Chapter 10

Dust and debrissalt my eye while I knock on the bathroom sink pipe with the wrench I found out in the shed behind the house. I'm not sure what I expect to happen, but after fifteen minutes trying to loosen the fitting, I've decided I'm not a plumber.

It's day three at Casa Rossi, and I've discovered I'm sharing the property with a brown tabby cat who slinks around the backyard. Pretty sure he's a stray. I tried to pet him when I saw him yesterday, even though every fiber of my being was yelling at me not to. He must have smelled my past-trauma-from-Fancy fear because he tried to take my face off, convincing me he's really a rabid racoon. Do they even have racoons over here? I don't know, but he's twice the size of Fancy the fluffball, as Grams lovingly used to call her.

The cat and I have come to a mutual understanding after two days of stare-downs. He won't attempt to enter the house, and I won't chase after him with the broom I left at the back door…mostly because I found the broom mangled this morning.

It was serendipity Harrison and I caught Signora Rossi here that day, according to Daniella, who stopped by yesterday to drop off some paperwork for me to sign. She and Lorenzo had arrived that morning with the papers to transfer the house from his grandmother to him. He wants to renovate it and turn it into a bed-and-breakfast for the farm. But Nonna changed her mind at the last minute. If Harrison and I had arrived ten minutes later, I might not be here looking at a rusty old pipe, but on a plane back to the States.

My phone buzzes on the countertop. I clank the pipe with the wrench again in frustration and wiggle out from beneath the vanity. I reach up and press the green button.

"Well, it's about time. I was wondering when you were going to call," I say irritably.

Barbara pulls on her cigarette before speaking. "Not everyone can jet off to Italy, Summer. The time difference isn't exactly convenient."

"I'm actually shocked you're up this early."

"Your friend Cara came over and woke me up," she gripes, taking another puff. "How is Italy, anyway?"

"It's been good, beautiful actually! The landscape is incredible, and the food is to-die—"

"I'd love to hear all about it, but I'm a little hung over. Stayed out late with Janice karaokeing. Can we catch up later?"

"Um, sure, but I need to talk to you about some ground rules while you're staying at my place."

I wait for her to respond, at least a groan of irritation, but I'm met with silence.

"Barbara, hello? Can you hear me?"

My home screen is black, the call disconnected. What the hell? I didn't even get a chance to tell her I'm staying longer, not that she'll care. I call her back, but it goes straight to voicemail. "Barbara, call me back, please. I'm staying in Italy a little longer, so I need to talk to you."

I turn on the bathroom taps again to see if water will miraculously come out, but it doesn't. I send a quick text to Nonna Rossi.

Me:Nonna, the water isn't working. Can you send a plumber over?

Nonna:Sí, sí. I fix. Un idraulico.

I stare at her response, hoping Nonna doesn't actually come try to fix this herself. I look up the Italian word and sigh in relief. Idraulico means plumber. Perhaps I was too impulsive in deciding to stay here. Maybe Cara was right for thinking I was crazy to do this alone. Am I having an Italian midlife crisis?

I was planning to get out of the house and explore this morning, but I have to get this water situation handled first. I bang on the pipe one more time and groan. This is hopeless. I sprawl out on the bathroom floor, wallowing. I stare at a brown stain on the ceiling and contemplate. How did I even get here? I should be biking and drinking wine right now, listening to the A-team gloat about how easy the ride was, not lying on someone else's bathroom floor, feeling sorry for myself.

What was I thinking when I said yes to Nonna? What was I thinking coming to Italy in the first place?

"Stop wallowing, Summer. You're in Italy, for fuck's sakes, make the most of it." I toss the wrench and it lands with a loud thud beside me. I throw my arm over my eyes, the glaze of tears threatening to erupt. I miss Cara and the comforts of home. I miss…

"Do you always talk to yourself, Summer?"

I yelp, scrambling to my feet. Lorenzo casually leans against the bathroom doorframe while my heart tries to leap out of my chest. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?"

He straightens. "The kitchen door was unlocked."

"You can't just barge in here," I say indignantly, swiping the tears from my cheeks.

"I didn't barge, I walked in. Besides, I was told to come over and help our guest with the water, but it's fine if you don't want my help, ingrata."

I fold my arms over my chest, my nostrils flaring at his ingrata comment. Even I can figure out what that means. I glare at him sidelong. "You are going to fix my plumbing?"

He raises an eyebrow, his mercurial eyes looking smoke gray as they burn into mine. His crisp white button-down tucked into jeans with a brown leather belt is snug enough that I can get a general idea of what he's packing. It's ten times better than Michael's in Lycra. I wonder what Lorenzo would look like in biker shorts. No, concentrate on the task at hand, Summer. You need water, not sex with this hot Italian.

"Eyes up here, piccola randagia. Can you show me the problem? I don't have much time." His lips twitch.

My cheeks burn, realizing I was zoning out on his crotch. Jesus, I need to have sex soon. It's been too long. But not with Lorenzo Rossi. Definitely not with him. Even though he's incredibly sexy and looks like he should be in a Ralph Lauren ad, he doesn't seem particularly fond of me, not that I can blame him.

I clear my throat. "I tried to turn on the faucet, but nothing is coming out."

Lorenzo walks over and turns on a tap. I huff in exasperation that he has to test my theory. Typical. "See?" Crossing my arms tighter, I lean against the wall. He ducks under the vanity and my eyes automatically rove over his butt in his tight jeans. Cara would approve. I quickly avert my gaze and stare at the stain on the ceiling when he glances over his shoulder.

"Have you tried the kitchen sink?"

"It worked this morning."

"Let's recheck it." With a nod, he stands back up, pointing to the wrench on the floor. "Were you using that?"

"I thought if I banged it on the pipe, it might dislodge whatever has it stopped up."

We both bend and reach for the wrench, but he beats me to it, swiftly scooping it up. I can't help but breathe in a combination of leather and mint and something distinctly Italian, transporting me to dappled sunlit woods. Dammit, why can't he smell like sweat or rotten olives? It would definitely diminish this zing of attraction I'm feeling toward him.

"After you." He gestures for me to leave the bathroom first. I walk out into the hall and peer at the open door of my bedroom. I hope he didn't poke his head inside on his way up here because it's a mess from unpacking. Clothes are flung haphazardly all over my unmade bed. I don't need his prying eyes or judgmental stares. I rush across the hall and quickly close the door with a bang, my chest rising with the burst of exertion. A cracking noise like wood splintering, echoes all around me. I scream as the door crashes down into my room, taking the frame and part of the surrounding wall with it.

"Summer!"

"Wha…what just happened?" I blink to clear my vision, a cloud of white dust floating around me. I turn in a circle to survey the damage, drywall dust coating every surface, including me.

Lorenzo grabs my arms and quickly scans my body. "Are you hurt?"

I shake my head, at a loss for words. He's so close, I can see the tiny flecks of gold in his greenish-gray eyes. He brushes drywall dust off my cheek, his thumb stilling. His brow furrows and he steps back, dropping his hand. He turns and surveys the wreckage, clearly not impressed with the state of the door and surrounding wall. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know what happened…all I did was close the door. Is it normal for a door, the frame, and part of the wall to come down?" I squeak, pointing to the door and crumbling plaster on the ground.

"I'm not worried about the door, randagia. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Uh, I'm not sure what to do about this." I wave a hand over the mess, avoiding the intensity of his hazel gaze. "Can you fix this too?"

He grumbles something in Italian, surveying the splintered doorframe. He runs his hand along the broken drywall. More debris and dust crumbles to the floor. At this rate, the entire wall will need to be repaired.

"I'm sorry. I don't understand what you're saying."

Lorenzo's shoulders rise and fall as he heaves a sigh. "This house is ancient. My Nonna and Nonno Rossi used to live in it before my grandfather passed away. Nonna is stubborn and has a hard time giving things up. You might want to find another place to stay."

"Ah-ah, I see what you're doing, trying to get me to move out. Well the answer is no. Not happening." I stubbornly return to arms-folded-over-my-chest position.

He shakes his head. "That's not what I'm doing, but if you insist on staying here, then you should move to another room. I'll send someone to clean this up." He waves at the mess before he starts down the staircase. I trail behind him, still dazed by the door falling off its hinges. "There's a lot that needs to be updated, but now that you're living here, plans have changed."

Point one for Lorenzo.

"Well, you can still make those changes if you need to," I hedge, following him into the kitchen. "I don't want to mess up your plans. You know what would be a great addition? A swimming pool."

Lorenzo crouches down in front of the kitchen sink and sends me a devastating smile over his shoulder.

"A swimming pool? Nice try. Nonna won't budge. No changes to the house while you're living here. Besides, you don't need to have a bunch of Italian men constantly hitting on you and going through your things."

"Oh, I doubt that would happen," I scoff.

He lifts an eyebrow. "Clearly you have not met many of my fellow countrymen."

"Speaking of the house, did you know there's a cat that hangs out in the backyard?" I peek out the kitchen window and the cat in question is sitting on the back stone wall, staring at me like he knows I'm ratting him out.

"Who, Razzo?"

"Razzo?"

"Sí, it means Rocket. He showed up one day and Nonna Rossi took him in. Says he reminded her of Nonno. She named him Razzo because he used to run around the backyard like he had a rocket attached to his tail. He splits his time between here and the villa. He's an excellent mouser."

"Oh God, mice live here too?" I arch my neck, and Razzo flicks his tail.

"It's an old farmhouse, of course there are mice here." Lorenzo picks up a toolbox that was on the kitchen table and gets to work while I have a stare-down with Razzo.

My nose twitches. "I don't think he likes me very much. Does he have fleas?" I ask.

"Are you not a cat person, piccola randagia?"

"No, Fancy made sure of that." I turn from the window and lean against the counter. "Why do you keep calling me randagia? Is that like a type of cheese or something?"

"Che cosa?" he asks, his voice muffled.

"It sounds like cheese. Randagia…Mozzarella…Gouda…Parmesana."

He withdraws his head from underneath the sink. "What are you talking about?"

"Randagia, you keep calling me that."

With a shake of his head, he smirks. "Piccola randagia in Italian means little stray."

My mouth opens slightly. "You think I'm a stray? Like Razzo?"

"I think you and Razzo have more in common than you realize. And it's pronounced parmigiano, not parmesana."

Heat crawls up my neck. I sink down onto the bench at the kitchen table, at a loss for words. He thinks I'm a mangy stray cat that can't pronounce parmesan cheese correctly?

"What happened to your hand?" he asks, ducking back under the sink. He flattens out on his back, his long legs stretched out.

"Biking accident." I turn my bandaged thumb over. "Your English is flawless, by the way."

"I went to study in the States at UC Berkeley, and then I worked on our olive farm in California for a year to learn all aspects of the business."

"Wow, small world, I'm from California too. Where's the olive farm?"

"Sacramento. We have one in Spain as well. My brother runs it with his wife's famiglia. Where are you from?"

"Burlingame, just outside the city. I'm a graphic designer for Granite Scholastics." I pull my dark hair up into a ponytail and secure it with a tie. "Actually, I don't know what the hell I'm doing anymore," I mumble to myself.

"You don't enjoy being a graphic designer?"

I watch his muscular forearms flex while he tightens the pipe. I imagine those arms, muscles straining, holding himself over me. I scrub my hands down my face, trying to eradicate the image from my brain. Focus, Summer.

"No, I do, I did. I just feel like something is missing. Textbooks aren't exactly…exciting to design."

His muscles ripple again, and I'm right back in my Lorenzo fantasy.

"So, why are you here?"

His abrupt question snaps me from my daydream like a splash of cold water to the face. "What do you mean, why am I here?"

"What brought you to Italy?" He cranks something on the pipe. "Is your family from here? You have that Italian look…olive skin coloring with your dark hair."

"No family here. I came for a bike tour."

"Alone?"

"Yes, alone. I'm quite capable of traveling by myself."

"Take it easy, randagia. You're like a porcospino…all prickly. How did you find yourself in Tuttoscano? They don't usually ride through our town."

"I was involved in a bike accident, and the closest hospital was here."

"Ah, I see. You were with a man the other day."

"Harrison?"

"Harrison," he grunts, tightening a nut. "Is he your boyfriend?"

I laugh. "God, no. Just a friend. I could never date a guy that screams like a girl when a bird flies by."

Lorenzo raises an eyebrow as he picks up another wrench. "Noted."

"So anyway, I ended up in a tangle of bikes with him when he suddenly stopped, thus the dislocated thumb. We had to leave the tour and ended up in Tuttoscano. I saw the ad in the local paper you were hiring with a place to stay at the farm. I wasn't ready to return to California, so here I am."

He sits up, wiping his hands on a cloth, his eyes solemn. "So here you are."

"I'm sorry I'm being prickly. It's been a strange turn of events for me and I haven't quite found my footing. I also hope there are no hard feelings between us. I had no idea you were trying to get Nonna Rossi to sign the house over to you. It's beautiful, and to be honest, I was just here out of curiosity, but everything kind of fell into place, and it seemed like fate…"

The words die on my tongue as his brows scrunch together and his lips flatten.

"Fate." He shakes his head and issues another soft grunt. "Look, Summer, it's not a secret I wanted the house to convert into a bed-and-breakfast. I'm not thrilled we now have a houseguest living here, but I have harvest coming up in the fall that I have to prepare for, so the house can wait. I don't have any ill feelings toward you, okay? When you leave, Nonna will be ready to hand it over, and I'll start working on it." He stands up, brushing off his jeans before collecting his tools.

"Can I ask how old you are, Lorenzo?"

"Why, are you interested in me, cara?" He folds his muscular arms over his chest and winks.

Heat blossoms on my cheeks. "What? No, most definitely not. Very much un-interested."

"Do you enjoy women, then?"

"What?" I splutter. "No. Just because I said I'm not interested in you doesn't mean I'm into women."

"Sorry," he says, ducking his head. "You were very adamant about how unattracted you were to me, I just assumed."

"I take it you're not used to women denying your advances?"

He grins, and it takes my breath away. "I'm thirty-two, randagia."

I nod. Four years apart is nothing. Ugh, why am I even entertaining this? Nothing will happen between me and Lorenzo. I have a better chance of going out with Dr. Bianchi.

"Ride bene chi ride ultimo, Summer." He waves as he exits the kitchen. "Your water should work now."

"Wait, you're not going to test it? Reedy ben-e…what the heck does that mean, anyway?" I yell at his retreating form.

"He who laughs last, laughs best. It's an old Italian proverb."

"But I'm not laughing!" I stomp my foot.

"Arrivederci, randagia!" he shouts from the foyer before the front door slams.

I get up and quickly turn on the taps. Water flows smoothly from the faucet. I rush upstairs and into my bathroom. I gasp as I look at my reflection in the mirror. I look like I had a fight to the death with Betty Crocker. Drywall is in my hair and all over my clothes. There's a smudge where he rubbed the dust away from my cheek. All the while I was drooling over Lorenzo, I looked like a powdered donut…patetico.

I reach out and turn on the taps. The water flows here as well. Damn it. Another point for Lorenzo Rossi.

I pay thecab driver and step out onto the cobblestone street. Soaking in the midday sun, I inhale the fresh air and release it. An older woman with a handkerchief tied over her head passes by, looking at me curiously.

"Buongiorno," I say enthusiastically. "Um, mi scusi, dove eel mer-cato?" I know I'm completely butchering, asking how to get to the market, but hopefully she doesn't mind. I tried practicing the phrase this morning before I left.

She points down the street and says something rapidly in Italian before bustling off.

Okay, not Google Maps, but at least I've got a general direction. I head down the street, excited to be out on my own. I eagerly greet every person I pass. For the most part, everyone is friendly in return. I round the corner and stop suddenly, thrilled by the open-air market in front of me. An older gentleman grumbles in Italian, stepping around me, as I let out a little squeal of delight.

The rainbow of colors overwhelms my senses in the most glorious way as I stop by flower, fruit, and veggie stands. Home-made goods under red umbrellas beg to be sampled as people bicker and barter for a better price. Everything looks so fresh and appetizing. I take a few pictures to send to Cara and Damien.

I buy fresh bread, cheese, fruit, and vegetables after trying all their samples. I marvel over blueberries the size of marbles, velvety green bib lettuce, and a stand with fifteen varieties of tomatoes. The merchants are patient while I count out the euros. I even splurge on some sunflowers, a candle, and a bottle of wine, because why not? I'm in Italy!

A dress at a corner vendor catches my eye. It's a simple linen sundress, but if I'm staying in Italy and working at the olive shop, I'll need something more than athleticwear and my two dresses I brought. The old Italian woman selling them measures my waist and speaks to me in Italian, even though I tell her I can't understand her. I just nod and smile as she hands me a dress in my size. I pick out two more and she beams, quickly wrapping them up in tissue.

I pay for the dresses and wander past an art gallery, a pasticceria, and another dress shop called Carmella's. The colorful, designer dresses in the window are fun, but a little too pricey and fancy for everyday wear. Two young Italian men whistle at me across the street.

"Bella! Over here! O, signorina!"

I giggle and duck my head, ignoring their catcalls. I hastily turn the corner and drop my bags at a little table outside a pizzeria, suddenly starved after the day of shopping. I order a glass of wine and a small pizza while watching the locals and tourists stroll by loaded down with their own goods. I decide Italians aren't so different from Americans, they're just better dressed and have magnificent bone structure.

I smile at a woman sitting with her two small children at a nearby table. Pizza sauce is smeared on their cheeks while they chitchat and giggle. The hum of the romantic Italian language buzzes all around me while I sip my red wine. I wish Cara were here to experience this with me.

The server places the pizza in front of me. It's not like American pizza. I look over at the other diners and note they eat their pizza with a fork and knife, so I do the same. My eyes roll back in my head as I taste the gooey cheese and the spicy red sauce. I hum with delight while I sit in the afternoon shade, sipping my red wine, and soaking in my surroundings. They say the state of Virginia is for lovers, New York is the city that never sleeps, and Paris is the city of love. But Italy—gorgeous, breezy, lazy afternoons sipping wine, Italia—is the country of pure pleasure. If only every day could be this perfect.