Page 13 of Duke for the Summer

“Wow,” Nate said after a moment. His thumb was making small circles on Jacopo’s palm, and his eyes had a feverish glint to them. “That’s an epic story, man. I wondered if that bird on the family crest thing was an owl. I’ve always liked them.”

“I know.” Jacopo let his gaze trail over Nate’s shoulder.

“I guess it’s fate or something.”

“Fate.” Jacopo chewed his lip. Nate was pale and lean and glorious against the bedspread, his hair a tangle across the pillow, his eyes luminous. There was another tattoo just visible on his hip, peeking out from beneath the waistband of his pants, and Jacopo wanted to sink his teeth into it, or maybe throw himself out the window.

“I feel like–” Nate murmured, a kind of forced casualness in his voice. His hand had unlaced itself from Jacopo’s and was on his leg, idly tracing the seam of his trousers. “I feel like I could–do something really stupid right now. If you wanted me to.”

God, he was drunk. He was drunk and heat was radiating off of him and the room was full of his smell, and even though Jacopo desperately, with all his heart, wanted to do something stupid as well, to break his own life open and dance on the pieces–

He stood, putting distance between them.

“I should get you some water,” he heard himself say, from far off.

“Oh,” Nate said, as if he had just now remembered that water existed. “Yeah. Probably a good idea. Also I might puke. So.”

5.

It was official: the sun hated him, and so did Jacopo.

Nate’s next few days were spent inside, waiting for his skin to stop peeling and trying to avoid the castle’s caretaker. Jacopo would go out in the morning, running errands on his little silver-blue vespa, and Nate would do–whatever. There wasn’t a lottodo, besides lurk in the hallways, comb the faces in the many family portraits for some semblance of his own. Nate knew intellectually that it was his castle, but it still felt wrong somehow, exploring the building on his own. He didn’t belong there; he was a creep, a weirdo, etc. So he stayed in his room mostly, watching TV on his laptop or working out. In the afternoons he would sneak down to the kitchen, where a burnt-out hearth from centuries ago sat alongside a chintzy 70’s-era fridge that was always stocked with delicious things: cheeses, meats, tomatoes that tasted like the sun, tupperwares full of pasta in spicy sauce. Then it was time to work out again, doing stair climbs until his thighs shook and sweat streamed down his back, the animals and cherubs and knights on the walls watching him in silent judgment.

Nate had caught Jacopo watching him, too, more than once, from the bottom of the stairwell, an expression of quiet horror on his face. They hadn’t really spoken more than a few words to each other since that disastrous first night. Nate had woken still-drunk, his skin feeling like a thousand bee stings, and, judging by how little Jacopo now seemed to want to do with him, he’d done something incredibly embarrassing.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to reach out. But Jacopo wasjust as standoffish as the courtyard cats, sneaking around in Nate’s periphery and regarding him with suspicion. Even when they were both in the castle, Nate in his chambers or the sitting room and Jacopo in the library, it was like they were on different planets. Nate had tried to approach him in there one day, if only to say hi, but he had been so–discombobulated–by the sharp, focused lines of Jacopo’s profile as he looked down at a pile of old papers, the way one strand of hair had fallen loose and was brushing his cheek, that he’d ducked back out into the hallway without saying anything.

What would it be like, Nate wondered, to invite himself along on one of Jacopo’s trips to the market, to cuddle up behind him on the motorbike, his crotch flush against Jacopo’s ass and his face buried against the nape of his neck? And he wondered what it would be like to see that same intense expression that he’d seen in the library, above him, in the dark.

Nate had ideas. Too many of them, and most of them happened in the shower.

He had to get out of this castle.

So as soon as he no longer felt like an over-boiled shrimp, Nate doused himself in sunscreen, put on his running shoes, and set out to explore the island.

It was a good place to run if you wanted your ass kicked by hills, that was for sure. After all the stair climbs, his thigh muscles felt like jello, but Nate kept going, through the little piazza where pigeons and the odd villager stared at him strangely, and out onto the open road, enjoying the way his feet sent up plumes of red dirt, the way his calves eventually stopped complaining as his feet got into a rhythm that matched the music in his ears. As the village got further behind him, Nate’s head became pleasantly more vacant. It was just him alone out here in the world, an isolated figure running along a cliffside under the blue magnifying glass of the sky, the breeze warm onhis face, the air smelling of sun and salt. He could almost be proud of himself out here, of the way his legs propelled his body forward and his feet pushed off and met the ground again.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been running when the sound of gravel popping under tires and the roar of an engine interrupted his solitude. Nate got over to the shoulder, then took an earbud out when he saw Mirabella leaning out of the window of Antonio’s truck, waving furiously at him.

Gracie was behind the wheel, and once she had pulled over, the two sisters admonished him in a stream of English and Italian.

“Is too much hot!Sei fuori!Crazy Nate!”

“Nobody is out running during the day. Didn’t Jacopo tell you?”

Nate shook his head, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth had gotten, the salty taste when he licked his lips. “Jacopo didn’t tell me anything. I just wanted to get outside.”

Gracie let out a huff, rolling her eyes. “Crazy. This is the wrong time of day to do anything but relax. Have you been to the beach yet?”

They wouldn’t take no for an answer, and so even though Nate was crusty with dried sweat and he probably stank and hadn’t even brought a swimsuit, he found himself barrelling down the hill in the back of the truck as the wheels bounced in and out of ruts and the whole body of the vehicle swung vertiginously close the the edge of the cliff, and then they were taking a cutoff he hadn’t noticed before, sweeping downhill and around the side of the island, and the oaks and palms and scrub grass gave way to a white, pebble-studded slice of sand, lapped at by the sea.

It looked like the whole town was out, kids and teenagers shrieking and playing in the surf, neon-colored floaties punctuating the gentle surface of the waves, parents andgrandparents splayed out in the sun, their skin turning the color of mahogany. An old van sat parked at the edge of the sand, seemingly repurposed into a restaurant. People were lining up to buy ice creams and paper cones full of fries. Nate couldn’t believe he hadn’t known this was here. He couldn’t believe, he thought with a sad little twinge, that Jacopo hadn’t cared to tell him.

Something darted through his mind from the first night at the castle, foggy and insubstantial. Something about the beaches, and an owl. Jacopo had talked to him, sitting next to him on the bed, a cold cloth against his neck.

Unless that had been a dream.

The thought fled quickly; there was too much to look at, and before he could even find a place to sit, Mirabella had shoved a beer and a big plate of fries and calamari and other seafood into his hands. Free, she explained, with Gracie translating, for the duke. Nate blushed and gave a bashful wave to the guy manning the fish van.

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