Page 32 of Duke for the Summer

Jacopo made a dismissive gesture. “I am not interesting.”

Nate rolled his eyes, flipping to an empty page. “Fine. Tell me another story about the family of Carmosino, then. Are there any other juicy scandals besides Sebastiano and Augusto?”

“Oh.” Jacopo looked at him, eyes lighting up. “Dozens.”

Nate sketched while Jacopo told him about murders and illegitimate children and affairs, about Lady Lucilla, who had hidden herself in a wine barrel and been smuggled out of the castle so she could run away with her pirate lover; about Duke Francesco, who had kept a zebra as a pet and based all of his military strategy on advice from his personal astrologer. It was hard to get back into it at first, his fingers relearning how to translate what he saw onto shapes on the page, and Nate discarded a couple of attempts at copying the fresco before focusing on another subject: Jacopo, his profile strongand classically handsome, his dark hair swept back from his forehead, his hands animated as he talked. He looked good here, the lines of his body long and loose, the tension in his shoulders gone.

“Can you keep your head at that angle?”

Jacopo glanced at him, frowning. “You’re not drawing me, are you?”

“Yeah. I’m drawing you like one of my Italian boys.”

“What?”

“Sorry. I don’t–I mean, you’re my only Italian boy.” Nate felt heat creeping up his neck. He was just digging this hole deeper. “There aren’t other ones. In my sketchbook, or anywhere. It’s a joke. FromTitanic? You know what? Forget it, I’ll draw something else.”

“Oh, theTitanic,” Jacopo said seriously. “That movie made me cry for hours.”

“I–” Nate swallowed, and went back to scribbling. Sometimes it seemed like Jacopo was too sweet for this world, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

“Well, can I see?” Jacopo scooted over to Nate, hooking his chin over his shoulder. His arm slipped around Nate’s waist, and Nate leaned back, seeking his warmth despite the closeness of the afternoon. “It’s nice.” Jacopo pressed a kiss to his temple. “Flattering. You’ve been very polite about my nose.”

“I like your nose.”

“I like watching you draw.” Jacopo’s breath caressed his neck, and sparks danced down Nate’s spine. “It’s something I can’t do, so I find it very impressive. And also a little bit sexy.”

“Oh. Well in that case.” He turned, cupping Jacopo’s chin, bringing their lips together.

The kiss melted into something long and luxurious, and the sketchbook slid out of Nate’s lap as Jacopo leaned over him, pressing him back onto the cracked floor of the villa, thetiles warm from the sun. The smell of moss and leaves was everywhere, the afternoon lush and green, and crickets were beginning to chirp as the sun went down. They kissed for a long time, lazy and unhurried, learning how to fit together.

“Have you done this before?” Nate asked against Jacopo’s ear.

“Done what?”

“Just kissing. Making out, like this.” He kissed Jacopo’s earlobe, then sucked it between his teeth, and felt a shudder go through Jacopo’s body in response.

“I haven’t. Like I said, I haven’t really done much. Just–things with my hands. And once with my mouth. But I don’t think I was very good at it.”

Nate nuzzled his nose along Jacopo’s cheek. “I could help you practice.”

Jacopo groaned, and kissed him again, hard, his hand cupping Nate’s cheek. Then his mouth was traveling down Nate’s neck, and across his chest, and Nate’s breath caught in his throat as Jacopo took his time with him, painstakingly undoing the buttons on his shirt one by one. He was kissing Nate’s lower belly, his hip, teeth scraping across the crappy little zodiac sign tattoo that Nate had gotten when he’d turned eighteen, and he was planting kisses along the fly of Nate’s shorts, and Nate let his head fall back and his fingers stroke lazy circles on Jacopo’s scalp, soft sounds of encouragement falling from his lips.

He wondered if they were the first men to do this, under the watchful eyes of the fresco, or if long ago, some Roman general had been laid out here with one of his soldiers, and for a moment it seemed like time could shift and the walls around them would be intact again, the fountain bubbling in the garden outside. Jacopo was sucking him slowly and with care, pausing every now and then to look up at Nate with something like reverence, and the pleasure building in his balls, his thighs, thebase of his spine, was so sweet and gradual that it took him by surprise when he finally came, gasping out Jacopo’s name, his face upturned toward the sky.

12.

Thea’s visit passed in a flurry of sun-soaked days and lazy, intoxicated evenings, in giant meals and endless photoshoots for her Instagram. She and Nate wandered the streets of Collinarossa, walking until his knee throbbed, though he tamped it down and kept going, happy to be moving around again. Giggly from too many spritzes, they got lost in meandering alleyways, fed the pigeons, and marveled over little roadside shrines to saints they didn’t recognize. People invited them into shops, or even into their homes, for drinks and platters of snacks, and Thea took to the role of local celebrity like she’d been born for it, posing for selfies and chattering with the locals in English mixed with Italian phrases from her phone. They borrowed the vespa and drove it around the island, honking at goats to get out of the road and waving to Nonna Stella as they passed her by, trucking along on her ATV with a basket full of foraged herbs on the back. In the market, Thea haggled like a professional and picked out artichokes and chunks of fragrant cheese to bring back to Beatrice’s for dinner, while Nate admired the colors of the fruits and vegetables, his fingers itching for a paintbrush.

The days were full of activity and full of company; it seemed like someone else was always there, usually Gracie and sometimes Mirabella, though she was now in her seventh month of pregnancy and got tired easily. They ate dinner with the Brunettis every night, and even Jacopo came along, though he stayed on the periphery, not speaking much, and often left early. Nate felt starved for him during the day, their only communication a lingering glance, or Jacopo’s hand brushinghis lower back as he passed by. Late at night, after Thea had gone to sleep, Nate would sneak down the stairs and out to the caretaker’s hut, a light still on in its window, and find Jacopo awake, and waiting.

In that narrow double bed, Jacopo spent hours taking him apart and putting him back together again, learning things about Nate’s body that nobody else had, his face calm and intent as if he were parsing a sentence for translation. Those nights seemed to take place in a separate world, and Nate, waking up back in his own bed the next morning, would have had a hard time believing they were real at all, if it weren’t for the exhaustion he felt and the echo of Jacopo’s touch that lingered in all of his most intimate places.

He had really thought they were getting away with it, too. It was Thea’s second-to-last day, and in the afternoon lull before dinner time, she and Nate were sitting in the courtyard, playing with the cats. Thea had taught Gnocchi to fetch one of her scrunchies, his sleek, silvery-gray body darting off into the tall grass, to emerge self-importantly with the pink hair tie dangling from his mouth.

“You know what’s so weird?” she asked, as the cat dropped the scrunchie at her feet, chirping at her to throw it again.

“This cat who thinks he’s a dog?” Nate asked, scratching Gnocchi between the ears.

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