Page 40 of No One But Us

“I like hearing you speak Italian,” he says. “Saysomething.”

“Hai dimenticato di comprare illatte.”

“That sounded dirty,” hesays.

“You just have a dirty mind. I said, ‘You forgot to buymilk’.”

He laughs. “Say somethingelse.”

“Il mio pastello egrande.”

“What was that?” heasks.

“My crayon islarge.”

He gets a sly grin on his face. “Je promets que mon crayon est plus grande,” he says, close to my earagain.

French, spoken too quickly for me to follow. He’s right. It sounds positivelyfilthy.

“I promise my crayon is larger,” he translates with a smile so dirty I find myself squeezing my thighstogether.

I’m having the best moment of my entire summer, until it’s ruined by a chair sliding between James’ andmine.

“I’m Domenico, the owner,” the guy says in Italian, talking only tome.

For one horrible moment I worry that he’s going to card me, but instead he angles the chair, shutting James out entirely. “My waiter is in back telling us all of your flawless accent,” he says, “so I had to hear it formyself.”

“I think he was being kind.” I smile. “I just spent a little time there as akid.”

“We don’t get a lot of Italian speakers here,” he says. “And certainly not beautiful ones.” The smile he flashes makes me want to edge my chair fartheraway.

We speak for a few minutes about the coast, and then he asks if I want to see their garden after the meal. I agree with some trepidation, sensing he has something he wants to show me there besides organically grownherbs.

“What was that about?” asks James when heleaves.

I shrug. “I guess they don’t get a lot of people in Rehoboth who speakItalian.”

“Yeah,” he says, his jaw tight. “I saw the way he was looking at you. I’m pretty sure this isn’t just about his desire to speakItalian.”

I wish he was wrong, but I’m fairly certain he’s not, especially when Domenico sends over several bottles of wine we didn’t order. My guess is he’ll be asking me to pay in other ways later during mytour.

But I forget about that as the meal progresses, too focused on James beside me. He seems to lean closer as the night goes on, his thigh pressing more heavily against mine, his hand brushing my fingers…or perhaps I’ve just had enough wine that I can think of nothing anymore but his proximity. Fireworks explode overhead once it’s dark, and I see now why James insisted on getting us a table outside. We tip our heads back towatch.

“This must seem kind of lame after watching them in DC every year,” hecomments.

I breathe in deeply, my contentment residing in my chest like a physical presence. “I like it. I don’t remember ever having a better4th.”

I don’t look at him as I say it, but I sense that he’s no longer watching thefireworks.

“Me either,” he says, his voice barely audible over the explosion aboveus.

After the fireworks, we sing “Happy Birthday” and Ginny opens her gifts. From Max, a 10-inch vibrator and analbeads.

“Seriously, dude?” James asks. “In front ofme?”

“Ginny is on the cusp of blooming, sexually,” Max argues. “It’s a cause for celebration, notshame.”

Domenico returns as we’re paying the bill and asks if I’m ready for my tour. I rise reluctantly. I’ve had plenty of experience fending off advances, but it doesn’t mean I relish thetask.

---