I cock my head at him and keep smiling. “Well, I hope so.”
“Where you from? America?”
“Yes, I am. From California. Do you know where that is?”
“You are a movie star?”
Now my smile is genuine. I shake my head. “No, I’m not.”
“Is it because your face is too small?”
I can’t help putting my hand on my cheek. I do have a small face.
The little jerk has a smug smile on his face. I’m trying to think of an appropriate insult to hurl back at a seven-year-old when I hear the door to Signor Larosa’s office open. A second later, Felisa is looking at us with a wry expression on her face. She says something in a warning tone to Alfonso that makes him run away and then beckons me with her finger to follow her. I feel like I’m going to the principal’s office.
Back in the library, Signor Larosa stands at the French doors at the front of the room, staring at the sea. Felisa and I stand by his desk but don’t say anything. I wonder if maybe I should clear my throat or something when he speaks.
“Do you really think you can handle this job, Miss MacLean?” he asks without turning around, his voice low and foreboding. I can tell he wants me to say no, but as difficult as it sounds, it’s also not rocket science.
“Yes, I do,” I tell him.
He sighs and then turns around. Now that he’s standing up I have a much clearer view of him. I know why my first thought was that he was a model: He’s dressed impeccably. Fashion in men isn’t something I really notice, unless it’s a hipster who’s trying too hard, but Signor Larosa’s style looks elegant and effortless and just plain cool. He’s wearing a blue blazer with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows and a white dress shirt. A thin orange-and-blue-printed silk scarf is knotted around his neck, just visible beneath his collar. I’d been focusing too much on his face before to even notice. His long legs are clad in stone-colored, slim-cut denim and his shoes are blue Converse to match his jacket. Like most men here, he seems to eschew socks.
He’s also taller than I thought, maybe six feet, with a slim but athletic build. His pants hug his hips just enough to outline a bit of a visible bulge. Or maybe it’s just the lighting in here. Or maybe I’m just a pervert.
And again, I’m aware that I’m gawking at him. Was I supposed to say something else? How much time has just passed? Am I being really obvious? I jerk my eyes upward.
He purses his lips, his brows drawn together. I stare at him dead-on, keeping my face as attentive as possible. I can feel Felisa’s eyes looking between the two of us.
Signor Larosa walks toward us, surprisingly light on his feet for such a moody man, hands behind his back. He stops behind his desk and gives me an exaggerated nod.
Please don’t look at his junk, please don’t look at his junk, I beg myself. My eyes have been known to have a mind of their own around the male species, especially when tight-ish pants and/or big appendages are involved.
“Congratulations, Miss MacLean,” he says. “You have the position if you so wish to receive it.”
His statement begs for innuendo but I’m too much in shock to really notice.
So I say, “Seriously?” Because he does seem like the type of man to mess with you for his own enjoyment. Not that I could imagine him enjoying anything.
“I am very serious,” he says, unnecessarily. His long fingers wrap around the back of his chair and he leans against it slightly, still watching me. “I would like you to start tomorrow. You are more than welcome to stay the night. Felisa will make up your room.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I say, and he raises his brows at me. I blunder on. “I’m happy that I have the job but I’m not accepting it until I know a few more things. For one, what are the hours? Are room and board part of the deal, and if not, will I make enough money to rent a place here on Capri? Is there even a hostel or a cheap backpackers in the area?”
Felisa snorts beside me. Signor Larosa looks at me like I’m the child who needs lessons of some sort.
“There are no such places on Capri, not for the prices I am sure you’re looking for,” he says. “If you have the option of another place, you are free to take it, however it would be best if you stayed here. We have the extra room. That way you would be a part of the children’s lives outside of their lessons.”
“Like a nanny?” I ask, and I know I sound horrified. I’m already wrapping the ends of my curls around my fingers in anxiety.
“Felisa is the nanny,” he says. “Your job is to teach the children English for two hours every evening. On occasional Saturday afternoons, Felisa may ask you to watch them while she does errands. That will be worked out ahead of time. Your room and your meals will be included, if you so wish. Though perhaps with Felisa’s cooking, you may want to make your own.”
Oh my God. Did he just crack a joke? I look at Felisa, who doesn’t look impressed. Not that that’s anything new.
He goes on. “There will be an extra allowance of one hundred euros per week for you to use for whatever you wish.”
I do quick calculations in my head. Legally, I have to be out of the country in two months. I spent two weeks in the UK, which doesn’t count toward the European Union’s tourist visa, but I’d already spent one month in Holland, Germany, and France, plus other parts of Italy. Which means I can only save up eight hundred dollars for a plane ticket at this rate, and that is not going to be enough to get me home.