Page 74 of The Wrong Move

I swallow and sit up straight. “I’m sorry. I must have dozed for a while.” As I stare out to the lit-up streets, my thoughts catch up.

“For the last hour,” Byron jokes. “Not even the potholes or bumpy roads woke you.”

“You get used to them.” I adjust my seat as my senses catch up. Byron is driving at ten miles an hour. Stringed lights shine over restaurants, and chairs and tables line the walkway. There is barely enough room for the car on this one-way road, whichisn’t much of a road but more like a cobblestone path. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It’s not what I expected,” he murmurs as the street narrows further.

I’m bursting with excitement for him to see my villa. “That’s a good thing, right?” We slow to almost a walking pace. “Park anywhere here. We need to walk the rest of the way.”

The look Byron gives me makes me giggle.

A few minutes later, we collect our bags from the trunk. I grab my flowers from the back seat, hold my heels by the straps, and walk barefoot the few hundred yards along irregular alleys to my villa.

It’s after two in the morning, and the alleys are pumping with romantic music, laughter, and song. While I love LA, I feel most alive here in a small historic town in Northern Puglia.

“We have to take the stairs,” I tell Byron. Patrizia, the elderly lady who oversees my villa, is usually asleep as soon as the sun goes down. Byron carries our two small suitcases, and I have my roses and purse. His gaze lifts to the façade—an ancient, weathered limestone wall facing the street with yellow halos from the lamp-shaped wall lights. From here, I see what has caught his eye and assume his thoughts. Above us, a wooden balustrade is nailed to the wall over arched wooden doors. “The balustrade is for safety, so they can open the doors for fresh air.”

“Not a balcony,” he murmurs. His gaze roams the wall encompassing the minute, compact residences as though they were a single building.

He follows me to the terraced alley behind the building.

“Mi scusi.”Excuse me.We bump and pass people on the stairs. I smile, excited to be here, as we weave the windy stone steps dividing buildings with terracotta potted flowers, pink bougainvillea creeping toward the sky like an abstract painting on the wall. Single chairs, blue or yellow, sit beside doorways.Lifting the hem of my dress so I can lift a leg, I lead Byron to the second level, where the stairs level out to a string of balconies with a low stone wall. We stop at my entrance, which has dead leaves scattered over it.

What was I thinking, bringing Byron here to impress him? It’s been empty for months and is far from perfect.

“It needs a sweep,” I say apologetically.

“Not the first thing to come to mind.”

I lean over and place my flowers and purse on the ground before easing my rear onto the stone wall and lifting my legs over, groaning as the dress restricts my movement.

“Shit.” My dress.

“Giana, allow me to help you,” Byron says, dropping the bags over the ledge and almost scaling it like a hurdle.

“I have done this many a time. Double back to what you said. What’s the first thing that comes to mind?” He watches me as I lift an upturned pot to retrieve a key.

“That anyone could easily break into your villa,” he emphasizes, staring at the pot.

I love my caring man. “It’s safe here. People respect each other. If anyone were to break in, it would be Patrizia leaving food, and she has a key.”

“I suspect Patrizia is not a sexy young woman who has a smile that lights up a room and a body that sends men crazy with desire?”

I push the key into the lock and turn to Byron before unlocking the heavy wooden door. “No,” I whisper. “She is not since she is a widower with no children and in her mideighties.”

He was referencing me?

I turn the key, open the door, and touch the wall for the lights. A dusty smell wafts around us. Flick. Flick, flick. No power.Shit.

“Maybe I missed a bill. I’ll pay at the post office tomorrow.”

Byron pulls out his cell and turns on the flashlight. He shines it around the room.

“It’s a little dusty,” I say quickly. “I’ll open the windows.”

I stride to the other side of the room and push open the shutters that open against the exterior wall. A buzz of energy from the nearby streets fills my room. Excitement is in the air, along with shouts of laughter and the scent of herbs and pizza. Leaning over the ledge, I peer down into the alley below. Byron joins me, and his gaze lowers to the street instead of up to the stars.

“It smells divine.”

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