“They are bold and confident.”
“Bold, yes, confident, no. What is the truth?”
“They seem excitable.”
“Still, this is not what your first thought was.”
I’m not sure if he’s trying to get me to call them spoiled brats. That was one of my thoughts, but actually not the main one.
“They seem to be troubled and are lashing out in anger,” I tell him sincerely.
He nods. “Yes. That is the truth. You can see how your first choice, the word cute, wasn’t very honest.”
“They are cute, though,” I say, picturing their features and then studying their brother’s in front of me. There are some key differences—the twins have lighter hair—that make me wonder if perhaps they are step or half siblings. But that’s just another question to add to the pile.
“I suppose they are cute,” he says, as if the subject is weighing him down. For a moment he looks extremely tired but then it lifts away. “Now tell me, how do you think you would be able to teach English—something you have never done before—to these two troubled, angry children?”
I swallow. I actually don’t have a good answer to that. I feel like I’ve been totally caught unaware and I’m not sure if I can bullshit my way out of this one like I have on other job interviews.
I clear my throat and sit up straighter in my chair. “I don’t know, to be perfectly honest with you. I don’t really know the first thing about children. I know English but I’ve never taught it. The last thing I taught was how to use Excel and PowerPoint to the person who had taken over my job. Which I was fired from, by the way. I’m not even sure if I want to move to Capri to take this position, should it be offered to me, and I’m really not sure if this is the job for me, considering the children have issues, your housekeeper has issues, and I can guarantee that you have issues. No one has discussed money, or where I’m supposed to live, or even where the hell I’m supposed to sleep tonight. This house is borderline creepy and I won’t be surprised if you tell me it’s haunted. And I can’t make tiramisu worth shit.”
His eyes brighten at that. It’s almost as if he wants to smile but can’t.
“Then why are you here?” he asks slowly.
“Because I don’t have any money. And I don’t want to go home.” I can’t even afford to go home, but I don’t tell him that part. “And even though this job sounds a lot like trial by fire, I really like a challenge. I think it would be good for me.” I raise my chin even higher. “We both don’t think I’m right for the job. I’d like to prove the both of us wrong.”
He stares at me for a beat but his handsome face gives me nothing. I can’t tell if I’ve impressed him or bombed the hell out of this interview. Oh well, if anything, at least I got to see some charming, creepy villa on the cliffs of Capri up close and ogle a really hot Italian Stallion. That’s something to cross off my bucket list.
He presses his lips together and nods at the door. “Miss MacLean, thank you. Would you mind telling Felisa to come in? I would like to speak to her now. Alone.”
“Where should I go?” I ask.
“You can wait in the kitchen. Feel free to help yourself to water.”
Water. How generous.
I give him a stiff smile and then quickly get out of my chair, glad for an easy exit. I open the door, just as heavy as it looks, and see Felisa standing across the hall, practically motionless.
“He wants to speak with you alone,” I tell her.
She’s trying to read my face but I’m not sure what it’s giving her. She walks into the library and shuts the door behind her.
I collapse against the white wall and let my body sink to the cold tiles. I breathe out a sigh of relief that it’s over, though my nerves are still hissing with adrenaline.
Now, I wait.
CHAPTER THREE
Felisa and Signor Larosa are taking a long time in the library. I don’t know why. Either you hire someone or you don’t. Then again, I guess teaching two troubled children requires more thought than the average job, and I certainly didn’t sell myself. I basically told him I needed the job because I needed money. Oh, and that I wanted to prove us both wrong, which was true, but mainly that I wanted to prove him wrong since he seemed to have made up his mind about me. Not exactly the most compelling reasons to hire someone.
Tired of sitting on the tiles like some reject, I get up and wander into the kitchen. It’s twice the size of my parents’ kitchen. (My mother was so proud when we got the house all those years ago because she could finally bake her heart out.) This kitchen is part modern with gleaming chrome, and part rustic—thick marble countertops and vibrant pottery. I think about having a glass of water after all when I hear feet on the staircase. I turn to see Alfonso standing at the entryway of the kitchen, staring at me with his hands on his hips.
Ah shit.
The little boy rattles something off in Italian and it strikes me that he still has his uniform on. Hasn’t he ever head of playtime? And just what the hell is he saying?
“Hi,” I say to him, trying to smile as big as I can. “I’m Amber.” I point to myself. I point to him. “You’re Alfonso.”
He frowns, and he’s the spitting image of his brother. He’s going to grow up to be one brooding, glowering model dude himself.
“I know,” he says in the cutest, angriest, most heavily accented English ever. “You are to teach us English.”