Page 49 of The Hitman

“You’re disgusting,” I say, shaking my head. “Those are my hair products, by the way.”

He laughs, and then I hear the sound of him peeing into the toilet.

I take that as my cue to find something to do elsewhere. I move into the kitchen. It’s beautiful. I had a Pinterest board planned for this trip that changed so many times I hardly remember what was on it as Ryan’s management changed our plans to fit his celebrity lifestyle. At first, I’d wanted to spend our honeymoon in Rome, but Ryan’s agent thought that was too much of a tourist city and convinced him that he’d never get any privacy if we went there. She might have been right, but for months, I lived with a simmering resentment that Ryan had vetoed our honeymoon plans without even discussing it with me. We didn’t talk for nearly a week; not that he noticed since he was shooting a film in Tucson at the time.

After that, I became obsessed with the idea of renting a small cottage in Tuscany and spending a week completely alone, just the two of us exploring a gorgeous village with lush, green rolling mountains as our backdrop. His PR firm vetoed that option because apparently, Ryan wasn’t yet the caliber of star who could disappear to some rustic village in the middle of nowhere and drop off the public radar for so long. They even tried to convince him a little honeymoon photoshoot might help his fans warm to me. Maybe if they saw me as someone to envy, they’d treat me like they treated other celebrities.

I took so many exceptions to this line of thought, not just personally but professionally. I work in PR as well. The idea that Ryan had to vacation in luxury and style based on someone else’s ideas of who he was — and on our honeymoon, no less — was the exact opposite of the kind of advice I gave my clients. I told Ryan so many times throughout our relationship that if he wanted to be an actor with longevity, he needed to be exactly who he was; advice he never took, by the way. Actually, now that I think about it, even though I had just as much experience as his current PR rep, he never valued my input. I had never stressed the point at the time because I firmly believed in separating our personal and professional lives, but in hindsight, it stung; I’d just refused to acknowledge it at the time.

Also, in hindsight, I guess I was wrong. Based on what I know now, it made much more sense for Ryan to project a version of who he was to the studios, the celebrity entertainment news channels, his fans — and me — because Ryan wasn’t the wholesome Midwestern action star on the rise in a loving, long-term relationship. He was a cheating asshole. Who knew? Not me.

Anyway, that long mental tangent is because this kitchen reminds me of a picture I posted on my Pinterest board during the Tuscan Villa phase of our honeymoon planning. Red slab tile connects the open kitchen and dining areas and the counters. The cream walls make the dark wood and red and brown accents around the long room pop. The mix of old and new looks exquisite to me, just like something out of my Pinterest finds.

There’s a huge dining room table between the two rooms. It’s rustic, like someone split a tree open and threw some varnish on it and some chairs around it. But it’s the entire wall of glass at the back of the house that I love the most. The views of the garden and the vineyard bordering the property are breathtaking no matter where I stand. This kitchen is just my style, but it isn’t Ryan’s, which is why the apartment we share in New York — the apartment I haven’t thought about in days — looks like some modern spa retreat, instead of a rustic family home where we plan to raise kids.

It’s ridiculous that a kitchen can make me think so much about my previous life. But I’m realizing that with the thousands of miles between Ryan and me, and without the distraction of my phone, work emails, and a packed schedule, I have lots of time to think about things that I probably should have thought about years ago.

“We don’t have any food,” Giulio says as he walks into the kitchen.

He startles me, and I cry out again.

He rolls his eyes as he walks past me into the kitchen. “Stop yelling. It’s worse than the tears.”

“Shut up.”

He laughs and opens the refrigerator.

I watch his muscles flex under his clothes as he moves. I’m particularly partial to whatever is going on under his t-shirt, but I don’t want to shortchange his ass. There’s a lot going on there that I’m into now that I have time to really look without pretending that I’m not. I hadn’t realized just how built he is. He has a swimmer’s physique, which makes a lot of sense and maybe explains those very small swim briefs. Or maybe he’s just European. Either way, I heartily approve.

Giulio moves around the kitchen with my full attention, and I realize that I’ve never seen him naked. A new regret blossoms in my chest. I know I agreed to give up on lists, but my brain rejects that premise. A page turns in my head. “See Giulio naked” is the first thing scrawled at the top of this new list for a new phase in my life.

He makes a tsk-ing sound as he opens the cupboards and quickly closes them. When he turns to me, he leans against the refrigerator and crosses his arms over his chest. It’s similar to the pose he’d been in while sleeping. It’s much less adorable now, though. Without the blanket, I can see the way his dark hairy forearms and biceps are covered with ropey muscle. I can fully take in how sexy he looks first thing in the morning, with his hair sticking up in every direction, five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw, and his eyes dancing as if he’s finally relaxed after the stress of our trip.

“There’s no food,” he says again. “Would you like to go into the village?”

I can’t help myself, but I brighten at that single word. “There’s a village?”

“Si,” he says. “I told you last night. San Gimignano.”

I remember those last two words. Well, I remember how they felt against my lips and how his mouth tasted on my tongue. I don’t shiver, but my entire body tenses with expectation at the memory. I can tell by the way his mouth tips into a lopsided grin that somehow, he noticed my reaction.

“I didn’t realize it was a village,” I say weakly.

“It is. And do you know what the village is famous for?” he asks me.

I shake my head, too afraid to speak. I don’t want to say something else and sound stupid again.

He pushes off the refrigerator and walks toward me. There’s something about this man that’s like electricity to me. Even the sound of his bare feet slapping against the tile of the kitchen floor makes my body thrum. He gets close, close enough that I can smell the lingering minty scent of toothpaste around him. Close enough that I can almost taste it. I tilt my head back, silently offering my mouth to him.

He smiles down at me and whispers a single word. “Wine.”

I’ll blame this next part on my still groggy brain, on the last few very confusing days, but it takes me nearly a minute to understand that that single word isn’t a command. In that minute where I think that it is, I imagine all the things he could do to make me whine. And I want him to do those things to me.

But then I realize what he’s saying, and I brighten again. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He shakes his head, “I’m not. There are vineyards all over this region, and the wine here is world-famous.”

“Then what are you waiting for? Hurry up. Get dressed,” I tell him excitedly, slapping his arm with my hand. It hurts, actually. He might be shorter and not as built as Ryan, but he’s just as strong. Maybe even stronger.

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