I watch her walk into the villa and turn to a view that would be better enjoyed by two, but it’s my fault she couldn’t see its beauty. It took me too long to admit to how I felt about hers.
Sitting on a ledge warmed by sunshine, I tell the breeze, “This is going to be harder than I thought,” and lean over the edge to catch a glimpse of the majestic foundation. Can’t see much from this angle, but we could in the picture online when booking my room. The foundation beaten daily by the tide of the Bay of Naples looks like a castle. Twisting my torso to get a better look at the renovated warm-yellow villa and surrounding stone patio, I nod with approval and pull out my phone.
Immediately Nax answers, “You there? You see her?”
“Yes to both.”
Somewhere near him, Zia asks with excitement, “Did he see Tempest yet? What did she do?”
“Ya hear that, Josh?”
Wondering which window is Tempest’s, and if she even has one facing the water, I nod, “I heard.”
“I’m putting you on speaker.”
“Don’t do—”
“You’re on speaker!”
“—that…” I sigh, “Hi Zia.”
“What did my cousin do when she saw you?”
“Hi Dad! Did you see Tempest?”
I mutter, “Starting to regret calling,” and rub my face. “She wasn’t exactly happy to see me, Will.”
Silence on the line, then my son offers the solution, “Get her a caramel sundae, Dad. She likes those!”
A smile spreads. “I’m not sure if that’s enough to do the trick, buddy, but thanks. Listen, I’ll call you when I have anything to report.”
Zia hurries to tell me, “Don’t give up, Josh!”
Walking toward the villa I smirk, “Oh I won’t. I love you, Will. You too, Nax. And Zia, you’re growing on me.”
Joe shouts from the background, “What about me?”
“I love you, too, Joe.” Hanging up, I slide the phone into my back pocket, pull the room key from it — an actual key that adds to the charm — and retrieve a suitcase I use for speaking engagements at high schools around the United States. I’m tired of traveling alone.
Walking into a busy foyer I opt for the stairs, hoisting my suitcase until the third floor where I set it on its rollers and find my room on the left.
Thanks to the website’s photos, I’m not surprised by the simplicity that greets me. The furnishings are modest, bed low, art religious. Only through a tiny window in a blue tiled bathroom can I see a sliver of the bay.
After unpacking my clothes into an antique wardrobe and dresser, placing three pairs of shoes against a white wall next to my red yoga mat, I turn around and survey the modest space where I’ll lay my head for just over a week.
There is a sense of peace about this place, and I smile to myself, saying aloud, “If I were a monk, this would be my room,” as I pull back the blanket and climb in for a nap to prepare for what I’m about to do.
Chapter 17
Joan beams, “How’s your room, Tempest?” as I take a seat by the window at her table, facing the dining hall to give my students the better view of the bay.
“Really sweet and simple. How about yours?”
“Same!” She points to a young man serving dinner to four others from our group who beat me here. “Why are Italians so cute?”
I smile, “Romantic country, I guess,” following his approach, my smile faltering as I spot Josh walking in.
Like me, he’s wearing fresh clothes just as casually sexy as before — the man has style, I’ll give him that. His hair looks slightly damp, heavy, from showering.
And now I’m picturing him naked, swinging as he scans the room and locks eyes with me as if he found what he was looking for. Probably hoped I’d have come earlier, gone already to prepare for my first night of teaching.
I avert my eyes back to Joan.
But she’s spotted him, too. “Speaking of cute!” She adjusts in her seat. “I was hoping he’d come.”
In an effort to hide an extreme and sudden curiosity that just slammed into me, my, “Were you?” sounds vague and disinterested.
“Oh sure! I told him about your retreat when he showed up at your studio that night. Planted the seed,” she grins to me as if her plan worked.
I slide my white cloth napkin from under shiny silverware and place it on my lap as Josh sits at another table by himself. “Are you interested in him?”
Joan glances over to see where he’s decided to sit, eyebrow cocking. “Not for me. For you.”
Sideswiped I snort, “For me?”
Turning to me she smirks, “He’s not my type, hun.”
We stare at each other because I’m having a difficult time accepting this. Josh is a lot of women’s type — that’s why he modeled, after all, an example of human beauty and that usually appeals to most. Kind of like a puppy. Or rabbits. It’s hard to call a bunny ugly. Or say you’re not into them.
Our table becomes three, with Shaun taking a seat and explaining in his abbreviated way, “Slept in. Starving.”
The handsome young server with three healing pimples on his chin approaches, and since Shaun motions he can’t wait, we give our order, receive several nods and zero questions, left alone within a matter of minutes.
Joan picks up a salt packet labeled in the native language — ‘sale’ — shaking it back and forth. “You’re my type, Tempest.”
My eyebrows jump. “Oh!”
“That’s what got me to class all of those times. I got over my crush though. Have my eye on Meredith now.” Giving me a wink, Joan jogs her chin toward an upscale woman in her fifties who found my retreat online and flew in from England. “I’m hoping for a fling while we’re all here in this beautiful place. But if
