Home > Love Your Life(11)

Love Your Life(11)
Author: Sophie Kinsella

“I wish we could have brought the pebble tower with us,” I say wistfully, and Dutch laughs again.

“I’m serious!” I say. “It would have been an amazing souvenir of the holiday.”

“You would have carried those eleven heavy stones back to the car?”

“Yes.”

“And all the way back home on the plane?”

“Of course!”

“And how would you have remembered what order they were piled up in?”

I pause, because I hadn’t quite thought that through. “I would have had a system,” I say at last with dignity. “And then every time I’d seen the pebbles back at home, I would have remembered—”

I break off abruptly, because if I’m not careful, I’ll say too much. I’ll open my heart too wide; I’ll scare him off.

I would have remembered the most amazing man I’ve ever met.

I would have remembered the most perfect day of my life.

I would have remembered heaven.

“It would have been nice,” I say at last, in lighter tones. “That’s all.”

* * *

As we arrive back in town, I still feel heady, as though I’m in a dream. A blue-skied, filmlike dream, spiked with adrenaline and lust and sunshine. I’m lolling against the hot plastic seat of the car, sipping an ice-cold Orangina we picked up en route. My hair is mussed up, my skin is salty, and I can still feel the imprint of Dutch’s mouth on mine.

I know there’s a delicious free supper waiting for us at the monastery, but when Dutch says, “Shall we grab some pizza?” I nod. I don’t want to share him with anyone. I don’t want to have to explain anything or make small talk. Farida is right, it distracts from the main event, which right now is Dutch.

Dutch parks the car in a deserted quarter of the town, with shadowed squares and stark streets lined with studded wooden doors.

“Found a pizza vendor yesterday,” he tells me as he leads me along. “It’s not a restaurant, it’s just a guy in a booth….Is that OK?”

“Great. Perfect!” I squeeze his hand and we round the corner into a smaller backstreet, even less well lit.

We take a few steps along the street. Ten, maybe. And then, in an instant, everything changes. From nowhere, two teenagers appear in our path. Skinny and tanned, like the guys Dutch was playing football with, but not like them, because they’re sullen and pushing at Dutch and saying aggressive things in Italian. Are they drunk? High? What do they want?

I’m trying to rationalize what I’m seeing, so my brain takes forever to realize the truth—this is a situation. An actual situation. In the space of three seconds, my heart goes from calm to pumping in fright. Dutch is trying to lead me past the boys; he’s trying to be amicable, but they won’t— They’re angry— Why? I can’t even— What—

And now—no, no, please, God, no—one of them has reached into his jacket and I see the heart-stopping metal flash of a knife.

Time stands still. A knife. A knife. We’re going to be stabbed, right here, right now, in this backstreet, and I can’t even move. I can’t make a sound. I’m frozen in utter terror, like a mummified, petrified creature from the Ice Age—

Wait, what? What is that? What’s happening right now?

Before my eyes, Dutch is wrenching the arm of the guy with the knife and twisting it in some efficient practiced maneuver, and somehow he’s got hold of the knife. How did he do that? How?

All the time he’s shouting, “Run, run!” and suddenly I realize he means me. He wants me to go.

But before I can run, the teenagers do. They sprint away, up the street, around the corner, and I sag against Dutch in shock. It’s only about thirty seconds since we rounded the corner, but I feel as though the world has stopped and started again. Dutch is breathing very hard but simply says, “Are you OK?” then adds, “We should get to the car. They might get some stupid ideas about coming back.”

“How…how did you do that?” I stutter as we move along the street, and Dutch shoots me a look of surprise.

“What?”

“Get that knife off them!”

“Learned,” says Dutch with a shrug. “Everyone should learn. You should learn. It’s basic safety. I live in a big city—” He breaks off. “Right. Sorry. No personal details.”

“I don’t think that matters right now,” I say with a laugh that is perilously near to a sob.

“Aria!” Dutch looks stricken and stops to pull me close. “It’s OK,” he says in a low voice. “It’s over.”

“I know,” I say against his firm chest. “Sorry. I’m fine. I’m overreacting.”

“You’re not,” says Dutch firmly. “Anyone would be shaken up. But I think we should keep walking,” he adds, holding my hand tighter as we move on. “Don’t worry. I’m right here with you.”

His voice soothes my jangled nerves and strengthens my trembling legs. As we walk, he starts reading out all the road signs in deliberately bad pronunciation, making me laugh. And by the time we’re in the car, driving back along the coast road, munching pizza from a different vendor, it’s almost as though the whole thing never happened. Except that every time I look at him, my heart melts even more.

He saved my life. He’s hot and he loves dogs and we jumped off rocks together and he saved my life.

We drop the car at the hire garage, then walk the hundred feet or so back to the monastery, letting ourselves in through the massive wooden door. The entrance courtyard is empty and I pause, looking around its tranquil candlelit cloister. It’s like another world from the one we’ve been in. Swallows are wheeling against the indigo sky, and I can smell verbena in the air.

“Quite an afternoon,” says Dutch with a wry laugh. “You came here for a peaceful writing retreat and instead you’ve had an adrenaline roller coaster. Is your heart still thumping?”

“Uh-huh.” I smile and nod.

My heart is thumping. But not for that reason anymore. It’s thumping because of where we are in the evening.

All afternoon I’ve been thinking with anticipation, Tonight…tonight…maybe tonight…And now here we are. The two of us. With an empty night in Italy ahead of us.

As I meet his eyes again, my chest feels constricted with lust. It’s almost painful, this desire of mine. Because we’re not done. We are so not done. I can still feel his mouth, his hands, his hair entwined in my fingers. My skin is longing for his. My everything is longing for his.

“No point joining the others,” says Dutch, as though reading my mind, and his fingers brush against mine.

“No.”

“My room’s at the end of the corridor,” he adds conversationally. “Kind of secluded.”

“Sounds great,” I say, trying to contain the tremor in my voice. “Can I…see it?”

“Sure. Why not?”

Without any further words, we turn and walk along the corridor, our footsteps matching, our fingertips touching. My breaths are short. I’m nearly dying of need here. But somehow I manage to put one foot in front of the other like a normal person.

We get to a wooden studded door and Dutch produces an iron key. He gives me a long look which makes my stomach swoop, then reaches to unlock the door.

“Your personal question,” I say, remembering suddenly. “You still haven’t asked it.”

A trace of amusement appears on Dutch’s face. He surveys me for a moment before leaning forward to kiss me, long and hard, his hands gripping my hips. Then he bends in still farther, gently bites my neck, and whispers, “We’ll get to that.”

Five

Oh my God.

I can’t move. I can’t think. I’ve had barely any sleep. My skin prickles every time I think back over the night we’ve just had.

There’s a rustle of sheets and Dutch turns over, blinking as a ray of light catches his eyes. For a moment we look at each other. Then slowly his face creases into a smile and he murmurs, “Good morning.” He draws me in for a long, lingering kiss, then gets out of bed and pads to the bathroom.

As I flop back on my pillow, my head feels like a marshmallow. All sweetness. All bliss. Dreamy and soft. When Dutch reappears, freshly showered, I say impulsively, “I missed you!” and it’s true. I don’t want to be apart from him for a second. It’s not chemistry we have, it’s magnetism. It’s a pull. It’s a scientific force. It’s inescapable.

But does he feel like that too? Where are we with this? Where do we go from here? I sit up and wait till Dutch looks round from putting on his shirt.

“What now?” I say momentously—then remember that this is what Clara asks Chester as he gets on the hay wagon. For a ridiculous moment I imagine Dutch saying, “When next you see me, Aria, you will know that I am a man of my word!”

But instead he blinks and says, “Breakfast, I guess.”

“Right.” I nod.

I mean, that’s the obvious answer.

As we walk along, brushing shoulders, the morning sunshine dances on our heads and I feel lighter than I have for months. Years. We approach the courtyard and I suddenly realize we’ve been absent since yesterday lunch. It might seem conspicuous; people might ask questions….

But as we join the group around the big wooden table, no one bats an eyelid. It turns out quite a lot of people ducked out of yoga yesterday afternoon—and a few went out to supper at a local restaurant. (Verdict: not as good as the food here, don’t bother.)

So no one asks or guesses or hints at anything. And I’m glad. I don’t want any scrutiny. I want to be able to gaze at Dutch over my orange juice, undisturbed, thinking delicious, private thoughts.

Except I need to share this with the squad. (That still counts as private.) After breakfast I get my phone from reception, citing a family emergency, and head out to the corner of the street, where I’ve heard there’s a patch of good 4G. And after standing there for five seconds, my phone starts to come alive. It’s kind of magical, as though the world is talking to me again.

   
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