“Good. Tomorrow,” she says. She turns to leave, and I am suddenly—standing on the pier, the water moving below us and the wine coursing through my veins—met with the intense need to hug her. I feel it viscerally.
So I do.
I lean forward and capture her in my arms. She smells like salt water and wine and her.
“Thank you for today,” I say, and release her. Tomorrow.
Chapter Ten
I wake up to a soft rapping at my door.
“One moment,” I say, the haze and pressure of a hangover setting in. I look at the clock: it’s after 8 p.m. I came back from lunch, just thinking I’d lie down, and now I’ve been cold asleep for over three hours.
I grab a glass water bottle on the dresser and chug it as I open the door. On the other side is Nika, dressed in a white shirt and high-waisted jeans, hair down. She has a little blush on her cheeks. She looks lovely.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hello,” she says. “Good evening. You’re all right?”
I look down at my crinkled cover-up and feel my face. Despite the sun hat, it feels tight and hot—sunburned, no doubt, from today. I don’t think I reapplied sunscreen once after the dock, and the restaurant was almost entirely uncovered.
“Yes,” I say. “Too much wine at lunch. Are you…”
“Oh!” she says. She rolls her eyes at herself. “The gentleman downstairs was concerned. I told him I would come to check on you. See to it that you are okay.”
Adam. Shit.
“Tell him I’ll be right down,” I say. “And I’m so sorry. Thank you.”
Nika nods. “I will.”
“Hey, Nika,” I say, remembering. “Marco told me Adam is trying to buy the hotel?”
Nika laughs. “Marco thinks everyone is always trying to take this place from him. It is not as desirable as he thinks.”
“Really?”
Nika shrugs. “Well, I think it’s desirable, of course. I love it. It has been my family’s life for many years. I don’t know about Adam. Maybe he is trying. But we could use help.”
“I’ll be right down,” I tell her. “Thank you for coming to get me.”
“I’ll let Mr. Westbrooke know,” she says with a smile, then closes the door behind her.
I get in the shower.
It takes me twelve and a half minutes to rinse off, put on a floral summer dress, run a brush through my hair, and put on the most minimum makeup within reach. Blush, lip gloss, a fast swipe of mascara.
When I get downstairs, Adam is seated at the same table he was at breakfast.
“She lives,” he says, standing. He’s dressed in tan linen pants and a white linen shirt. He has a mala bracelet on, made out of wooden beads. The kind you see at yoga studios all over LA. His blond hair flops down over his forehead. He looks… good.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I had too much wine at lunch and fell asleep. I never day drink.”
He grins at me. His teeth, I notice, are very white. “Italy,” he says. “What are you going to do?”
Adam gestures to the chair across from him, and I sit.
“You skipped cocktail hour,” he says. “But I thought we could have dinner.”
Seated now, I feel the familiar sensation in my stomach, like an engine starting. Lunch was ages ago.
“Yes, please,” I say. “I’m starving.”
Adam opens his menu. “What do you like?” he asks me.
It’s such a simple question. Unordinary. But I find myself unable to answer it. I am so used to the pleasure of habit. Do I even like the chopped salad at La Scala? The hazelnut creamer, the color white? Is familiarity a taste? Or just an accustomed tolerance?
“The tomato salad and ravioli are delicious,” I say.
Adam smiles. “Oh, I know. But in my opinion, nothing beats their primavera. And there is a salt fish here that is—” He brings his pinched fingers to his lips in a chef’s kiss.
“I’ll leave it to you, then.”
“Why don’t we get both,” he says. “I’ll share if you will.”
The way he says it, like he’s daring me, makes something inside me turn over.
“Wine?” he says.
I close one eye.
“Oh. Right. Lunch. We’ll take it easy.”
He orders a glass of Barolo for himself, and I get an iced tea. It takes a little while to explain to our waiter—the same gentleman who served us at breakfast, I learn his name is Carlo—what is involved in an iced tea. What ends up coming out is a pot of black tea and a cup of ice. Fair enough.