All of the pieces click into place.
Giorgio was the one who brought up dessert. My offer to make him something won’t look at all suspicious. Neither will me serving it with some tea.
Plus, the staff are gone and won’t be back for the night.
It’s perfect.
Keeping my expression carefully guarded, I lift my gaze to him. “I can make something.”
He cocks a thick brow. “You can?”
“Of course.” I rise from my chair. “I used to do a lot of cooking and baking back home. It won’t take me long.”
“All right,” he says easily, and I try my best not to seem too eager as I make my way to the kitchen.
As soon as I’m out of his line of sight, I increase my pace. I don’t have the recipe for the tea, which means I’ll have to improvise. The book didn’t have any specific instructions, just that the two herbs brewed together would do exactly what I need them to do.
I fly toward the cupboard with the herbs and fling the doors open.
Valerian.
Kava.
My fingers freeze midair as I see what’s in the second jar. It looks like…pieces of wood bark? What the hell? I was expecting dried leaves, not this. What am I supposed to do with this?
I whirl around, gnawing on my bottom lip, and just when I start to question if I’m going to be able to pull this off, my gaze catches on an iPad lying on the counter.
Hell yes!
It must be my lucky day, because it’s charged and unlocked. I mutter a thank-you to Tommaso under my breath. He probably uses this when he’s cooking. A few moments later, I’m looking up instructions on how to make kava tea.
Grind the root into powder, pour it into a strainer, then pour hot water over it and let it sit for…forty-five minutes!
Crap. I have to get this going right away or Giorgio will wonder what the hell I’m doing here.
I prep the kava and put aside the valerian. I’m going to brew the latter like a regular tea when everything is nearly done and mix it with the kava.
I decide to make Torta Caprese, a Neapolitan dessert Giorgio must have tried before. It’s a rich chocolate cake made out of almond flour, eggs, butter, and plenty of dark chocolate. You’d have to be soulless not to enjoy it. All of the ingredients are easy to find, and in no time, I’m mixing up a bowl of batter.
Excitement builds inside of me—a premature and wicked satisfaction at outsmarting Giorgio. Yes, after the things he said to me at dinner, my anger’s lost its edge, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to backtrack or feel guilty about what I’m about to do.
It’s just a bit of fun, right? I wonder what he’ll say when he wakes up and realizes what happened. I think he might be impressed.
And it’ll be nice to have my phone back.
The thought passes through me, but I discover it lacks the weight it had before. I’m actually managing better than I thought I would without it.
A small smile tugs at my lips as I pour the batter into a round dish.
When the cake is in the oven, I return to the dining room and find Giorgio standing by the fireplace. It was unlit when I left, but now a small fire crackles within, filling the space with warmth.
I eye the clock. It’s five past nine, and I need to get the cake out in twenty minutes.
Giorgio angles his head to look at me. “All done?”
“It’s in the oven,” I say, moving until I stand in front of the fireplace beside him.
The flames lick at a few branches, illuminating old stonework. Small patterned tiles are embedded inside the bricks, but they’ve been darkened with soot over time. I sneak a glance at Giorgio and note the severe lines of his profile as he stares into the fire. Polo’s words come back to me.
In truth, I think he hates this place.
Hate is a strong word. Would he really agree to stay here with me if he hated it?
“Does the castello have a name?”
He keeps his gaze on the fire as he answers. “Castello di Bosco. A long time ago, it was Castello di Fiero, but then there was a big fire that burned down the church that used to be on the property, and the owner at the time decided the name brought bad luck. He renamed it in 1782.”
“This place is ancient.”
Giorgio gives a small nod. “It has a lot of history.”
“How did you find out about it in the first place?”
He drags his teeth over his bottom lip, and I get the sense that he’s wrestling with how to answer.
Finally, he says, “My mother used to work here.”
My jaw slackens. That was definitely not the answer I was expecting.
“Really? I thought she was from Naples?”
“She moved to Naples when she was eighteen, but she grew up here. My grandfather was the groundskeeper here, and my grandma was one of the cooks. This was a long time ago. Tommaso and Allegra started working here a few years before my grandparents died.”
I look around the room and see it with new eyes. Giorgio’s entire family lived here at one time.
“And your mother? What did she do?”
“She gardened, like Polo. My grandfather homeschooled her. But like I said, she left when she was quite young. She was bored of this place and wanted to start a new life in Naples.”
“That’s amazing that you were able to buy it. Who were the previous owners?”
“A wealthy couple. The woman was a wine heiress, and her husband was an art collector. Old money. The castello was in their family for a long time until nearly all the relatives died out. It was never put up for sale. I told them a long time ago I would buy it if they ever decided to get rid of the place. About a decade ago, they called, and a few months later, it was mine.”
“Huh. So why did Polo say—” I clamp my mouth shut.
He turns to me, a spark of suspicion inside his eyes. “Why did Polo say what?”
I glance to the side, suddenly feeling awkward without being sure why. Didn’t Polo tell me to ask Giorgio about it? But this place is clearly very personal for him, and now it feels like maybe Polo shouldn’t have said what he said.
“Tell me what he said, Martina.”
“Um.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Well, he just mentioned you didn’t really like this place,” I say, softening Polo’s real words.
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“He’s wrong. I like this place just fine,” he says in a clipped tone.
My face heats. There’s definitely something he’s not telling me.
“I must have misunderstood him.”
“Hmm.”
When the silence turns tense, I clear my throat. “Let me go check on the dessert.”
I return to the kitchen and crack open the oven. When I stick a toothpick into the dough, a few wet crumbs come out. I wait another minute and take it out.
Well, here it is. Time to execute the plan.
My palms land on the cool marble counter, and my gaze volleys to the pot of kava on the counter. The valerian is steeping beside it.
To combine the liquids, I kind of have to guess the proportions, which makes me nervous. What if I make it too strong? Online, there weren’t many warnings about overdoing it, but one website did say that some people respond to it more strongly than others.
Still, what’s the worst that can happen? I’ll get him to sit down on the couch so that when he falls asleep, he’ll be comfy. He’ll be awake before breakfast.
I place the slice of cake, dessert plates, forks, and two cups of tea on a tray and carry it over. The teas look nearly the same, but mine is just a mint and chamomile infusion.
Giorgio looks up from his phone as I enter and slips it into his pocket. The awkwardness that was there a few minutes earlier is now gone, and his lips twitch in a smile. “What’s this?”
“Torta Caprese.”
That smile grows. “One of my favorites.”
I unload the tray and serve him his cup of tea. “It might be a bit bitter. That’s on purpose to cut through the sweetness of the cake.”
He takes the cup, not a hint of suspicion in his expression and takes a small sip.
I watch for any unusual reaction, anything that would suggest he’s onto me, but there’s nothing. I clamp down on my bottom lip to stifle a grin. He has to be impressed with me after this.
Giorgio pierces the cake with his fork and takes a bite. His eyes flutter shut. A low moan vibrates in his throat, and the room suddenly grows too warm.
He cracks his lids and pins me with a look that sends a shiver down my spine. “Cazzo, Martina. What did you put in this?”
I hide my smile behind the rim of my cup. “It’s a secret.”
He takes another bite, devouring half the slice in one go. “And this tea…” He lifts his cup. “An interesting flavor.”
“I blended a few things from the cupboard.”
While I eat my first slice, he inhales his second, and his enthusiasm fills me with satisfaction. This used to be one of my favorite things about cooking—seeing others enjoy my food.
When I see him finish his cup, I rise from my seat, worried he might notice the strange sediment at the bottom. “I’ll bring these back to the kitchen.”
To my dismay, he stands up too. “I’ll do it.”
“No, it’s okay—”
He’s already started loading up the tray.
I clamp my jaw shut and follow him into the kitchen even though I’m not carrying anything. Crap, I wanted to keep him seated until the tea worked. What if he falls and cracks his head open on these hard stone floors?
I bend my leg at the knee and tap my toe against the floor. This is literally the worst surface to fall on.
When I see him make a sudden movement, I don’t think twice before I lunge to his side.
My hands grip his biceps, but he doesn’t fall, just turns his head and gives me a befuddled look. “What are you doing?”
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “I thought you…tripped.”
His gaze drops to my hand. “I’m fine.”
I should let him go, but for some reason, my touch lingers on his muscular arms. My hand looks tiny in comparison, and something about that contrast makes my stomach tighten.
My breath comes out hot and shallow. “My mistake.”
I drop my hand and move to back away, but he stops me, moving in front of me and caging me against the counter with his arms.
My eyes double in size. What is he doing?
His jaw ticks as he gazes down at me, his expression conflicted. In the small space between us, there’s suddenly no oxygen, only the heady scent of his cologne and the awareness that this is bordering on inappropriate.
He should have let me move away. There’s no reason for us to stand like this unless…
When he start to leans in, my skin becomes gooseflesh.
Oh my God. Is he…
Suddenly, he sways, and his eyelids droop.
“Giorgio?”
He gives me a few confused blinks. “What the…”
Oh God, the tea is working.
“Here, let’s sit down.” I lace my arm through his, but he shakes his head.
“Martina, go to my room,” he mutters. “Something’s happening. Lock the door and get the gun from my nightstand.”
Guilt slices through me. He thinks this is some plot to get me. “No, Giorgio, it’s okay. We just need to get you somewhere comfortable.”
When he leans his weight on me, I nearly trip.
“Fuck.” He slaps his free palm on the counter. “What the fuck is happening?”
The tea is working fast. We’ve taken two steps in the direction of the dining room, so at this point, I give up on that plan. “Trust me, you’re okay. Just sit down on the floor.”
To my surprise, he actually does it. Or maybe it’s the fact that his knees are buckling, and our controlled slide against the counter turns into a barely controlled fall.
Oof.
We land on the floor, his body falling halfway onto mine. He’s so heavy, he may as well be a marble statue. It’s a struggle to maneuver him into a somewhat comfortable position, and by the time I accomplish it, my breaths are coming out in pants.
Holy crap. I actually did it.
I take an inventory of him. His chest rises with steady breaths, his lips are slightly parted, and the lines he always has between his brows have softened. He looks different asleep. More at ease.
My hand reaches out to brush a lock of hair from his forehead.
Am I crazy to think he was about to kiss me right before he started to feel the effects of the tea?
Yes, you are.
You’re also an idiot to think Giorgio would ever look at you that way.
Don’t read anything into the nice things he does or says. He’s only doing this for your brother.
The usual thoughts are there, but for the first time, I don’t fully believe them.
Fear and excitement skate through me. What if there really is something brewing between him and I?
Am I brave enough to do anything about it?
Dragging my palms down my cheeks, I decide I’m going to get back to that later. Despite the temptation to ruminate and appreciate Giorgio while he’s this unguarded, I’ve got something I have to do.
Sliding my hand into the front pocket of his slacks, I feel for the key, but this pocket is empty. It must be on the other side.
When I reach into the other pocket, I’m acutely aware of the heat radiating from his skin. The pocket lining dips over his thigh, and as I push my hand all the way in, my fingers get dangerously close to the bulge in his pants.
What would he do if he woke up right now? Would he tear my hand off him? Or would he grab me by the wrist the way he’s done so many times in class and move my palm to that bulge?
Heat blankets my cheeks at the image. I swallow, wrap my palm around the warm metal object, and quickly take it out. My heart hammers inside my chest as I stand.
As gently as I possibly can, I guide him onto his back, careful to protect his head with my palm, so that he doesn’t fall sideways from a sitting position and hurt himself. When he makes a low sound at the back of his throat, I freeze, but it’s nothing. He’s still fast asleep.
With one last look at Giorgio, I leave the kitchen and hurry upstairs.
