5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

I came awake the next day sore and grumpy.

No one had told me unpacking eight steamer trunks would be so tiresome. Back home, Maria would have taken care of it and done so with a merry little song. Okay, maybe no song. Rising to look around at the chaotic room, I had to think that Maria probs hated it when I simply dumped all my bags and trunks. I'd do better when I went home in a year.

My back ached from trying to move a trunk closer to the walk-in closet. Knowing that Donvino had toted them up the stairs made me hard. Rolling over or trying to as said boner was serving as a kickstand, I eased out of bed, feet touching the floor as the sun was just tinting the sky. I'd fallen asleep with the doors open, the lulling sound of the breeze and the water easing me into a deep, exhausted slumber. Jet lag always hounded me for days after an international flight. Then there were the hours spent unpacking. I simply must learn to pack lighter. Maybe only four steamer trunks next time. If there was a next time. If I didn't prove myself to be a mature and uptight man in a year, I'd be scouring the streets of Florence searching for cigar butts in the gutter. Not that I smoked cigars, but the imagery was suitably depressing.

As I unpacked my shoes—two steamers worth, but honestly, how could anyone travel with less?—I'd come up with a plan. I would pretend to be into this olive oil mill silliness. Just long enough to get my father and Henry at the bank to sign off on my trust fund. Once I had that, then I could tell the world to fuck all the way off and open a steamer trunk shop somewhere trendy and far from Italy. Maybe Milan. No. Wait. That was still in Italy. Damn it. They had some really fashionable people in Milan. Okay, a steamer trunk store in Paris. Yes, there we go.

I eased my aching body to the patio, the cooler air moving over the concrete slab and into my room where the ceiling fan would circulate it about. I'd slept well. Probably because I was so done in from all that manual labor. Who knew clothes and boots were so hefty? Probably Donvino since he had muscled those trunks up here. I really should thank him somehow…

A free pass to the delights of your body?

"Perhaps." I giggled and then moaned.

Darting to the patio, I was disappointed that Lucia wasn't there. I dawdled a bit, unused to being awake when the cock crowed, and one was crowing just down the street somewhere. That sound took me back to our other visit here, so long ago. A lifetime really. Mom had been so vibrant then, so healthy, and we'd walked down to visit the chickens on the small farm where Giada bought eggs for the villa. The rooster was big and black with long tail feathers that glowed green in the bright Italian sun. I recalled there was an older man who lived on the tiny farm and smoked a cigar.

He'd spoken no English that I could tell, but I'd been a mere child at the time and those chickens were far more fascinating than some old guy with a stinky stogie. He'd given me treats of some sort. Little filled orange candies. Mom and he talked, her Italian quite good, while I chased chickens until the rooster got tired of my shenanigans and chased me. The old man had laughed, scooping me up into his arms when the irate cock had run me ragged. He'd seemed really brave as he passed me to my mother. She'd shushed me, petted me, and placed me on the ground to point out a little girl close to my age, lingering in the doorway of the farmhouse. The girl was dirty, thin, and smiling broadly at me, chickens pecking at the ground in front of her.

I'd hidden my face in my mother's skirt and then we'd left the farm as I was tired and sulking. I wondered if the orange candy man was still alive. Probably not. Most of the good things about that trip had died, it seemed.

I wiped my eyes, unsure of when the tears had started flowing, and looked out over the garden, then up into the pinks and purples of a new day. Above the city proper, there in the sky, was a hot air balloon. The panels of the balloon were orange and yellow. Gasping in joy much like that little boy I had been, I spun around to tell Mom there was a balloon hovering over Firenze. But Mom was gone. How foolish of me to be so caught up in the past. Still, the balloon was a treat. Much like those little filled orange candies the old man down the road handed sniveling little boys.

Enjoying the sight, I lingered probably longer than I should have as breakfast would be ready soon and I did not want to miss out. Imagine such a thing. Requiring a person to show up at a certain time to eat or leave them hungry. That must be an old person thing. I'd seen a boomer on TikTok going off about how "back in his day" you ate what was served at dinner or you went hungry. Insert eye roll here. When I was a youngster, Maria made me whatever I requested whenever I requested it. No one I knew forced their kids to eat stuff they didn't like. And if the child/teen/young adult showed up after the appointed hours, they were fed warmed-up dinner or had something made fresh. I'm truly not sure how boomers survived their childhoods. What with being spanked, starved, exposed to secondhand smoke on the daily, drinking from hoses, playing on playgrounds with no safety features, and having no car seats or bike helmets. Old folks must have the luck of the Irish to have arrived at adulthood.

Just as I was turning to hit the shower, he appeared. Donvino, he of the biceps and thighs and sparkling eyes. He was dressed similarly to yesterday, different tank top and shorts, both tight as second skin. His ass was total perfection. Drool dribbled out of the lefthand corner of my mouth as he silently made his way to the old mossy door, unlocked it, and passed through.

Suddenly uncaring if I ate or not, I rushed to the shower, groaning a bit as I went. I wasted no time washing. Who knew how long the man of my dreams would be swimming? Seeing him leave the water all soaking wet and lickable would fill up my spank bank account for weeks. I did work a dollop of product into my hair. Just because. Then I streaked into my room, naked, pulled on a pink thong, short shorts of pale pink, a super cute rose-toned hoodie from an Etsy store that had a teddy bear on the front and read ‘Squeeze Me', and that was it. I hurried down the stairs, barefoot, streaking past the dining room, then out the wide doors to the rear of the villa. The grass was soft and thick with dew.

Being a slim, fashionable queer fellow who drew the unwanted attention of hateful gorillas I could sprint really well. Marathons, no, but a short sprint to reach a safe place, I could totally do that. Lucia flew out of one of the low bushes, startling me and making me do a fancy jig to avoid stepping on her.

"No time for belly rubs!" I shouted over my shoulder, but the cat began following me. That made me smile. I looked ahead just in time to avoid slamming into the stone wall that cradled the doorway. Once I passed through, I was in another world, or so it seemed. The river was right there. Like right there as was the dock. And, crushingly, no Donvino. "Damn it," I spat, stamped a foot, and looked up-river for a man swimming. What I saw was a man in a boat. No, not a boat, a skiff, the dark blue one I'd spied from my patio. And rowing that skiff was Donvino.

I sat down on the dock, crossed my legs, and enjoyed the roll of the water under me as I waited for Donvino to make his laps or whatever row people called them. Lucia appeared on my right, her gray tail in the air, her white whiskers tickling my kneecap.

"He'll be back soon," I excitedly told her as I ran my hand down her back.

That, it seemed, turned out to be a lie. Donvino was gone two damn hours. Two hours . What the absolute hell?! Had the man rowed to Rome?! Did this river even go to Rome? I had no clue. Also, my phone still had no internet because someone—cough Aunt Ginerva—had yet to give me the freaking password, so I had to read a book I had downloaded about a year ago. I mean, honestly, the sheer gall of him rowing so far when I was waiting and had my cute on. Men! Another thing that had me chafing was breakfast was now an hour in and here I sat, looking adorable yes, but not dining with my aunt who, I was sure, would have some sort of comment and keep the Wi-Fi password from me just for spite. Even Lucia got bored and left. The cat was smarter than me, it seemed.

I was on my feet and ready to stalk off when he appeared on the water, rounding a corner far upstream, stalling my snit. I hated to waste a snit, so I crossed my arms, tapped my bare toesies, and waited for Mr. I Rowed to Austria to arrive. In all honesty, the closer he got, the less peeved I became. His beauty increased with each powerful stroke of his paddles. Oars. What the hell ever.

When he saw me, he smiled. POOF. There went my aggravation. I waved like a maniac, bouncing up to my toes, as he neared. I'd not used my arm so much since I'd been in Tokyo and Taylor Swift had passed by in a glass elevator going up as I had been going down. Well, and yesterday as I had unpacked.

"Buongiorno!" I shouted as he pulled up next to the dock. He was coated with perspiration. I wanted to lick each salty droplet from his beautifully tanned skin. His gaze roamed over me, pausing at my feet. "I know. I need a pedicure."

The polish was a little worn but still was evident as flamingo a-go-go pink.

"No, I just…your toes are so tiny," he called, the current seeming to help lead his scull to the dock.

"Do you need help?! I always wanted to be a coxswain." I moved to the edge of the dock.

"No, thank you. I am knowing this well."

"Oh, okay." I moved back as he eased closer, one long oar out and resting on the dock. Holding both oars in one hand, he eased his feet out of what appeared to be Crocs—or something similar—strapped to the bottom of the scull. He simply stood up, a little wobbling to be seen, and stepped out of the skinny boat. "You do that so well."

"Grazie," he said, towering over me by at least six or seven inches. His big body blocked out the sun just peeking over the cypress trees. "I have been rowing for a long time. Since I was teenaged. Also, for you to know, coxswain is man who faces rowing team then tells them important things."

"Oh, the guy who yells to stroke. I can do that." I laid the flirt on so thick it was a wonder Donvino didn't asphyxiate on the coquettish cloud. "Yell and stroke."

His eyes widened at that. Now was the time he would either punch me in the nose for making a pass or he would say something flirty in return.

"I think you would be good at both," he replied, turned, and fiddled with the oars, bolting them into place on the metal arm things.

I wasn't sure how to read that reply, so I stood there and gawked as he secured his boat. When he turned to face me, I was innocently watching a pair of mallards paddling up the dock. He knelt on the dock, his head at waist level, and began speaking to the ducks. I crouched down beside him, eager to hear what he was saying as well as drink in his profile. His nose was lovely and aquiline, his cheekbones high, his brow smooth.

"This is Bonita and Bongo. They come looking for corn, which I do not have today," he explained, glancing at me and then winking. That wink was everything. "I do have some in my pocket." With that, he rose, his ass now a mere inch from my teeth—teeth that desperately wanted to nibble the taut orbs badly—and dug into a small fanny pack around his waist. Out came a crushed sports drink bottle and then a handful of shell corn. He pitched the corn into the water. Bongo and Bonita quacked in thanks and then began eating their breakfast. "They know I tease. I feed them every day. They are spoiled and sometimes come into the garden. Signora is not happy when they do for they shit on the paths." That made me snicker. Seeing my aunt stepping in duck pooh was a funny visual. "You are up early today."

"Mm, yes, I didn't want to miss breakfast. Would you like to join us?" I asked, my sight now on his outstanding quads. Good grief, who knew rowing could sculpt such a body?

"Grazie, no thank you. I am not presentable for the signora's table. Also, I eat in the kitchen with my grandparents when I am working."

"Oh." I sighed, vastly disappointed but understanding. He was a sweaty if sexy mess. "Are you not allowed to eat with my aunt?"

"No, it's not so much…my grandmother and grandfather they are…" He paused to parse the right word, which was incredibly cute. I pushed to stand, leaving the ducks to doodle along the riverbank among the tall grasses that swished to and fro with the current. "They are schooled old. You know?"

"Oh yes, old school."

"Sì, yes, old school. They do not think it proper for a man who digs in the dirt to sit with signora to eat."

"I thought you worked at a restaurant," I said, my tummy reminding me that I'd not eaten much yesterday.

"Yes, I do. I work there at nights and here for the days." He seemed proud of that fact. I thought it was sad that the man had to work two jobs to survive. "I like both places very much. The pay is good. To make the Olympic team is very expensive."

"Oh, that's your goal?"

"Yes," he replied, his strong shoulders settling. "I train hard to make the Italian team maybe someday. The committee does not pay athletes to compete, so all costs are for me to carry. I do not mind, though, for it would be an honor to represent my country. Still, the money is skinny right now, so I work and train for someday."

"That's an admirable objective," I said and then grew bold. I touched his muscular forearm. The dark hair crinkled under my fingertips. "Why don't we go eat and you can tell me all about how one gets to the Olympics?"

He gaped down at me. His sight darting to the villa and then back to me. "No, we cannot eat with signora. I will eat with my grandmother in the kitchen. You must eat with signora."

"Oh to hell with all that class silliness. I'll eat with you and Giada then." Brooking no more said about it, I linked my arm with his and led him back to the villa, chatting away about whatever came to mind. Donvino felt quite stiff beside me, his replies clipped.

We ran into my great-aunt in the back garden. She was sitting at the table by the pergola, Lucia on her lap, reading a newspaper over the top of her glasses. When she heard us, her sight lifted from the paper, a soft smile appearing on her lips obviously for Donvino. As always, she was perfectly dressed and coiffed, this time in a charming V-neck summer dress with a bold black and white pattern, white sandals, and tiny black pearl earrings.

"Buongiorno," Donvino hurried to say, ducking his damp head before peeling my fingers from his forearm. "I escort Signor Arlo from the dock where he helped me train this morning. Is there still food for him I hope for I make him maybe late?"

"Yes, but just. Sit, Arlo. We have things to discuss. Donvino, please tell your grandmother that Arlo is eating his breakfast in the garden with me and to bring him a good selection. Then please feed yourself."

"Grazie mille, signora." Donvino gave me a nod and then disappeared inside, his gait strong and sure as he melted into the dark interior.

"Arlo, sit, please."

I blinked back to reality, sighed, and sat just as Giada appeared with some cappuccino, a dish piled high with fruit, yogurt, a small bowl of grainy cereal with tiny red berries, and a cornetto with a small pot of cherry preserves by its side. I chucked my phone onto the table.

"Thanks."

"In Italian."

I heaved a hearty sigh. "Grazie," I begrudgingly mumbled as I got settled. Giada beamed at me and then scurried off, probably to serve her grandson, who was sitting in a kitchen like some sort of hired hand. Which, yeah, I guess he was. Still though…

"Gee Bonetti 1936," my aunt said as she petted her cat. I looked up from smearing cherry preserves on my still warm cornetto, my mind going a mile a minute.

"Sorry?" I paused with my knife loaded with preserves.

"The internet password."

"Oh. Oh! Thank you. Nineteen thirty-six. Is that the year you were born?" I teased because obviously that was an obscene amount of years in the past and no one could possibly still be alive if—

"It is, yes." I stared open-mouthed. "Please, shut your mouth before a fly enters it." I snapped my jaw closed. "You have a comment, maybe?"

"Yeah, I do. You look amazing for your age."

She was clearly startled. "Grazie mille. It is good for you to help Donvino with his training. He works hard. His life has not been an easy one like yours. Charity brings its own rewards, Arlo."

I grinned and reached for my phone lying beside my plate. Her silver-tipped cane came across the table with ninja speed, cracking my knuckles.

I yelped, jerked my hand back, and stared at her in shock and pain.

"Gracious people do not spend the meal with their faces in their cell phones."

Oh. My. God. Seriously? "Aunt Ginerva," I said with just the proper amount of subtle ridicule for the boomer across from me. "Everyone eats and scrolls."

"Not here, not at my table. I find it ill-bred to ignore those you are eating with for whatever silly penguin plucking a ukelele video you may be currently enthralled in." I rubbed my knuckles while staring at my phone as a person who was trying to quit smoking would gaze upon a pack of Marlboros. "When you are entertaining clients on behalf of Bonetti Farms Olive Oil, they would take offense to being left to make their own conversation as would any young man you may wish to date."

"Trust me, no young man I date would care if I were checking my Instagram feed."

"Then you are dating the wrong kind of man as has been made evident by your latest scandal." Right, okay, no point in arguing, and to be honest, as much as this kind of killed me to admit, the old gal with the reflexes of Bruce Lee might be onto something. "Now eat. We have much to discuss. I have found you a tutor."

I shucked off the niggle about my choices in sexual partners and slid back mentally to something else we'd touched upon. Somehow, I got stuck on the notion that being nice to someone was considered charity. Was that because Donvino was a working-class guy and I was somehow above him so being kind was some sort of altruism?

"Why can't Donvino eat with us?" I asked around a mouthful of warm pastry.

"He was not clean," she replied matter-of-factly. Okay, sure, yeah, he was probably pretty ripe after rowing all the way to Pisa or wherever he had gone. "Also, he is a member of the staff so he does not sit at our table."

"That's some bullshit," I said after swallowing. Her silver brows rose. "I mean that's utter bullshit. It's classist as hell."

"There are rules for people, Arlo, something that I am aware that you know little about since you were left to roam free like a jackal for your formative years."

I lowered my pastry. "Right, well, maybe I am a wild beast, but at least I don't make good people sit in a tiny dark room by a wood fire to eat their daily rations of gruel."

That made her laugh. Lucia snuggled her nose more tightly under her tail. "Such a dramatic boy. That you get from your mother. She always wanted to be a starlet on the grand stage."

She did? I didn't know that. My father rarely spoke of my mother unless it was to remind me that I was disappointing her when I fucked up, which was a ton. So yeah, lots of disappointment.

"This is not the fourteenth century," she said once her laughter had calmed.

"Could have fooled me," I stated as I drizzled honey on my bowl of yogurt.

"My staff eat the same foods as we do, Arlo. They simply do not come to my table fresh from a workout and reeking of sweaty man, nor do they wish to. Alessio and Giada know the rules of society, and now it is your turn to learn them. There are ways that people of good standing behave. We will work on getting those lessons set up. For now, I wish to inform you that your first Italian lessons are today at noon with Se?orina Vittoria Capello, a dear friend of mine. Alessio is driving me to one of my appointments, therefore I have arranged for Donvino to take you to your lesson. Please be on time and pay attention."

"Oh cool. I'll be good, I promise."

She studied me closely, those deep brown eyes sharp as a raptor but she said nothing. Instead, she started talking about olive mills and the various kinds of olives we grew. I zoned out almost immediately to fantasize about the ride into town with Donvino. I wondered what kind of car he drove. I hoped it was a small one with only one seat so I would have to sit on his lap. They made them, right?