings. How can I be so affected by a man who is fierce and cold? I try to push him from my mind. I can’t let him take hold of me. The dashing looks, the Italian accent, and the eye for detail are not enough to compensate for the fact he is a monster.
ChapterFive
Sitting at a small table outside the shop where I ate my late lunch, I sip a cup of tea. There isn’t much of a view, just the adjacent parking lot and a row of shops and bus stop on the other side of the road, but I need fresh air and a change of scenery.
It has been two weeks since the shop opened, and in that time, I’ve avoided Gianni. His appearances have been random and consisted of him complaining about something or other. He is never happy, and the vacant wall space seems to be the epicenter of his anger. Faith told me she has seen him staring fiercely at the empty walls, scratching his chin. I’ve been incredibly lucky to have avoided his presence for so long, but my luck is about to run out.
A small jacket sits on my shoulders over the top of my uniform. The May sun is hot on my face, summer having made an early arrival. Fifteen minutes of my break remain, and since I’ve finished my sandwich, I pull my sketchbook from my bag to take advantage of the quiet surrounding me.
Lost in my work, the blur of the pencil breathes life into my drawing and pulls me into my own little world. I don’t notice Gianni until his shadow falls over my paper, darkening the little unicorn I’ve drawn. His intense, bold fragrance follows him everywhere. I keep my eyes on the paper, giving myself a few more seconds to prepare for his disapproving stare.
When I’ve gathered enough courage, I lift my head, my neck straining to his standing position. The sun is behind him, emphasizing his dark features and casting him in a huge black shadow. The straining sunlight only accentuates his god-like appearance.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Drawing,” I reply, unable to hold back the sarcasm in my voice. He isn’t inquiring out of interest—he is referring to me not appearing to be working—but I’m irritated, nonetheless. He has disturbed my moment of solace. He has a small opinion of me that revolves around making coffee badly. “I’m working on some sketches for a children’s book,” I continue, suddenly eager to showcase my talents beyond burning milk. “These are simply sketches before I draw the real thing.”
My voice trails off as my eyes meet his, my sudden need to prove my worth deflating under his darkness. His silence is unnerving. I wait for him to say something, but instead, he holds his hand out toward my sketchpad. Like a child caught with a stolen biscuit, I hand my pad over, an act that mystifies me—no one ever sees my work before it is finished. As the book leaves my hand, Gianni tears his eyes from mine and studies my drawing. His eyes trace the lines, the glimmering reflection of the unicorn appearing in the depths of his pupils. He holds the page up, looking at the previous sketches, his face set in stone.
“I don’t just do illustrations,” I begin to say as he flips through my many doodles, some of which are ideas for pieces on a much grander scale. “I like to work on a large canvas for some of my more abstract paintings.” He continues in a distilled silence. “I have some of my work on display in the framing shop down the road from here.” I’m on the verge of rambling.
He snaps his head up from the book before passing it back to me. I pull the pad into my hand. It feels different, violated somehow. I wait for him to acknowledge what I’ve shared. Will he show an interest, even if it is only out of politeness?
“I don’t pay you to sit outside and draw.” The curl of his lip as he delivers this makes me shudder with rage. How stupid of me to think he was taking a genuine interest in me or my work. I’m not some child who is playing in their break time.
“No, you don’t, but I’m entitled to a twenty-minute break which I may spend at my leisure.” I glance at my watch. “I have eight minutes left.” He will not win this one. That’s why I hold his gaze. He stands, grounded before me, the sharpness of his jaw seeming to flex as he contemplates my words.
“You have eight minutes.” The glare of the sun hits me between the eyes as he moves from my line of vision and makes his way back into the coffee shop.
A rush of air escapes my lungs. I was oblivious to the fact I’d been holding my breath. I can’t quite believe he didn’t have a snide remark to come back at me with. It was also my first attempt to engage him in conversation.
I wonder how he spends his free time. Does he have a hobby? The concept of him enjoying himself seems so bizarre that I’m momentarily lost in a cloud of despair for him. What kind of life do you have when you can’t even raise a smile? What made him so turbulent, so lost? It couldn’t have been his childhood, as surely the brothers would have had the same upbringing. It must be something that happened to Gianni alone, something that invaded him, sucked him dry, and left an empty shell.
I make sure I stay outside for the remaining eight minutes of my break.
* * *
When my time is up, I gather my drawing things and head back inside. I’m greeted by Casey, standing behind the counter, stacking up coffee cups almost in slow motion. She turns to greet me, relief that I’m not a customer on her face.
“Hey.” I nod as I head to the back of the shop to put my things in my locker.
“I wouldn’t go back there if I were you.” Casey’s monotone voice breaks my stride.
“How come?”
“Piero’s brother is in the office with Lewis, and he doesn’t sound happy.” This doesn’t strike me as unusual, but Casey continues. “I heard Lewis mention your name.” She throws me a look as if she’s doing me a favor by giving me the heads-up on whatever I’ve done wrong this time. Inhaling slowly, I walk into the office. The door is slightly ajar, enough for me to see Gianni’s frame by the desk. It must be about me drawing outside. I can’t think of anything else I’ve done wrong. I push the door open. Gianni swivels around to face me as Lewis rolls his eyes to the ceiling.
