Page 17 of The Fear of Falling
Benson’s near-constant smile shifts into a smirk. “I don’t think you want me to tell you. Eat your chocolate and enjoy your life of ignorance.”
My stomach twists into a little knot, and suddenly I regret eating so many breadsticks. But they were so fun! Actual little sticks of hard bread, more like crackers than anything. I’d rather not get squeamish and lose them all. “Please don’t tell me it was something like a cow’s intestine.”
“It was not an intestine.” Well that’s a relief, though something in his too-innocent tone makes me think I’m not far off.
Benson is way too good at playing innocent and teasing me into doing things I wouldn’t have done if I had stuck to my itinerary. Last night, when I was so tired after walking around the city that I could hardly think straight, he convinced me to wander the Piazza della Signoria for over an hour to listen to all the different street musicians. He practically had to carry me back to the hotel, leaving me at my door with a kiss on the forehead and a promise of more fun today.
I might have squealed into my pillow after I was sure he was no longer in the hall.
He knocked on my door before dawn and only gave me time to get dressed and run a brush through my hair before he was hailing a taxi and taking us to the Ponte Vecchio to watch the sunrise on the river. “The bridge lights up at night,” he said whenI remarked how beautiful the spot was, and then he promised to take me one of these nights so I can walk across it and see the lights reflecting in the water.
I’ve eaten foods I never would have tried, wandered shops I would have been too scared to set foot in, and held hands with someone who is everything a girl could want in a man. I’ve said it before—there’s no way Benson can be real. This is all some fever dream.
I’m not sure I want to wake up.
“You seriously have to try this,” I say, forcing my thoughts back to the chocolate surrounding us. “You’ve been pushing me all day, so I should get a turn.”
He shakes his head. “I’ve tried chocolate many times, Avery. I’d rather save it for someone who would enjoy it.”
“How can anyonenot like chocolate?” I lean up on my toes to get closer to his face, as if that might convince him he’s utterly wrong. “EspeciallyItalianchocolate.”
Shrugging, he snakes one hand around my waist right before I wobble. He learned last night that my balance can be questionable when I’m on my toes, when I nearly bowled him over after trying to see over the heads of the crowd and get a better look at the cellist we were listening to. I fell right into him, and he caught me like the heroic man he is.
Or maybe he’s touching me now because it’s what he does. It’s been pretty much nonstop contact since bumping into him yesterday morning.
The only time he doesn’t touch me is when he takes pictures of me like some mystical Instagram husband. He’s good at it too, finding the best angles and suggesting poses. His camera skills are the only reason I’ve let him hold on to my phone for the last thirty-six hours; I haven’t touched the thing once since he stole it.
Honestly, it’s been nice having an excuse to ignore the texts and emails Eric keeps sending. I told Benson to let me know if anything important comes up, but so far he’s only told me about the conversation he’s having with Dani because they’re best friends now.
“You like chocolate,” he says, pulling me in. It’s not quite an embrace, but it’s a whole lot more intimate than strangers standing close to each other. “And I like you. I think that should count for something.”
“Not chocolate gelato?” Apparently this is a big deal for me, though I don’t know why when literally everything else about this man is perfect.
“I’m happy with my amaretto.”
“So you’re telling me you’re a hopeless case? Not even stracciatella? Tiramisu?”
“Look at you with your Italian words.” He smiles as his fingers tighten against my side, digging into my waist to pull me closer. “We might make an Italian speaker of you yet.”
“Where did you learn Italian?” I’ve been listening to him talk to shopkeepers, waiters, and locals for two days now, and I don’t think there’s a more attractive language. French has its moments, but a man speaking Italian? My kryptonite, for sure.
Benson presses his lips together, a bit of mischief entering his eyes as he glances around the busy chocolate shop. I’ve lost track of the number of things we’ve told each other about ourselves—never anything we could use to find each other after this week is over—but he always pauses whenever I ask a question, like he’s scared to tell me things that make him more real. Maybe he wants me to live in this unrealistic bubble for the rest of my life, where he’s perfect except for his stance on chocolate and I’m good enough for a guy like him to be interested.
“I like languages,” he says, some hesitation in his words. “I have contacts all over the world, so it’s nice to have at least the basics.”
“You have more than the basics,” I point out.
Nodding, he swings us both around to face the other direction as a big Italian man reaches for some of the chocolate that was behind me. The protective move, putting himself between me and the man, makes my heart swell, but Benson doesn’t seem to notice the hearts in my eyes as he keeps talking. “I took Spanish in school because it made the most sense where I lived.” He pauses again, his eyebrows pulling low.
Though I’m desperate for some of those details we agreed not to share, I hold back my curiosity and shake my head. “You don’t have to tell me, Benson.”
Relaxing, he moves us into the corner of the store so we’re out of the way. More people have come inside, making the space feel crowded. “I picked up some French because a lot of the roots are the same as Spanish.”
“Italian too?”
He nods. “Plus, when I started working with Riccardo, I was kind of forced into learning conversational Italian because a lot of his vendors are here in Italy.”
“Riccardo is your friend who’s getting married, right?” It’s not the question I want to ask. I want to ask what kind of work he does because it’s clearly lucrative. Benson hasn’t let me pay for a single thing since we’ve started hanging out, and the only reason I’ve agreed is because I’m nowhere near as wealthy as my sister. Dani’s book has made Rose & Quill a pretty penny, but we’re using most of it to build up the company so we can grow along with Dani’s popularity.
