Page 60 of Home for Christmas in July

“Seven’s perfect,” Noelle tells her.

I help her out of the car with the unwieldy box and hustle to the front door of the tiny cottage. Ivy waits until I’ve punched in the code and unlocked the front door to pull out and drive behind the guesthouse to the garage where we park our personal vehicles.

I usher Noelle into the sparkling cottage. It’s been cleaned from top to bottom and a giant Minerva amaryllis in a silver pot graces the small kitchen island, its red tipped petals and white star center adding a playful holiday touch. She smiles and runs a finger over a petal.

“I haven’t been out here in years. I forgot how cute it is.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat. We remodeled the bathroom, and the shower is a masterpiece. So take off your clothes and enjoy yourself. I mean?—”

She cuts me off with a kiss. “I know what you meant. And I will.”

I laugh then grow serious. “But after your shower, before dinner, you’re going to tell me what happened with Dante Bianchi.”

Her green eyes are somber as she nods. “I will.”

She heads for the bathroom and I pace around the small cottage like a tiger prowling in his cage. While the water runs in the next room, Holly brings over some clothes for Noelle and then I make a list of people who I trust. It’s a long list, and I’m glad for that.

The water shuts off. A minute later, Noelle emerges from the bathroom. She has a towel wrapped around her hair and another, larger one, covers her body. Through sheer willpower, I ignore my body’s reaction to her standing, practically naked, mere feet away from me.

“There’s a bag of clothes on the bed,” I croak.

“Thanks,” she chirps, then disappears.

The image of her dropping her towel fills my head, and I drive it out with an alphabetical list of resorts. I’m at M for Mandarin Oriental when she reappears in the living area. Her damp hair is piled up on top of her head in a mess of red curls and she’s wearing a soft-looking pale purple, long-sleeved top and a pair of faded jeans that hug her curves. Her face is bare of makeup and slightly flushed from the hot shower. She looks vulnerable, young, and so freaking scared.

“Feel better?” I ask around the lump in my throat.

“Much.”

She crosses the room and curls up in the corner of the small loveseat with her feet tucked up beneath her. She pats the cushion, and I join her, turning sideways on the other end of the divan so we’re facing each other. Even from here, she smells like lemons and vanilla.

“Dante Bianchi,” I prompt.

She closes her eyes for a moment, and her long lashes brush her cheeks. Then she takes a breath, opens her eyes, and catches her lower lip between her teeth. After a moment, she starts talking.

“Let me get this whole story out without interruption, okay?”

“I’ll hold my questions till the end,” I tell her wryly.

She smirks. “Wiseacre.” Then her expression changes. “Dante Bianchi was my master’s program advisor. He was also, coincidentally, my supervisor for the research position I had the summer before the program was supposed to start. At first, he was fine. Charming, even. He flirted with me, but I didn’t think anything of it. For one thing, it was Italy. I think the men are required by law to flirt with any woman who has a pulse. And for another, he was in a position of authority over me. The university’s code of conduct was clear about the boundaries for relationships—and that would have been out of bounds.”

She’s about a minute into this story, and I’m already breaking my promise not to interrupt. “If it hadn’t been, would you have been interested? I’m not jealous,” I assure her. “Just trying to get the full picture.”

She considers the question for a moment, pursing her lips,then shakes her head. “No. He was a little too intense for my tastes. And I really was laser-focused on getting my master’s. I wasn’t looking for a relationship or even a fling.”

“Got it. I’ll try not to interrupt again.”

She nods and picks up the thread of her story again. “As the summer went on, the flirting turned into something more like harassment. He’d pinch my butt when I walked by. Made a lot of comments about my body. Just gross stuff. I told myself to ignore it, but he was relentless. And while I could put up with it for the summer, there was no way I wanted to deal with him on the regular for two more years once the program started.”

I clench my fists and dig my fingers into my palms but manage to keep my mouth shut. She pauses to take a deep breath. Her pulse is visible in her throat.

“So I made my first mistake. I went to the international students’ office and asked for help switching my advisor. I told them why, thinking it would be kept confidential. They agreed to assign a new advisor, but they told Dante what I’d said.”

“That’s on them, not you,” I tell her roughly.

She gives me a look. “Try harder not to interrupt or I’ll never get it out.”

I clamp my jaw closed.

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