Our Secret Summer(68)
I hate the way his words affect me, the way my trembling body subconsciously tips toward him, yearning even as I try to fight it. I shouldn’t want to be objectified—compared to a doll on a shelf—and the fact that I like it makes me feel ashamed, but that shame only adds to the complex cocktail of emotions coursing through me all because of this man.
“Do you want me to take you home?” he asks, rubbing his thumbs lightly across my skin.
I think about it for a moment, and then I shake my head.
“Good. Should we complete another task?”
“Not tonight.”
He steps back and opens the door for me. I climb in, and just like the other morning, he fastens my seat belt for me before he rounds the SUV. I watch him like a hawk, the headlights illuminating his dark figure. He climbs in and my adrenaline spikes, like my body knows I’ve just locked myself in here with someone dangerous enough to hurt me.
“Have you eaten? I can get you something.”
“Yes, earlier, on my break.”
Satisfied, he pulls out onto the road and turns in the opposite direction of my apartment. We talk about our days, I tell him about my morning with Thalia, and he shares the progress at Sabor a Sol.
“Where are we going?” I eventually ask as we drive deeper into a side of Ibiza I haven’t explored yet.
Cristiano looks over at me and smiles, but he doesn’t answer.
We’re heading west, away from the crowded epicenter of the island. We hug the coastline as we drive. Fifteen minutes later, we slow to a stop in front of a gate weighted down with thick swaths of red flowering bougainvillea. Cristiano keys in a code and the iron gate springs to life, sweeping open for us. Cristiano accelerates up the stone drive, and we’re shrouded on all sides by native flowers and plants until we burst through and arrive in front of a one-story villa made of thick white stone, the wooden roof overlaid with clay tiles.
Is this Cristiano’s home?
There’s no telling just how big it is because it’s dark out and a good portion of it disappears within a grove of wild olive trees. He parks outside on the drive and comes around to get me.
“I didn’t realize I was the type of girl you take home,” I tease.
He winks and draws me out of the car, keeping ahold of my hand as he leads me toward the front entrance. I pause just before we reach the threshold and sniff the air.
“What is that?” I am completely mystified.
Cristiano seems pleased that I’ve noticed. “In the summer all the native trees scent the air here. Carob, almond, orange.”
I inhale deeply and sigh. “Oh my gosh. This needs to be a candle.”
He smiles. “Come on. I want to show you inside.”
Two antique doors are nestled beneath a dramatic arched opening. Once we step in, I take in the vaulted wood ceiling.
“This is a renovated finca, a three-hundred-year-old farmhouse I added on to,” Cristiano explains. “I originally bought the lot because of the olive grove and the view of the harbor. I intended to knock down this house and replace it with something new.”
I gasp like the suggestion is horrifying.
He smiles. “Fortunately I had to live in it for a while before I could afford to execute that plan, and in the meantime, I fell in love with the old home. My architect was the one to suggest we preserve it as best as possible. We eventually succeeded in adding to the home without losing any of its history. The lime plaster is original, as are the clay floor tiles and these wooden beams. Sabina wood from juniper trees. They’re native to the island.”
“Cristiano, it’s beautiful.” I shoot him a sly smile. “And not at all what I expected. Your yacht is so sleek and modern in every way.”
He chuckles. “If my boat were as old as some parts of this house, we would have sunk before we left the dock. In fact, I lived here for a few months at the start without any electricity.”
My eyes go wide. “Did you really?”
A shrug accompanies his lazy grin. “I was broke. I bought this place after I sold my first club. I had just enough money to pay back my investors and throw the rest toward my next venture. There was nothing left for experienced tradesmen. Eventually I started doing some things myself. Cleaning the old windows, replacing rusty hinges, making the house livable again.”
He leads me down the main hallway and my gaze sweeps across the original tile floors to the smooth plaster walls. There’s a natural progression between the old house and the addition; it’s obvious the two sections have been thoughtfully integrated. The aged tiles give way to oak floors sourced from a nearby home and almost as old as the original wood, he tells me. The ceilings rise up into a massive great room that encompasses the kitchen and living area.
Cristiano walks toward the three sets of French doors. “Out there, we added a terrace with a pool and an outdoor kitchen. It wraps around the back of the house.”
“Is there a view?”
Pride glimmers in his eyes. “The house looks out directly onto Port de Porroig. It’s a small harbor.”
A terrace overlooking the harbor!
This house is too romantic to be real. If I lived here, those doors leading outside would never close. I’d let the sea breeze in as often as I could.
This late, it’s too dark to see the view he mentioned. There’s only our reflection in the glass as Cristiano comes up behind me and slips an arm around my middle.