Page 39 of The Wrong Move

“I worry about you just as much as you worry about me,” he says.

“Why is that?”

“In a different country living with strangers. I can’t protect you when you’re that far away.”

“Oh, Dad.” I hug him. “Thank you for wanting to protect me.”

“I have to keep my little girl safe.” He squeezes my hand. I stare at his wrinkled skin, tanned all year round with white spots along his arm from sun damage.

I swallow before saying my next words. “I’m home now. There’s no need to worry about that any longer.”

Mom enters the room and hands Dad a glass of water and some pills. “You should go paint, Gigi. You’re on a schedule.”

“I will later.” I squeeze Dad’s hand. I love having this time with him.

“I’ll come and sit outside with you,” Dad says. “There’s nothing on the box I want to watch.”

Dad prefers to be outside, so I leave him to set up my easel and add an extra chair for him in the shade.

After lunch,Dad goes back inside so he can have a nap. The breeze lifts and carries the leaves in small gusts, so I move my art to the studio upstairs.

My piece is almost finished, and I have ideas for another. Unfolding my second easel, I set it up next to the canvas of painted bougainvillea in a rainbow of color. I take a shot and send it to Isabella.

My ideas for the next spring/summer fashion line. The second canvas will be gardenias on a cornflower blue background. The third will be blue hydrangeas. What do you think?

I need her to love it so I can get another contract. It’s close to midnight in Southern Italy, and Isabella will be dining on the streets, drinking wine. I can picture her laughing and can see the wine glass always in her hand. There will be pizza, bread, and all the things I miss.

I take a step back to look at the outline I drew while my thoughts ran away. It’s not bad. The gardenia petals need more detail.

Mom is adamant I fulfill my dream and return to Italy. She knows if they need me, I’ll be on the next flight home. I want to spend this time with Dad. How many years do I have while he remembers me? It’s quality time I won’t get back, and I’ve already lost five years studying and living in Italy.

And then there is Byron.

Falling for his charm was not part of the rules of coming home. The way I wanted him, yearned for him the moment we were together, it lacked class.

The plan was to play hard to get. To slowly uncover the man he has grown to become. My heart is still stuck on the guy I loved in my teens. I am no longer that girl, so there’s no reason he would be the same guy. While I loved the guy who knew all the answers in class, he wanted to be a jock and known for his athleticism, not his intelligence. With it came years of rejection and ridicule of not being good enough on the court—too skinny, not tall enough, not strong enough.

I remember his pain.

Byron Hendricks has great genes. His family did not inherit their wealth by luck. They are all geniuses and have a good work ethic and determination. Everything the Hendricks family touches turns to gold.

“It’s perfect, Gi. Stop frowning.”

I turn at the sound of Byron’s voice.

He comes to stand beside me, resting one hand on my shoulder. “You don’t need to change a thing.”

“Thanks. I was thinking about something else.”

“Do I want to know what?” I study him for a moment. Those beautiful blue eyes flick over my face, his pink cheeks a clue he recently finished training. His forest scent with a hint of lemon wafts around me, informing every cell in my body that Byron is standing close to me.

“I was thinking about getting to know you again… how you’ve changed and how you feel now about the old Byron from school.”

His eyes don’t leave mine. “And… did I pass some test?”

“It’s not a test,” I emphasize. “More an understanding of everything Byron while I’m coming to terms with unfinished business between us. I’m asking myself if you’re still the Byron I knew in high school or this guy who is just as hot but with more muscles and an even bigger attitude than the younger version?”

Byron grabs a chair and drags it close, then sits on it backward so he is facing me. His arms fold and lock over the back. Resting his chin on his hands, it’s his turn to study me. “Your painting offered you answers?”

---