Full Moon in Florence (7 page)

She looked down at her feet again. “I left without a map. Got myself lost. If I could just find my way back to the river…”

“I know the way. I’ll show you.” He angled his arm out so that she might slip hers through. He was trying to be a gentleman now, to realign the course of their meeting, but as soon as he took his first step, his ankle buckled. Laine grabbed his arm to hold him steady. Then she repositioned her arm so he could slip hers through for support.

“Hold on to me,” she said.

He did. He had to. Nothing was going as planned.

As they walked (she) and hobbled (he) toward the Arno, Laine explained that she had changed her hotel at the last minute. “A friend recommended something more quaint, boutique-style. I hope it’s still convenient for … For us to meet later.”

There was that word again. Convenient. Why did things have to convenient? It seemed to him the important things in life never were.

The tiny winding street ended a T junction near the river.

“I think I can find my way from here,” said Laine.

“I should walk you the rest of the way.’

“Not on that foot.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine by the morning.”

“Should I try hailing a cab again?” She gave a wry smile. “To get you back to your hotel? Mine’s just down here.”

Colin looked at the street name. “Me too. I’m just around the corner actually.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Your hotel was closer to the Duomo, wasn’t it?”

“I changed at the last minute, too.”

They turned down a side street.

“There it is,” they both said at the same time. And then they both stopped mid-step. They looked at each other.

“Not the Hotel de Fiore?”

“Blimey, what are the odds of that?”

Laine looked down the street then back up at Colin, a small smile twisted the corner of her lips.

“Talk about convenience.”

But was Laine thinking what Colin was thinking? The whole time they were walking, Colin was aware of Laine’s body close to his. Under his preoccupation with the pain in his foot was a current of pleasure coursing through him just from being beside her. Other things raced through his mind, too, of course. Thoughts too innumerable to rein in. But woven within his general buzz of erotic thoughts something very specific to Laine threaded its way through to some deeper part of his core being. It had to do with the bend in her wrist as she supported him, the brush of her hip as she took each step, the curve of her chin and neck as she talked and walked. Everything about her seemed new and familiar at the same time. She might have been the one suffering from jet lag but Colin, only an hour outside his time zone, felt more disoriented than he’d ever been in his life. He hid it, of course. He didn’t give away the inside-outness he felt. He played it as cool as he could, but when they got to the steps of the Hotel de Fiore, he stopped. Laine was already one step up, her support arm stretched, and she turned back.

She’d been talking about the work she needed to do and how the Signora hadn’t been at the desk when she’d left and how she needed the wifi password. Colin had only been half listening.

“It’s more than convenience isn’t it?” said Colin, looking up at her. “Us meeting up here?” He needed to know he wasn’t just some bloke she’d called for a hook up on a business trip. Not that he was opposed to that scenario but for some reason he
needed to know
, and that very need made his disorientation complete. Because he’d never needed to know anything like that before. He’d never cared. And now his foot hurt and this strange yet familiar, stunningly beautiful, and very sexy and exceptional American woman stood over him, smiling down, a question in her eyes, and if all she was really thinking about was her work and getting the wifi password and keeping things convenient, Colin
needed to know
.

“What is it?” she said, gazing into his eyes. Eyes that held but hid his desire and confusion and longing and self-protection.

“True love,” he whispered.

Her eyes flickered. Her smile disappeared. He watched her throat move as she swallowed deeply.

“The wifi password,” he said, taking a careful step up, and then another. “True love. In Italian. Amore Vero. Type that in and you’ll be set.”

Laine

Laine felt as if her heart might climb out of her chest and up her throat and lay itself down at Colin’s feet as he stood on the steps of the Hotel Fiore. When he said ‘true love’ she felt her heart stop, and then it started again with a thunderous roar, but by then he was hobbling up the steps and talking about wifi passwords. She felt like such an idiot. For so many reasons. This was not how things were supposed to be going.

To begin with, they weren’t supposed to meet tonight. Not when she hadn’t showered, was punch-drunk from lack of sleep and a teeny bit tipsy from Paolo’s Chianti, which she’d convinced herself accounted for the clumsiness of banging into Colin, and she was still in the process of trying to wrap her head around the fact that she was about to merge fantasy with reality. She would have sorted that out by
tomorrow
, when they were
supposed
to meet for a romantic dinner or drinks or walk through the medieval city streets. But no, reality had come crashing in, as clumsy and awkward as it always was. She’d actually
hurt
Colin tonight. She felt like a clutzy American. She’d tried to be cool, to brush it off, but she was intensely embarrassed. Colin hadn’t even recognized her at first, and why would he? He barely knew her. What had she been thinking, rushing off to Florence believing she could rekindle their fiery one night stand? Such things weren’t possible.

She sighed inwardly as she held the door open for Colin. He was in genuine pain.

Inside, the Signora was bustling through the lobby with a tray and two sherry glasses when Laine and Colin entered.

She smiled at Colin. “Not alone anymore, I see.” She winked.

“It’s not what you think,” said Colin.

Laine bit her lip, pained at the truth of that statement. “We’ll ask her for some ice for your foot.”

Colin nodded.

Laine peeked into the common room and saw the older German couple sitting together on a love seat. The Signora served them each a sherry. The couple clinked glasses, sipped, and then kissed one another delicately and with great love. Laine turned back to Colin, who was now leaning on the counter looking pale. The Signora bustled back with her tray.

“I think I know what you want,” she said in a lilting voice. She looked at Laine and smiled approvingly. “One room instead of two?”

“No!” said Laine and Colin at the same time.

Laine did her best not to look at him. Her quick response made her feel bad, but his made her feel worse.

“It’s just that we’re both here for work,” explained Colin.

The Signora scoffed. Wrapped up in her breathy burst was the universal sentiment that youth was wasted on the young. Not that Laine and Colin were particularly young, which was probably part of the issue. When love found you or you found love, your best bet was to seize it.

And yet…

It was supposed to be a certain way, wasn’t it? Like in Paris. Spontaneous, risky, swept up in a tide of passion. Or was Laine remembering it incorrectly? Somehow she and Colin had found their way into each other’s arms and hearts once. Why were they fumbling with this second chance?

“I need some ice for my ankle,” said Colin.

“Ice is not what you need,” said the Signora before disappearing into the back office.

Colin looked over at Laine, who was fingering brochures at the end of the counter.

“I’m sorry about all this. It’s not really how I pictured our reunion.” His green eyes held hers for an extended moment. She felt his sincerity.

“Me neither.” She smiled and shrugged. He stretched his arm over the counter and opened his fingers to her. During their walk back to the hotel, Laine had felt a current of electric warmth between them, though they’d done little but walk side by side with her supporting him as he limped. Now, as he held his hand out to her, she slipped her fingers in his, and all the heat they’d each been carrying flared up through their fingertips.

The Signora pushed through the office door. Colin and Laine let go of each other as the Signora dropped the bucket of ice on the counter between them. She looked at each of them in turn and then shrugged.

The older German couple shuffled out of the common room holding hands. They nodded and smiled at Colin and Laine.

“Buona notte, Frau and Herr Lehman,” said the Signora as the older man and woman tucked themselves into the small elevator. Once they’d gone, the Signora said to Colin and Laine. “It’s their 50 year anniversary.” She clucked her tongue. “Can’t have such history if you’re not willing to start somewhere.”

Colin grabbed the bucket of ice. “Grazi.”

Laine and Colin waited for the elevator to return. Laine would have taken the stairs, as she was only one floor up, but she wanted to make sure Colin got safely to his room. She felt responsible for his injury.

“You really think your foot will be fine by tomorrow?”

“Better be. I planned to walk over to my meeting in Oltrarno.”

Laine nodded. She thought her meeting was in that neighbourhood, too. She’d have to check her emails from Tina.

As they stepped into the small elevator, Laine caught a lingering whiff of sherry. That couple seemed so happy together. They had been lucky to find true love.

Colin pressed floor one. “Laine…”

She turned to him. He reached for her hand again and drew her closer to him.

“Can we start over?”

“How do you mean? Pretend we never met?” She was now leaning into his shoulder.

“No, not pretend…” He was looking at her lips. She couldn’t help but look at his.

Then the elevator doors opened. They stepped off and stood in the hall.

“I’m on this floor, too,” said Laine.

“How convenient,” said Colin with a wry smile.

Laine arched an eyebrow. She wanted to kiss him. She’d been carrying around this impulse for months. But she felt travel sticky. She wanted to shower, brush her teeth, slip into something more comfortable before she slid up next to this man who’d been in the starring role of her fantasies for the past three months. She wanted her first kiss with Colin to be perfect.

He started to say, “I have an early meeting tomorrow but you could…”

She put her finger to his lips. “Let’s wait. Let’s start over, like you said. Tomorrow.”

He looked a little disappointed but he nodded. “Until tomorrow then.”

He turned away and hobbled down the hall.

Laine turned the other way, pulling out her key as she walked and berating herself for not being more spontaneous, more trusting, more confident. More willing to risk additional embarrassment by following Colin back to his room. Why hadn’t she? She was afraid.

Once inside her room she tilted her head and sniffed her arm pits. There was another reason why she hadn’t followed him. She slipped out of her sandals and headed for the shower, peeling off layers of travel clothing as she went and revealing other scented reasons for why she didn’t jump into a tangled mess of limbs with Mr. Colin Ellington. She turned on the shower. As she waited for the hot water to flow she scrutinized herself in the mirror. Her wavy brown hair looked flat on one side and frizzy on the other. Her brown eyes looked tired, the skin under them slightly puffy, and her long mascara-clumped eyelashes were definitely in need of a retouch. Her lips, normally full and soft, looked thinner and drier. Is that why Colin had been staring at them in the elevator? Not because he wanted to kiss them but because he was trying to figure out how to avoid doing just that? Naked under the bathroom light, Laine thought she looked lumpy, the kind of lumpy that no amount of lingerie could improve. She climbed into the steaming shower. The pricks of hot water stung as harshly as cold hard reality. She’d been a fool to think she could rekindle her chemistry with Colin.

Colin

Colin felt like a lame stag as he wrapped his ankle in ice. It wasn’t excruciatingly painful, but it ached enough to be distracting when he’d wanted to put all his attention on Laine. He still felt dumbfounded that they had simply — and painfully — crashed into each other. What were the odds of that? It had to be Fate. He was sure of it. But why hadn’t Fate orchestrated something more elegant? More romantic? More…
sexy
?

He’d dreamt of seeing her again for months, and had almost given up on that dream until she’d emailed. Now here they both were in Florence, and he had acted like a yob. With his twisted ankle he was now a handicapped yob. Even if he felt like sweeping her off her feet, he wasn’t physically able to. At least not today. He sighed, removed the ice for a few minutes, and limped over to the bathroom to run a tub. He didn’t want to stand on his ankle in the shower. He could lay back in the tub and keep his ankle on ice a bit longer. As the water filled the tub, Colin considered his options: he could go this meeting tomorrow, purchase the painting for his client, and then get on a plane back to London. He’d forget this ludicrous sentimentality of trying to squeeze something more out of what was simply a beautiful memory. A beautiful, hot, sexy memory… The kind of memory he simply couldn’t forget.

Colin frowned. The tub was full. He twisted the taps off and, balancing on one leg, stripped his clothes off. The bathroom mirror reflected his awkward movements and he couldn’t help giving his image some attention.

He looked good. He knew that. He worked out, didn’t over eat, played football on weekends (or
soccer
, as Americans called it), and sex, of course, was the best workout going, which is partly why he participated as often as he could. Even if it lacked lustre these days. It lacked meaning. Sex wasn’t supposed to be
exercise
. He knew something was wrong with that approach.

His torso and biceps looked lean and cut, but it was just a matter of time, wasn’t it? His slim middle would soften. His knees would start to ache. He wouldn’t always want to run around the pitch on Saturdays. He wouldn’t always want to be on top for sex. He might like to lie back. Be ridden.