“It’s easier for me,” I tell him, honestly. “I guess I’m kind of going by how I’ve been taught.”
A rare smile glimmers across his lips. “But you are barely more than a child yourself.”
I want to laugh. I throw my hands out to the sides. “I told you, I’m twenty-four. Just turned it last month.” I pause. “And you’re only twenty-nine. You’re not even thirty yet. We’re practically the same age.”
“But you look very young,” he says.
“It’s the hair,” I explain.
It looks like he wants to reach out and touch it—his hand moves slightly—but he doesn’t. “Yes. And your face. It’s a very innocent face for someone with such wild hair.”
I’m not sure what to say to that at first. I feel like he’s paying me a compliment, which is a rare thing. I want to clutch his words to my chest and hug them and never let go. But then my mouth opens and I say, “I only look innocent, believe me.”
He takes that ballsy comment in stride and moves away from me toward the door. “I’ve been quite busy this week. I wanted to apologize for that,” he says. He pauses and looks at me over his shoulder. “I thought perhaps it might be nice to do something different for the last day of the week.”
“Like what?”
“Can you swim?” he asks. “Do you like to?”
I would have thought that would be an extremely loaded question coming from him but he says it casually. “Uh, yes I can swim. And I love to. I haven’t since I’ve been in Italy, though.”
“No?” he asks, brows raised. “We will have to change that, then. Sometimes I take the twins to the beach. I haven’t done that for a while now. I was thinking we could go now and pick them up from school. Give Felisa a night off. Does that interest you?”
I nod. Hell yes it interests me. No teaching and an evening at the beach? Count me in.
“There aren’t many beaches on Capri, and they are not like the ones you have in America. I have an aunt who lives in Florida and it is not the same at all. Very rough stones here. But the water is warm and so clear you can see the bottom without goggles. The beach I take them to is by the lighthouse, Punta Carena. It is the only beach that has sun all day, until it sets.”
“How do we get there?” I briefly imagine riding on the back of his motorcycle, my hands wrapped around his chest. Maybe we can stick the kids in a sidecar.
“I’ll call a taxi to meet us by the Piazzetta and I’ll call the beach as well. You must reserve a spot ahead of time.”
What kind of a crazy-ass beach is this? I nod anyway. “Okay, let me just throw together a little bag.” I follow him out into the hall and while he goes to make his call I pop in to my room next door and start packing a tote with a towel, bathing suit, sunblock, hat, and my Kindle.
Ten minutes later we’re saying goodbye to Felisa, who looks tired but relieved, and I follow Derio up the path through the lemon trees and through the gate to the road.
We walk along the Via Tragara at my pace, though his long legs could carry him much faster. He’s got his shades on and another fashionable outfit—blue untucked dress shirt, knee-length tan cargo shorts, tan Converse shoes. He slips a cigarette in his mouth and lights it.
“Does no one tell the Italians that smoking is bad for you?” I ask.
He smirks at me. “They do. We just don’t care. We like all of the bad things.” He inhales, his nostrils flaring, then breathes it out. “Smoking, racing, drinking, sex. All bad. All very good.”
And is that sex-with-a-woman sex? I want to ask but as I’m staring at him, despite his loner tendencies and his fashionable ways, I’m just not getting that vibe. Sometimes his eyes seem to smolder with something, though it’s probably wishful thinking on my behalf.
“Tell me, Amber,” he says, playfully pronouncing my name. “What are your bad habits?”
“Bad habits?” I repeat.
“You must have some,” he says.
I ponder that and pull my shades out of my bag. The sun is hot and glaring off the sea in the distance. “I guess I eat too much,” I tell him honestly. “I try not to, and I’m always worried about it. So I guess that’s a bad habit, too. Worry. I worry about a lot of things. I’m really bad with money. I spend recklessly. I’m impulsive with things and don’t really think them through. I also make snap judgments with people and I know I shouldn’t. I guess I used to think I was entitled but I got over that one pretty fast. I’m stubborn. I think I know more than I do. I tend to look for split ends in my hair and pull them apart. I pick at my nail polish. I don’t exercise as much as I should, mainly because I hate exercise. When I have wine, sometimes I have too much. I forget to put on sunscreen. I kiss all the wrong boys.” I pause. “I’m pretty sure I’m just a person composed of nothing more than good intentions and bad habits.”
“Wow,” he says quietly. “That is a lot. I didn’t really expect you to be so honest. Most women—most people—are never honest about their faults. But really, it sounds more like you are more human than made of bad habits. Though I don’t really understand the last one. You kiss all the wrong boys. How do you know who the right boy is?”
I raise my shoulder. “I don’t know. I haven’t met him yet.”
“Like the story with the princess and the frog.”