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“Wonderful. I look forward to your call. Oh, and Arlo, you don’t have to wait for a job offer to call me.”
“Ditto,” I replied, got a long silent pause, and then a sigh.
“Yes, true. We’ll try to do better. I have to go now. Goodbye, son.”
Son. Son. He called me son. God damn it. I hated crying.
Chapter Seventeen
Later that day I was seated amid the trunk carnage, a hammer and screwdriver lying at my feet, my sight locked on the mess that I’d made of a once grand steamer trunk.
“I think that perhaps this needs more than we can do, signor,” Alessio stated, trying his best to unravel himself from a wet length of wallpaper. I’d found an old roll in the attic just an hour ago, thrilled to have something from the same era as the trunk to decorate its interior. Sadly, things had gone tits up as the Brits like to say after that grand discovery.
“I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong.” I sighed, staring at Donvino’s uncle battling with soggy birds of paradise on a royal blue backing. His hands, cheeks, and most of his left arm were thick with wet glue.
“I think that maybe signor needs to hire a woodworker and a leatherworker,” he called out as he spun in a slow circle, his foot perilously close to the tray holding some warm water.
“But I don’t know any of those types of craftsmen, nor would I have the cash to pay them if I could even find them,” I moaned and fell back to the floor, a full-on pout taking over. “Why is life so hard, Alessio?” I stared at the ceiling of my lemon room, confused and unsure of what to do.
“My wife says that life is only as hard as we make it.” I heard the sound of water sloshing. Peeking to the side I saw Alessio ankle deep in a plastic trough with a damp birds of paradise capelet dangling dashingly off his left shoulder. “I think wallpapering is not a thing that I make difficult it just is so.”
“Yeah, I think so too.” I got to my feet, unwrapped the man trying valiantly to assist me, and sent him on his way to find a dry sock and shoe. I gathered up the wet paper, balled it up, and threw it at the skeletal remains of the trunk. Maybe I just needed to sort out the other shit in my life before trying to be crafty Carl. Perhaps Giada was right. I was making life too difficult. I’d sort one issue at a time. The trunk could wait for another few days. It had sat there looking forlorn for this long.
Shoving the carcass to the corner, I padded downstairs, past the salon where my aunt was seated on her favorite chaise, with her feet up, a book on her lap, and her chin resting on her chest. Reading is what she would say if someone woke her. Not wishing to disturb her after a long day shopping with Señorina Cappello, I made my way outside. The gardens were glorious, green, and vibrant, but for how long? Many of us here in Florence were sure the city would start restricting water usage soon. I’d read the latest long-range weather forecasts over my snack when I’d gotten home from the bus delivery. Nothing but heat and dry weather. Wildfires were now popping up randomly.
I fingered a soft petal on a pink flower as I passed, my bare feet enjoying the feel of the lush grass. Lucia appeared as she often did from under a bush, winding about my feet. We did that silly human-trying-to-avoid-stepping-on-feline two-step until I lifted her tiny gray paws from the lawn. She bonked my chin with her nose, purring madly, as I carried her through the gate to the Arno. The river was low now and had a definite funky smell. It always had a certain aroma, but the lower it got, the funkier it seemed to get.
I sat down on the pier, placing Lucia beside me, but opted out of dipping my toes into the waterway. They might not have reached now. The sky was as blue as a pair of new denim shorts. I stretched out, calves dangling over the edge of the dock, and let my eyes drift shut. Lucia curled up on my chest, licking her private area. This went on for a good five minutes.
“Mi scusi, signorina, uhm…por favore…crap, uhm…stop. Stop, fermasi?”
She did not stop. Such a typical cat. I let my mind wander as a hot wind moved over my sticky skin. Did I dare take the position at farm 20? What would happen to Donvino and me if I moved an hour away? Could he come with me? That seemed a pretty large ask. We were just in the beginnings of a relationship, plus he was not out. What reasoning would he give to his family to move from Firenze to Valle Sicuro with me? Lucia stretched out on my belly with a soft meow, her claws poking me in the chest.
“Ouch, keep those claws in, please.” I sighed, repeated it in butchered Italian, and sat up so quickly the cat slid to my lap. “Oh sorry,” I whispered as she glared up at me. “Apologies. Uhm…scusi, Signorina Gatto. I just had an idea. I could offer Donvino a job at the mill. How brilliant am I?!”
The cat seemed unimpressed with my brilliance.
Donvino, it would turn out, even less so. I found him at his place, trying to dress for work in an apartment that was hotter than Satan’s butt crack.
“My gods,” I gasped as I entered the bake oven, sweat popping up instantly. “This place is ghastly. Why don’t you buy an air conditioner?”
“It’s not good for the body to jump from being hot to cold,” he replied as he battled to pull on his work shirt.
“My aunt says that too, but I disagree.”
“You’re American. Of course you are disagreeing,” he countered with a firm yank that only got his shirt down to his shoulders.
“I’d take that as a slam if it wasn’t mostly true,” I replied, moving to him to assist in getting his shirt down over his back, but not before I dropped a few kisses to his sumptuous spine. He turned as soon as his shirt was down, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me with fire. My dick plumped up rapidly, as did his, and soon we were stumbling back to his bed.
“I didn’t come here to fuck,” I panted as I tore off the shirt we’d just worked so hard to get on him.
He paused in unsnapping my shorts, dark eyes lifting from his task to my face. “Do you not wish to fuck?”
“I didn’t say that.” I grabbed his head, pulled his mouth to mine, and rode the man like he was Seabiscuit.
When we lay in his bed, coated in semen and sweat, my ass tender, I rolled to my side and propped my head up with my hand. He was still gasping, his chest peppered with my spunk, his eyes closed.
“You’re going to be late now,” I gently pointed out as I drug a finger through a puddle of cum near his navel. The dark hairs on his belly were saturated with spend. I rubbed it into his skin and then brought my finger to his lips. They parted. I slid my index finger into his mouth. He moaned as he cleaned the jizz from my fingertip.
