So Rare (Boys of South Chapel #3)

6. Hunter

Chapter 6

Hunter

THEN: Spring, Year One Follicular Phase

I’d like to say I came to Italy because I’ve always wanted to experience the culture and cuisine. Truth be told, I came on a whim. I only trust myself to make decisions at certain times each month, and I didn’t want to reach my luteal phase and still be waffling.

So my plans to leave London came together quickly. They had to, for my sake and Spence’s. I chose my destination based on the flights available that week.

If I thought about it for too long, I’d second-guess myself, and if I even offered so much as a hint of what I was planning to do, Spence would have stopped me.

Part of me wishes he would have.

I fear that the compulsion to run has become part of who I am. What if I never stop?

No. I can’t think like that right now. I’m here for a reason, and I have to believe that what I’m seeking is also seeking me.

I square my shoulders and traverse the uneven, cobbled path leading to what I hope will be a fresh start.

With each step, I will my mind to clear. But it can’t. It can’t, or it won’t. My head knows it’s for the best, but my heart won’t allow it. I miss Spence so damn much.

My departure was swift and cowardly. In my heart of hearts, I think he knew it was coming. His touches had started to linger. Sorrowful eyes followed me through the flat as if he was already preparing for my absence.

In the end, I didn’t allow him the opportunity to say goodbye. Not because he didn’t deserve it, but because I couldn’t bear it.

I always default to self-preservation when it comes to matters of the heart.

So I left him a hand-written letter. I told him where I was going and why I felt like I had to leave. My decision had nothing to do with him and everything to do with me.

My mind is a chaotic place. That’s not news to either of us.

I just hope he doesn’t hate me for what I had to do.

It’s poetic, really, being the one that got away opposed to the ball and chain that drags another person down. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. Spence didn’t view me that way. Not yet, at least. Though it had become a niggling worry in my mind that I couldn’t ignore. He did so much for me: He cared for me in every way that was real and true. He made my happiness his purpose, day in and day out.

I don’t deserve that kind of love, though. Not in the long term. Not in the way I think Spence was willing to love me. Between heartache, grief, and PMDD, there wasn’t enough of me left over to reciprocate that kind of deep, unyielding care and affection.

So I said goodbye in the most cowardly way possible. I applied my favorite red lipstick—the shade I regularly wore at Splice—and sealed the letter. With my lock necklace laid over it, I left it on the kitchen island. Then I snuck out while he was in the shower.

Now I’m here. In Italy. Starting over. Again.

Taking deep breaths to soothe the pressure forming behind my sinuses, I fight back tears. I can’t think about London right now. I need to focus on Italy. On what’s new and what’s next.

Running is my default, so it felt natural to leave before things could get too real. I’ll keep the very best memories of the man I loved in London locked away in the recesses of my mind. Leaving London was both easier and harder than leaving North Carolina. Staying away from London—without an entire ocean separating me from the man I left behind—will be the real challenge.

If I’m going to stay awhile, then I need an anchor. Hence why I’m walking up this hilly pathway.

I need a job, and Villa Viola is hiring.

At the threshold of the small building, I pause and double-check the little sign confirming that I’m in the right place. Then I take a deep breath and grasp the handle of the cerulean-blue door. For three seconds, I allow myself to feel the butterflies warring in my stomach. When my time is up, I close my eyes and exhale. Then I channel my inner cheerleader, plaster an enormous smile on my face, and heave open the door.

“Hi,” I chirp as I approach the older woman.

She looks to be in her seventies and is the only person in the lobby. She’s tidying a little seating area, but she peers over at me as I approach. The building is much smaller than I envisioned. It’s nothing more than a simple two-story residence from the outside, with not much by the way of signage.

“My name’s Hunter. I was hoping to talk to the manager. To inquire about the hospitality position?”

She pauses her sweeping and straightens. Warm brown eyes surrounded by deep wrinkles lift and search my face. Her brow bone is dotted with freckles only a few shades darker than the rich tan of her skin.

Her salt-and-pepper hair is twisted into a tight bun at the back of her head, and she’s wearing an eclectic lavender muumuu paired with sensible sandals.

The smile she gives me is kind, the corners of her mouth reaching high and creating deep dimples that complement the crow’s feet and wrinkles all over her face.

A vision of my mother intrudes my thoughts at that moment. My mother, who abhors wrinkles. Who elects to receive an onslaught of treatments on a regular basis to keep her crow’s feet at bay.

There isn’t a smooth inch of skin anywhere on this woman’s face or neck. Yet her smile is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.

What’s so wrong with wrinkles anyway?

I shake my head to clear the clutter. I’ve lost myself in my thoughts once again. “The job?” I repeat, holding my smile, despite the aching sensation in my cheeks from forcing the enthusiastic expression.

“Ospitalitatii?” she says in an accent I don’t recognize, the word melodic and thick. It’s not Italian. At least, I don’t think it is. Although it sounds similar.

“Yes. I’m here to apply for the hospitality job.”

She holds the broom with both hands, assessing me. The smile is gone—her scrutiny more intense and inquisitive than I’m prepared for. Suddenly, she releases her grasp on the long handle but doesn’t look away.

I don’t know where to focus—at her, or at the stick that I swear is floating between us. The broom stays propped on its bristles for one second, then two. Then three, then four, then five.

It doesn’t fall. But I swear she’s not touching it.

“How—”

But before I can articulate my question, she grasps the perfectly balanced broom again and resumes sweeping.

When she lifts her head and meets my gaze once more, there’s a twinkle in her eye that’s pure mischief.

I press my lips together, unsure whether to laugh or to remain stoic. Is this a test? Does she want me to crack?

In the end, it’s useless. The longer she smiles at me, the faster I thaw. Neither of us speaks, but an unspoken warmth passes between us. A sensation akin to a comforting hug. It’s as if all my worries soften around the edges and my apprehension about coming to a new place and starting over— again —dissipates.

“Mamaia!” A man’s voice rings out from far away, joyful and boisterous.

And just like that, the spell is broken.

Although maybe broken isn’t the word. Not based on the way the woman before me is grinning so wide I can’t even see her irises. How is that even possible?

She moves in the direction of the voice, taking the magic broom with her. Two steps across the room, she turns to face me and holds up one finger, indicating that I should wait.

Then she’s in front of me again, handing me the broom. She releases it before I even process what’s happening. I’m left holding it, standing in the middle of the small space, dumbfounded. And without a word, she’s gone.

Should I take over and resume sweeping like she was? Is this another test? An audition for the job?

I asked Alessia, a girl at the hostel I’ve become friendly with, to help me translate the ad when I found it posted outside a café in Piazza Cavour. According to the job description, the duties include cleaning, cooking, and planning activities for guests. The only requirements are experience in hospitality and the ability to speak English, both of which I have locked in.

I want this job.

No, not just want. I need it if I’m going to stay in Lake Como. I won’t last in the hostel another week. And I don’t want to have to pack up and leave.

More determined than ever to make a good impression, I get to work cleaning. I sweep the corners and under the seats. I sweep the threshold and move the rugs to ensure I hit every nook and cranny.

My dust pile is nearly nonexistent, hinting that Villa Viola is well cared for. Nevertheless, I persist. This floor will gleam by the time I’m done. If this is a test, then I plan to ace it.

Eventually, curiosity gets the better of me. So, craning my neck, I survey the room, confirming that I’m still alone. Then I steady the broom on its bristles and try to balance it like the older woman did. It holds, but only for a second before it falls with a clatter.

I scramble to pick it up. Then I try again.

This time the broom balances upright for one second. Then two. I clap in delight as three seconds pass. I have to hold in a squeal when I hit the four-second mark.

“Are you here to put on a magic show for our guests?” a male voice asks.

A yelp of surprise tears from my lungs, and the wooden broom clatters to the tiles, sending me jumping back.

Hand pressed to my chest, I look up, finding that the woman has returned. And she’s no longer alone.

I survey the man before me, cataloging his tattoos and the glossy black hair that hangs to his shoulders.

He’s grinning when I finally lift my gaze to his face. He caught my not-so-subtle ogling.

Flovely .

“I’m here about the job,” I rush to explain.

I look over at the older woman, but she merely watches me with a hint of a smile on her face, as if she’s happy to silently watch our exchange.

“English is my native language, and I worked as a hostess in London for—a while.” I’m not keen on getting into the nitty gritty of my work history with a stranger, so I leave it at that. “Do you work here?” I look from the extremely attractive man who’s close to my age, maybe a few years older, back to the woman I met when I arrived.

“I do. Villa Viola is a family business. I’ve been working here since I was a kid.”

Okay. That makes sense. Now that he mentions it, I can see the resemblance between the two of them.

“And she’s your…?” I leave the question open-ended. If I guess she’s his grandmother, only to discover she’s his mother or his aunt, then I can kiss my hopes of landing this job goodbye, I’m sure.

“Mamaia—Kitty—is my grandmother. I see she’s already put you to work,” the man teases. Then, approaching and extending a massive, tatted hand, he says, “I’m Sione.”

“My name’s Hunter.” I shake his hand while desperately clinging to the broom for support.

When he releases me, he turns to Kitty and speaks to her in a language that’s not English.

“Is that Italian?” I hedge.

His eyes flit to me, then back to his grandma, who’s now replying in quick, clipped sentences that aren’t as melodic as the phrases I’ve grown accustomed to hearing over the last few weeks.

“Romanian,” he answers when she finally stops talking. “Kitty and my grandpa, Otmar, were born in Romania. They immigrated here in their twenties and started working at Villa Viola shortly after. The previous owners adored them, and when they retired, they sold the business to them. They’ve owned it for almost four decades now.”

I nod and smile, eager to take in any little nuggets of wisdom or history that might help me secure this job.

“So is there an application I should fill out? And could you ask your grandmother when she thinks interviews will occur?”

He speaks to his grandmother in Romanian, and when she responds, carrying on for several minutes, he crosses his arms over his chest and chuckles.

I wait with bated breath, resisting the urge to ask him to translate.

Finally, she’s silent, yet neither addresses me. They watch one another for a handful of heartbeats, their expressions unreadable.

“So?” I eventually hedge.

Sione grins, the expression emanating the same kind of warmth I felt when his grandmother greeted me. “She asked if your English is any good, and I assured her it is. She wants to know if you can start today, and if you’ll need accommodation. There’s a villa dedicated to staff. Each employee has a private room and en suite bathroom. She’s also hounding me about using the good purple sheets on your bed instead of the regular white ones we use for everyone else.” He arches an amused brow. “She must really like you.”

“Wait, so I’m hired? Just like that?” I protest.

Why, exactly, I’m protesting, I have no idea. This seems too easy. Things never work out like this for me.

Shrugging, Sione runs one hand through his dark, wavy hair. I’m absolutely transfixed by the movement. Scratch that—I’m mesmerized by his very presence. He’s got cheekbones to die for and the most gorgeous eyelashes I’ve ever seen.

“She said she already interviewed you.”

I press my lips together, fighting a smile. That was easy. Too easy? Whatever. I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, or however the saying goes.

The moment I stepped into the lobby, a comforting sensation enveloped me. I feel safe here. Respected. Not to mention amused by Kitty and her antics. Sione puts off good vibes, and if I can calm my libido for a hot second, I could see the two of us striking up a friendship.

Most importantly, I haven’t thought about Spence or London or my past since walking into Villa Viola. That’s a major improvement. For the last few weeks, I’ve been battling a never-ending barrage of intrusive thoughts. It’s not often I can quiet the guilty memories that plague my mind.

I may not deserve this clean slate, but I need it.

Pulling me from my thoughts, Sione asks, “If I help you bring your things over from the hostile, can you start today?”

“Yes,” I reply without hesitation, my heart leaping in my chest.

He grins. “Right on. I have two more villas to turn over. Why don’t you head out and get packed up? I’ll meet up with you in a few hours.”

With a nod at Sione, I turn to Kitty. “Thank you. I’m a hard worker, I promise. I won’t let you down.”

She smiles slyly in response, and once again, when her eyes lock on me, I’m enveloped in the warmest, most comforting sensation. It’s as if she’s embracing me, even though she’s several feet across the room. I swear the woman is magic. Just being in her presence is a balm I didn’t know I was craving.

“Let me give you my number,” Sione holds out a hand, and when I set my phone in his palm, he punches in his number, saves it, and winks. “You’ll find me under ‘The One and Only’ since it rhymes with Cee-oh-nay .”

My face heats at the twinkle in his eye and the half smile he gives me. As if I could possibly forget a single detail about this man.

“Thank you both,” I gush again. “I’ll pack quickly. See you later.”