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“No, I just…your toes are so tiny,” he called, the current seeming to help lead his scull to the dock.
“Do you need help?! I always wanted to be a coxswain.” I moved to the edge of the dock.
“No, thank you. I am knowing this well.”
“Oh, okay.” I moved back as he eased closer, one long oar out and resting on the dock. Holding both oars in one hand, he eased his feet out of what appeared to be Crocs—or something similar—strapped to the bottom of the scull. He simply stood up, a little wobbling to be seen, and stepped out of the skinny boat. “You do that so well.”
“Grazie,” he said, towering over me by at least six or seven inches. His big body blocked out the sun just peeking over the cypress trees. “I have been rowing for a long time. Since I was teenaged. Also, for you to know, coxswain is man who faces rowing team then tells them important things.”
“Oh, the guy who yells to stroke. I can do that.” I laid the flirt on so thick it was a wonder Donvino didn’t asphyxiate on the coquettish cloud. “Yell and stroke.”
His eyes widened at that. Now was the time he would either punch me in the nose for making a pass or he would say something flirty in return.
“I think you would be good at both,” he replied, turned, and fiddled with the oars, bolting them into place on the metal arm things.
I wasn’t sure how to read that reply, so I stood there and gawked as he secured his boat. When he turned to face me, I was innocently watching a pair of mallards paddling up the dock. He knelt on the dock, his head at waist level, and began speaking to the ducks. I crouched down beside him, eager to hear what he was saying as well as drink in his profile. His nose was lovely and aquiline, his cheekbones high, his brow smooth.
“This is Bonita and Bongo. They come looking for corn, which I do not have today,” he explained, glancing at me and then winking. That wink was everything. “I do have some in my pocket.” With that, he rose, his ass now a mere inch from my teeth—teeth that desperately wanted to nibble the taut orbs badly—and dug into a small fanny pack around his waist. Out came a crushed sports drink bottle and then a handful of shell corn. He pitched the corn into the water. Bongo and Bonita quacked in thanks and then began eating their breakfast. “They know I tease. I feed them every day. They are spoiled and sometimes come into the garden. Signora is not happy when they do for they shit on the paths.” That made me snicker. Seeing my aunt stepping in duck pooh was a funny visual. “You are up early today.”
“Mm, yes, I didn’t want to miss breakfast. Would you like to join us?” I asked, my sight now on his outstanding quads. Good grief, who knew rowing could sculpt such a body?
“Grazie, no thank you. I am not presentable for the signora’s table. Also, I eat in the kitchen with my grandparents when I am working.”
“Oh.” I sighed, vastly disappointed but understanding. He was a sweaty if sexy mess. “Are you not allowed to eat with my aunt?”
“No, it’s not so much…my grandmother and grandfather they are…” He paused to parse the right word, which was incredibly cute. I pushed to stand, leaving the ducks to doodle along the riverbank among the tall grasses that swished to and fro with the current. “They are schooled old. You know?”
“Oh yes, old school.”
“Sì, yes, old school. They do not think it proper for a man who digs in the dirt to sit with signora to eat.”
“I thought you worked at a restaurant,” I said, my tummy reminding me that I’d not eaten much yesterday.
“Yes, I do. I work there at nights and here for the days.” He seemed proud of that fact. I thought it was sad that the man had to work two jobs to survive. “I like both places very much. The pay is good. To make the Olympic team is very expensive.”
“Oh, that’s your goal?”
“Yes,” he replied, his strong shoulders settling. “I train hard to make the Italian team maybe someday. The committee does not pay athletes to compete, so all costs are for me to carry. I do not mind, though, for it would be an honor to represent my country. Still, the money is skinny right now, so I work and train for someday.”
“That’s an admirable objective,” I said and then grew bold. I touched his muscular forearm. The dark hair crinkled under my fingertips. “Why don’t we go eat and you can tell me all about how one gets to the Olympics?”
He gaped down at me. His sight darting to the villa and then back to me. “No, we cannot eat with signora. I will eat with my grandmother in the kitchen. You must eat with signora.”
“Oh to hell with all that class silliness. I’ll eat with you and Giada then.” Brooking no more said about it, I linked my arm with his and led him back to the villa, chatting away about whatever came to mind. Donvino felt quite stiff beside me, his replies clipped.
We ran into my great-aunt in the back garden. She was sitting at the table by the pergola, Lucia on her lap, reading a newspaper over the top of her glasses. When she heard us, her sight lifted from the paper, a soft smile appearing on her lips obviously for Donvino. As always, she was perfectly dressed and coiffed, this time in a charming V-neck summer dress with a bold black and white pattern, white sandals, and tiny black pearl earrings.
“Buongiorno,” Donvino hurried to say, ducking his damp head before peeling my fingers from his forearm. “I escort Signor Arlo from the dock where he helped me train this morning. Is there still food for him I hope for I make him maybe late?”
“Yes, but just. Sit, Arlo. We have things to discuss. Donvino, please tell your grandmother that Arlo is eating his breakfast in the garden with me and to bring him a good selection. Then please feed yourself.”
“Grazie mille, signora.” Donvino gave me a nod and then disappeared inside, his gait strong and sure as he melted into the dark interior.
“Arlo, sit, please.”
I blinked back to reality, sighed, and sat just as Giada appeared with some cappuccino, a dish piled high with fruit, yogurt, a small bowl of grainy cereal with tiny red berries, and a cornetto with a small pot of cherry preserves by its side. I chucked my phone onto the table.
“Thanks.”
