Page 4 of Duke for the Summer

“Fine. Just tired.”

“Look, I need to ask you. About this three-month thing. What am I supposed to be doing, exactly?”

Jacopo looked at him helplessly. He waved a hand in the air. “Whatever you would like.” It didn’t matter; all thatmattered was getting the three months over with, and then the castle and the island and the entire Brunetti family wouldn’t be Jacopo’s problem anymore. “You can enjoy the beaches. Or perhaps learn about your family history. There are many records in the library.”

“I’m not supposed to actually act as the duke or anything, right? Like, you’re not expecting me to get married and produce an heir?”

Jacopo’s stomach lurched at the thought. “No, it’s not–Carmosino isn’t a city-state anymore, there’s no legal need to–”

“Because that’s not going to work for me, Jacopo–”

“Really, don’t worry about it–”

“Because I’m gay.”

“Oh.” Jacopo sank into one of the deck chairs. From far away, he heard himself say foolishly, “Well. That’s–that’s interesting.”

“Interesting?” Nate was standing over him, hands on his hips. “What does that mean?”

Jacopo sputtered. “Nothing.” He felt his hand clenching around the armrest of the chair and willed it to stop. “I must warn you that it’s a small town. People are very conservative. Perhaps best not to advertise, you know.”

“Oh, okay, I won’t pack my sequined hot pants, then.”

Jacopo didn’t dare ask what those were. Maybe something one bought at Cossaco. He dragged a hand over his face.

“Are you sure you’re doing okay, man? I bet you’re super jetlagged. I should get you back to your hotel.”

“Hotel.” Ah. That was what he’d forgotten.

“You don’t have a hotel?”

Jacopo shook his head. Exhaustion was folding around him like a blanket, and his head had begun to hurt.

“Well, damn. Okay. Looks like somebody’s sleeping onthe couch.”

He didn’t remember making it to the couch. He vaguely remembered the feeling of his cheek against the cool window of the car, the blur of yellow lines down the center of the road. Then he was waking, in a panic, shoving a rough wool blanket off his body and sitting up before he realized he was in Nate’s apartment, the clock on the wall illuminated by the streetlight outside, telling him it was just after two a.m.

Jetlag. Yes. That was the English word for this feeling; Nate had said it on the porch. Jacopo rubbed his eyes.

It wasn’t quiet here, not like Carmosino. It wasn’t loud, either, not like Napoli had been. Someone’s TV murmured in the apartment below, and wind brushed at the windows. Jacopo didn’t think he would be able to sleep anymore. Surely Nate wouldn’t mind if he got up and got a glass of water. Surely Nate wouldn’t mind if he took stock of the apartment a little bit–just looking around the living room, nothing harmful. Just to keep himself occupied.

The walls were sparsely decorated, the main focus of the room a large flat-screen and stereo system. Big speakers, old-looking, covered in peeling stickers with band names Jacopo didn’t recognize. A guitar propped up in the corner, covered in dust. There was a small bookshelf along one wall, and Jacopo examined it, tracing the spines of the books. Art collections, graphic novels, a couple of battered mystery paperbacks. There were a few family photos on the shelf as well, one of Nate’s parents and one of what Jacopo assumed was the larger extended family. Like him, Nate had many siblings.

No pictures of anyone who looked like a boyfriend.

Not that that mattered.

He felt ashamed suddenly and retreated to the couch. He had no business looking at Nate’s things, and besides, there was no point in trying to get to know him. He’d be gone in threemonths, having taken his inheritance, and then Jacopo wouldn’t ever have to think about Carmosino or the castle ever again.

*

Dave Jordan was good at a lot of things (woodworking, baking bread, goat yoga), but he was absolutely terrible at not sharing delicious gossip, so it was less than twelve hours before Nate’s phone was blowing up.

Barb and Dave had met and married in Nate’s twenties, so he didn’t really know any of his step-siblings that well. His two older step-brothers, Paul and Ben, were both dads to multiple kids and both, in classic dad mode, made some kind of “Mamma Mia” joke on the phone and worried politely at him about how different it would be to live abroad and was he sure it was legit and please try not to get scammed. His stepsister, Laura, told him all about her trip to Rome years ago and that Italian men were terrible and Italian food was great and to be careful about pickpockets, and to please bring her back something Armani, even just a dish towel or something.

And then there was Thea.

“Dude I would literally fucking stab someone in the fuckingfacefor a castle in Italy. Are youkidding? Like, right now, give me a person to stab.”

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