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“We’ll need some wet wipes for the little one,” Ginerva informed the housekeeper. Giada looked at me, smiled warmly, and then went off. I rushed to wipe my face and fingers on my napkin. “Giada will bring you something to remove the tackiness. For me, I will say this and then I must be off to the library for a reading. I am not willing to allow you, the only heir to the fortune that generations of Bonettis have slaved over 150 years to build, to toss it aside to make a fool of yourself on TikTok. Your foolishness ends now. Over the next year, we will mold you into a man who can take the reins of our legacy. I will not accept anything less. So, to that end, I will line someone up for your lessons in Italian beginning tomorrow. Then we will start teaching you the business.”
“Did you not just hear me say that I don’t want to be a farmer?” Giada slipped in, handed me a warm washcloth, and disappeared back inside.
“I do not think you know what you want to be.” I snorted. That was ridiculous. Of course I knew what I wanted to be. I wanted to be…well, something that would make people notice me. For once. “I must go. Dinner is at eight. Do not skip it again. Addio, bella Lucia.” She tickled the cat’s chin, moved her to the ground, and rose. “Unpack and settle in, Arlo. We have much work to do.”
With that she walked off, slowly, stopping by the open doorway to pluck a pearl and rhinestone cane from an umbrella holder just inside the door. Even with the walking stick, the old gal was intimidating. Not that I was scared of her, far from it.
From inside the villa, I heard Giada shouting for Alessio to come get signora. The cat, who I assumed was called Lucia, stretched, front legs out, butt in air, claws extended, and gave my ankles a quick rub before heading inside after her mistress. I ate the rest of my light brunch with attitude. If they—my father and my great-aunt—thought they could hide my brilliant light under a bushel basket filled with olives, they had another thing—
Did she say unpack?!
Chapter Five
Icame awake the next day sore and grumpy.
No one had told me unpacking eight steamer trunks would be so tiresome. Back home, Maria would have taken care of it and done so with a merry little song. Okay, maybe no song. Rising to look around at the chaotic room, I had to think that Maria probs hated it when I simply dumped all my bags and trunks. I’d do better when I went home in a year.
My back ached from trying to move a trunk closer to the walk-in closet. Knowing that Donvino had toted them up the stairs made me hard. Rolling over or trying to as said boner was serving as a kickstand, I eased out of bed, feet touching the floor as the sun was just tinting the sky. I’d fallen asleep with the doors open, the lulling sound of the breeze and the water easing me into a deep, exhausted slumber. Jet lag always hounded me for days after an international flight. Then there were the hours spent unpacking. I simply must learn to pack lighter. Maybe only four steamer trunks next time. If there was a next time. If I didn’t prove myself to be a mature and uptight man in a year, I’d be scouring the streets of Florence searching for cigar butts in the gutter. Not that I smoked cigars, but the imagery was suitably depressing.
As I unpacked my shoes—two steamers worth, but honestly, how could anyone travel with less?—I’d come up with a plan. I would pretend to be into this olive oil mill silliness. Just long enough to get my father and Henry at the bank to sign off on my trust fund. Once I had that, then I could tell the world to fuck all the way off and open a steamer trunk shop somewhere trendy and far from Italy. Maybe Milan. No. Wait. That was still in Italy. Damn it. They had some really fashionable people in Milan. Okay, a steamer trunk store in Paris. Yes, there we go.
I eased my aching body to the patio, the cooler air moving over the concrete slab and into my room where the ceiling fan would circulate it about. I’d slept well. Probably because I was so done in from all that manual labor. Who knew clothes and boots were so hefty? Probably Donvino since he had muscled those trunks up here. I really should thank him somehow…
A free pass to the delights of your body?
“Perhaps.” I giggled and then moaned.
Darting to the patio, I was disappointed that Lucia wasn’t there. I dawdled a bit, unused to being awake when the cock crowed, and one was crowing just down the street somewhere. That sound took me back to our other visit here, so long ago. A lifetime really. Mom had been so vibrant then, so healthy, and we’d walked down to visit the chickens on the small farm where Giada bought eggs for the villa. The rooster was big and black with long tail feathers that glowed green in the bright Italian sun. I recalled there was an older man who lived on the tiny farm and smoked a cigar.
He’d spoken no English that I could tell, but I’d been a mere child at the time and those chickens were far more fascinating than some old guy with a stinky stogie. He’d given me treats of some sort. Little filled orange candies. Mom and he talked, her Italian quite good, while I chased chickens until the rooster got tired of my shenanigans and chased me. The old man had laughed, scooping me up into his arms when the irate cock had run me ragged. He’d seemed really brave as he passed me to my mother. She’d shushed me, petted me, and placed me on the ground to point out a little girl close to my age, lingering in the doorway of the farmhouse. The girl was dirty, thin, and smiling broadly at me, chickens pecking at the ground in front of her.
I’d hidden my face in my mother’s skirt and then we’d left the farm as I was tired and sulking. I wondered if the orange candy man was still alive. Probably not. Most of the good things about that trip had died, it seemed.
I wiped my eyes, unsure of when the tears had started flowing, and looked out over the garden, then up into the pinks and purples of a new day. Above the city proper, there in the sky, was a hot air balloon. The panels of the balloon were orange and yellow. Gasping in joy much like that little boy I had been, I spun around to tell Mom there was a balloon hovering over Firenze. But Mom was gone. How foolish of me to be so caught up in the past. Still, the balloon was a treat. Much like those little filled orange candies the old man down the road handed sniveling little boys.
Enjoying the sight, I lingered probably longer than I should have as breakfast would be ready soon and I did not want to miss out. Imagine such a thing. Requiring a person to show up at a certain time to eat or leave them hungry. That must be an old person thing. I’d seen a boomer on TikTok going off about how “back in his day” you ate what was served at dinner or you went hungry. Insert eye roll here. When I was a youngster, Maria made me whatever I requested whenever I requested it. No one I knew forced their kids to eat stuff they didn’t like. And if the child/teen/young adult showed up after the appointed hours, they were fed warmed-up dinner or had something made fresh. I’m truly not sure how boomers survived their childhoods. What with being spanked, starved, exposed to secondhand smoke on the daily, drinking from hoses, playing on playgrounds with no safety features, and having no car seats or bike helmets. Old folks must have the luck of the Irish to have arrived at adulthood.
Just as I was turning to hit the shower, he appeared. Donvino, he of the biceps and thighs and sparkling eyes. He was dressed similarly to yesterday, different tank top and shorts, both tight as second skin. His ass was total perfection. Drool dribbled out of the lefthand corner of my mouth as he silently made his way to the old mossy door, unlocked it, and passed through.
Suddenly uncaring if I ate or not, I rushed to the shower, groaning a bit as I went. I wasted no time washing. Who knew how long the man of my dreams would be swimming? Seeing him leave the water all soaking wet and lickable would fill up my spank bank account for weeks. I did work a dollop of product into my hair. Just because. Then I streaked into my room, naked, pulled on a pink thong, short shorts of pale pink, a super cute rose-toned hoodie from an Etsy store that had a teddy bear on the front and read ‘Squeeze Me’, and that was it. I hurried down the stairs, barefoot, streaking past the dining room, then out the wide doors to the rear of the villa. The grass was soft and thick with dew.
Being a slim, fashionable queer fellow who drew the unwanted attention of hateful gorillas I could sprint really well. Marathons, no, but a short sprint to reach a safe place, I could totally do that. Lucia flew out of one of the low bushes, startling me and making me do a fancy jig to avoid stepping on her.
“No time for belly rubs!” I shouted over my shoulder, but the cat began following me. That made me smile. I looked ahead just in time to avoid slamming into the stone wall that cradled the doorway. Once I passed through, I was in another world, or so it seemed. The river was right there. Like right there as was the dock. And, crushingly, no Donvino. “Damn it,” I spat, stamped a foot, and looked up-river for a man swimming. What I saw was a man in a boat. No, not a boat, a skiff, the dark blue one I’d spied from my patio. And rowing that skiff was Donvino.
I sat down on the dock, crossed my legs, and enjoyed the roll of the water under me as I waited for Donvino to make his laps or whatever row people called them. Lucia appeared on my right, her gray tail in the air, her white whiskers tickling my kneecap.
“He’ll be back soon,” I excitedly told her as I ran my hand down her back.
That, it seemed, turned out to be a lie. Donvino was gone two damn hours. Two hours. What the absolute hell?! Had the man rowed to Rome?! Did this river even go to Rome? I had no clue. Also, my phone still had no internet because someone—cough Aunt Ginerva—had yet to give me the freaking password, so I had to read a book I had downloaded about a year ago. I mean, honestly, the sheer gall of him rowing so far when I was waiting and had my cute on. Men! Another thing that had me chafing was breakfast was now an hour in and here I sat, looking adorable yes, but not dining with my aunt who, I was sure, would have some sort of comment and keep the Wi-Fi password from me just for spite. Even Lucia got bored and left. The cat was smarter than me, it seemed.
I was on my feet and ready to stalk off when he appeared on the water, rounding a corner far upstream, stalling my snit. I hated to waste a snit, so I crossed my arms, tapped my bare toesies, and waited for Mr. I Rowed to Austria to arrive. In all honesty, the closer he got, the less peeved I became. His beauty increased with each powerful stroke of his paddles. Oars. What the hell ever.
When he saw me, he smiled. POOF. There went my aggravation. I waved like a maniac, bouncing up to my toes, as he neared. I’d not used my arm so much since I’d been in Tokyo and Taylor Swift had passed by in a glass elevator going up as I had been going down. Well, and yesterday as I had unpacked.
“Buongiorno!” I shouted as he pulled up next to the dock. He was coated with perspiration. I wanted to lick each salty droplet from his beautifully tanned skin. His gaze roamed over me, pausing at my feet. “I know. I need a pedicure.”
The polish was a little worn but still was evident as flamingo a-go-go pink.
