Page 43 of Casanova LLC

I grabbed his arm to slow him. “Wait… are you saying you haven’t painted in five years?”

He looked past me, out the window. “Let’s move on while there’s a break in the weather.”

“Alessandro.”

“No.” He steered me out the door. “Nothing I didn’t end up painting over.”

“Why?”

“I lost it, that’s all.”

“Lost what?”

“The drive, the passion, the connection. It. Are you cold?”

I wasn’t. I was the opposite at the moment. “I don’t understand. How do you just lose that?”

He put his hands in his pockets. “It happens.”

“It happens? That’s what a kid says when they flunk their math test. What could possibly?—”

“Maybe your husband had something to do with it.”

I stopped walking.

He slowed. And turned back to me. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “That came out wrong.”

“No, it didn’t.” I wrapped my arms around myself. “You’re right.” I looked down at my feet. “I don’t know why he reneged on your deal. But he did. And I’m sorry.”

He groaned slightly. “Don’t apologize. Forget it, please. I’m sorry I brought it up again.”

But I wasn’t done. “He changed when he got sick. Was forced to confront his mortality, you know? He did some bad things. As if he could outrun death. He became reckless and desperate and selfish.”

“Right,” he said, tentatively. “But this happened before that.” He extended his hand to me. “Never mind, seriously.”

“Did you…” I’d wanted to know this for five years and now that I was about to ask it, I resisted knowing. “Tell him about what happened between us that night?”

His hand dropped. He looked at me. “No. Why would I? Nothing happened.”

I hugged myself tighter. “Right. Of course.”

He looked like there was more he wanted to say. But he stepped closer and pulled me into him again, his arm around my shoulder. I let my hand reach up and rest on his wrist.

The rain increased, as did our pace, to the point where we couldn’t have talked even if we’d wanted to.

We came to a dead end, the path simply dropping off into a canal. But right before we reached the end, Alessandro went left, ducking under a timber that cut across a narrow passageway. His hand came back through and beckoned. I took it and, fingers interlaced, he pulled me through.

I stood to full height and realized it wasn’t a passageway. It didn’t lead anywhere. It was just an enclosed space, no bigger than a hall closet. My back was pressed against one wall and he seemed to hover against the other.

We looked at each other, breathing hard, dripping wet. There was a smile, but there was also a moment of awe: we were here, together, and how had that happened? Either one of us could have said something. I could have made a joke about him only taking me to the finest places; he could have commented on how I looked good, all flushed and damp.

But instead, he put his hand on the wall next to my head and leaned forward. His steamy breath bathed my face. He dropped his lips to mine, mouth open. As he lingered there, he stepped fully against me, his chest pressed to mine. Together, they lifted and lowered in harmony, our breaths mingling. But then he closed his lips and brushed them over mine like a feather. At the needy sound that came from my throat, he deepened the pressure, slowly devouring my mouth with his.

We lost minutes like this, finally, finally kissing. I was so consumed with the feel of him, the taste of him, the heat of him, that I didn’t notice the sound of the rain had disappeared until he pulled back, only his mouth, and only far enough to speak. “Let the untangling begin.”

“Gentlemen, start your engines.” I pushed against him. “Is that a starter pistol in your pocket or are you?—”

On a groan, he took my mouth again. My hands went to his hair, his to my hips. After another minute, his lips paused at my temple as we both breathed. “Thinking about anything?”

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