Page 35 of Win You Over
My dad nods in approval, and Mom makes a few suggestions of her own, including a day in Porto Cervo where there is an array of amazing restaurants to choose from, and in the summer, epic beach parties. I make a mental note to run the idea by Holden.
Holden walks onto the patio a few moments later. He’s wearing black shorts and a vintage looking black t-shirt with a faded film poster on it, a total contrast to the almost neon of my shorts and my naked torso. His hair is tied back, and he’s wearing a pair of blue tinted sunglasses.
“Holden, dear,” Mom says. “You make yourself at home while you’re here, okay? Help yourself to anything and if there’s something you need that you can’t find, you let Curtis or Iknow.” Holden lifts his sunglasses, perching them on the top of his head, then nods and smiles at Mom, the two of them sharing an unspoken moment before Mom stretches out on the sofa and returns to her book. Dad, who was doing a crossword earlier, has now emptied a puzzle onto the large wooden table where he’s sitting.
Pushing up from the sofa that was intent on swallowing me, I lead Holden over to the outdoor bar and retrieve two cold beers. I hand him one and then climb down the few stairs to the lawn and over to the pool. Holden follows next to me, perching on the edge of a sun lounger.
Putting down my beer, I make a running start and leap into the pool, tucking my legs up to create a cannonball that hits the surface with force.
“You coming in?” I ask once I’ve emerged from the depths of the pool. “Water’s beautiful.”
He shakes his head and sips his beer.
Swimming over to the edge of the pool closest to him, I fold my arms on the concrete and kick my legs out behind me, treading water.
“It’s hotter than Satan’s bedroom out here,” I remark. “Trust me, you’re going to want to come in.”
He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, then looks down at his lap where he’s picking at the label on his beer bottle.
“Kitty Cat,”I singsong, “Please come in here with me.” I push back from the wall and open my arms wide, making ripples in the water. “It’s so lonely on my own. You don’t want yourboyfriendto be lonely, do you?”
Holden huffs, looking over his shoulder and then back towards the pool.
“You’re ridiculous,” he remarks, his voice soft and sweet like cotton candy, with a delicious lilt to his English accent.
“Don’t pretend you don’t love that about me.”
While I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, I’m pretty sure he rolls them. Boy’s going to get them stuck like that with how often he does it.
“Debatable,” he retorts. “If I’m a cat, then it’s obvious I don’t like water.” Holden tips his head sideways as he stands, puts his beer on the table, and walks closer to the edge of the infinity pool.
“That’s not entirely true. The TurkishAngorais a breed of cat that is very fond of swimming. In the wild, big cats like jaguars and tigers are also known for their affinity for water.”
Holden sits down, his legs dangling in the water.
“I’m not even going to ask how you know all of that,” he says.
“I am very intelligent,” I reply. “Now stop stalling and get in the water, Booker.”
Holden leans back on his hands, tipping his face towards the sun. I watch as a bead of sweat trails down his neck and to the hemline of his black tee. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and I am once again unable to tear my eyes away.
When he straightens, he takes off his sunglasses then leans forward and from his seated position, dives headfirst into the pool.
He swims from one end to the other and then back again. Like a fish, he moves through the water with the smooth, fluid grace of a creature born to swim. When he pops up to the surface, a few feet in front of me, he’s smiling.
We spend over an hour swimming laps and hanging over the edge of the infinity pool, watching the still, calm sea below us.
“Is it a private beach?” Holden asks. The beach sits in a U-shape, surrounded by rocks on either side. A narrow path winds from the left side of our garden, through thick vegetation, before widening as it reaches the sandy shore.
“Yeah. That part,” I point to the end of the path, then drag my finger upwards. “That’s ours. Over the rocks, that’sthe neighbours. And further along, there’s a larger beach that belongs to one of the holiday resorts.”
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You own your own beach.” He says it quietly, and not to me. I’ve never been ashamed of my wealth, or my family’s wealth. The truth is, my father bought this place out of love – for my mother, for this island, for the peace he finds sitting on the patio doing a crossword – it was never about status or ownership. But I can see it from other people’s perspective too. It’s why I never date, because it’s so often the first thing people see when they look at me. And I’m not this. I’m not the money. I won’t deny I love everything it affords me, but I have never let it define me. At least, I don’t think I have.
“Can we go?” Holden asks, his voice breaking through the spiral I was on my way down.
“Any time you want,” I reply.
“Lunch is here,” Mom calls, and I turn to see her walking down the garden, a tray in her hands. Holden and I jump out and meet her at the loungers, where she places the tray on the table. It’s laden with seafood skewers, garlic prawns and grilled calamari, as well as a Sardinian salad of fregola pasta, herbs and roasted lemons.
