Home > Love Your Life(8)

Love Your Life(8)
Author: Sophie Kinsella

I’m slightly wishing I looked more Italian right now. All the Italian staff at the retreat have such glossy dark hair and smooth olive skin, whereas my skin freckles in the sun. I’m what they call “fine-featured,” which can seem like an asset until you see a luscious nineteen-year-old girl with blunt bobbed hair and a snub nose and rounded, dimpled shoulders—

No. Stop it. I shake my head impatiently to clear my thoughts. Nell would say I’m being a moron. She would have no time for this. At the thought of Nell, I automatically think of Harold—and before I can stop myself, I’m summoning up the Harold folder on my computer.

Scrolling through photos of him calms my heart a little. Harold. Beloved Harold. Just seeing his bright, intelligent face makes me smile, although even the video of him trying to get into the laundry basket can’t fix all my problems. As I shut the folder down, I’m still twitchy and uncertain. It’s been that kind of day.

The morning session was a blur. While all the other participants discussed their writing goals and made studious notes on daily routines, I was focused on Dutch. He was sitting between Scribe and Booklover when I arrived (damn), but I took the chance to sit opposite him.

Our eyes met a few times. He smiled. I smiled back. When Farida mentioned confrontation in fiction, I made a jokey martial-arts gesture at him and he laughed. It was kind of a thing.

As we disbanded for lunch, I felt 100 percent hopeful. I also had a plan: Bag a seat next to him, pull out every flirtatious trick I had, and, if all else failed, ask blatantly, “How do you feel about holiday romances?” (If he looked appalled, I could pretend it was the plot of my next novel.)

But he didn’t turn up. He didn’t turn up!

How can you not turn up to lunch? Lunch is part of the package. It’s free. And delicious. Nothing made any sense.

Then it got worse: He didn’t turn up to the afternoon yoga session either. Farida even came up to me and asked, “Do you know where Dutch is?”

(Note: She asked me. This says people have noticed we have a connection. Although what good is a connection if he’s not here?)

At that stage I gave up. I thought, He’s left. He’s not interested. In writing or me. Then I cursed myself bitterly for having been distracted this morning, because, after all, this course wasn’t cheap. I decided to refocus, forget love, and do what I came here to do: Write. Not think about holiday romances. Write.

I sat on my bed, staring at my manuscript printout for a bit, wondering if Chester should get off the hay wagon or if maybe the hay wagon should catch on fire. Then I thought: What if Clara hides on the hay wagon and she gets burned to death? But that would be quite a short, sad book—

And then the miracle happened. I heard a voice through my bedroom window, which looks out onto one of the cloistered courtyards. It was Booklover, exclaiming, “Oh, Dutch! We thought you’d gone.”

Then I heard him replying, “No, I just took off for the afternoon. How was yoga?”

Then they had some conversation I couldn’t hear properly, and Booklover said, “See you at supper,” and he said, “Sure thing,” and my heart started pounding while my manuscript slithered to the floor.

And now hope is dancing unstoppably round my body. I close my laptop, spray on a final spritz of perfume, tug at my indigo pajamas, then head through the candlelit corridors and courtyards to the paved garden where supper is served. I can see Dutch already—and an empty chair beside him. I’m having that chair.

Picking up my pace, I reach it just before Austen and grab it with a viselike grip.

“Why don’t I go here?” I say in the most nonchalant tone I can muster, and quickly sit down before anyone can comment. I breathe in to compose myself, then turn to Dutch.

“Hi.” I smile.

“Hi.” He smiles back, and my insides crumple with desire.

His voice does things to me. It stirs up reactions in all kinds of places. And it’s not just his voice—his whole presence is setting me alight. His eyes look as though they already know what I want. His body language is strong. His smile is irresistible. As he reaches for his napkin, his bare forearm brushes against mine and I feel a tingle throughout my body. No, more than a tingle. A craving.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, leaning over on the pretext of pouring him water—and for the first time I inhale his scent. Oh God. Yes. I want more of that too. Whatever combination of hormones and sweat and soap and cologne that is…it works.

A waiter has poured us both wine, and Dutch lifts his glass to toast mine, then turns to face me properly. His gaze is intent and focused, as though the rest of the table has disappeared and it’s just us two.

“So,” he says. “We can’t make small talk.”

“No.”

“I can’t ask you anything personal about yourself.”

“No.”

“The more I’m told I can’t do something, the more I want to do it.” His dark eyes are fixed fully on mine and I catch my breath, because I’m suddenly imagining what else he might want to do. And what else I might want to do.

Unhurriedly, his gaze unmoving, Dutch sips his wine.

“I’d like to know more about you.” He leans forward and lowers his voice to a whisper. “We could break the rules.”

“Break the rules?” I echo, shocked. I feel as though I’m in a nineteenth-century novel and a gentleman has asked if he might write me illicit letters. Dutch laughs, seeming tickled by my reaction.

“OK, you don’t want to break the rules. How about we ask each other just one personal question?”

I nod. “Good idea. You start.”

“OK. Here’s my question.” He pauses, running a finger round the rim of his wineglass—then looks up. “Are you single?”

Something seems to flash through my body. Something joyous and strong and urgent all at once. He is interested.

“Yes,” I say, my voice barely working. “I’m…Yes.”

“Great.” His eyes crinkle at me. “That’s…Glad to hear it. Now you ask me a question.”

“OK.” My mouth flickers into a smile, because we’re playing a game now. “Let me think. Are you single?”

“Oh yes.” There’s an emphasis to his answer which in another conversation I would pick up on—but I’m out of questions.

“So now we know everything,” I say, and Dutch laughs.

“Everything for now. Maybe we ask each other one question every night. That could be our ration.”

“Sounds good.”

We’re interrupted as a waiter comes to give us plates of pasta, and I take the opportunity to gaze at Dutch surreptitiously again, at his strong jaw and dark lashes, and at his tiny endearing crow’s feet, which I didn’t notice before. I don’t know how old he is, I realize. I could ask him tomorrow night. That could be my question.

But, then, do I care how old he is? No. No! I don’t!

I feel suddenly exhilarated. I feel liberated! I don’t care about the facts or the details or what his profile might be on Match.com. He’s here and I’m here and that’s all that matters.

“Wait, I have another question,” I say, as Dutch turns back from passing the olive oil along. “I think it’s allowed….Where were you this afternoon?” I shoot him a mock-reproving look. “You ditched yoga!”

“Oh. Right.” He takes a forkful of pasta, looking amused. “I’m not a yoga fan, to be honest. I’m more of a—”

“Stop!” I raise a hand. “Don’t tell me! Too much personal information!”

“Jeez!” exclaims Dutch, looking for the first time genuinely frustrated. “How are we supposed to talk, even?”

“We’re not,” I point out. “We’re supposed to write.”

“Ah.” He nods. “Touché.”

“Or, in your case, kick the shit out of things,” I add, and Dutch laughs.

“Touché again.”

I take a mouthful of orecchiette, which is the local pasta. It’s served with greens and rosemary and tastes sublime. But while last night I couldn’t stop rejoicing over the food, tonight I can’t stop rejoicing over this delicious, tantalizing conversation. Or non-conversation.

Dutch is silent for a few moments, munching pasta, then says, “Actual fact, I hired a car and went exploring down the coast a little. There are some coves…nice villages….It was fun.” He swallows his mouthful, turns to me, and adds carelessly, “I was thinking of doing the same tomorrow. You want to come?”

* * *

As we bowl along the coastline the next afternoon, I feel giddy. How has life fallen so stunningly into place? How do I find myself being driven through gorgeous Italian scenery, the sun blazing down, the radio playing, next to the most perfect guy in the world?

I’m trying to take an intelligent interest in the beautiful, stark landscape around us, but my attention keeps being drawn back to Dutch. Because he just gets better and better.

He drives confidently. He doesn’t get stressed out by being lost. Five minutes ago, he asked an old guy for directions in a terrible mishmash of English and bad Italian. But his smile was so charming, the guy ended up summoning an English-speaking woman from inside his house, who drew us a map. And now here we are, at a tiny cliff-top car park, with nothing in view except olive groves, rocks, and the endless blue Mediterranean.

“What’s this place called?” I ask, so that I sound intelligent. (I don’t care what it’s called.)

“No idea,” says Dutch cheerfully. “But the woman knew where I meant. I came here yesterday. It’s fun.”

“I intended to learn Italian before I came out here,” I say regretfully. “But there isn’t time for everything….Do you speak any other languages?”

“I try,” says Dutch. “But they don’t stick.”

He sounds so unapologetic, I can’t help smiling. A lot of people would resort to bullshit at that point, but not him.

   
Most Popular
» Magical Midlife Meeting (Leveling Up #5)
» Magical Midlife Love (Leveling Up #4)
» The ​Crown of Gilded Bones (Blood and Ash
» Lover Unveiled (Black Dagger Brotherhood #1
» A Warm Heart in Winter (Black Dagger Brothe
» Meant to Be Immortal (Argeneau #32)
» Shadowed Steel (Heirs of Chicagoland #3)
» Wicked Hour (Heirs of Chicagoland #2)
» Wild Hunger (Heirs of Chicagoland #1)
» The Bromance Book Club (Bromance Book Club
» Crazy Stupid Bromance (Bromance Book Club #
» Undercover Bromance (Bromance Book Club #2)
romance.readsbookonline.com Copyright 2016 - 2024