Page 93 of Holding Out for a Gyro
She waved her hands frantically to get the attention of the gondolier. He looked back, and she yelled, “The Bridge of Sighs! Where’s the Bridge of Sighs?”
He pointed ahead. “Si. Il Ponte dei Sospiri. È qui.”
A white covered bridge spanned the canal ahead of us. Chelsea blinked, and her tears shimmered in the fading light. As the gondola passed beneath, she knelt on the seat beside me, clasped my cheeks in her palms, and planted a kiss right on my lips. I responded immediately, completely overwhelmed by hersudden attack.
Just as suddenly, she sat back with a feverish grin.
“What was that about?”
“Didn’t you ever seeA Little Romance?”
“Nope.”
“Laurence Olivier.”
“Of course. I’m beginning to feel a little jealous of him.”
“My mom loved that movie.” She settled the blanket across our laps and took my hand. “There’s a legend that if a couple kisses under the Bridge of Sighs at sunset as the bells of San Marco toll—”
She sucked on her lower lip, like she’d been overcome by sudden shyness. Chelsea was never shy. “What? Tell me.”
“They’ll be assured eternal love.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You entered me into an eternal contract without my consent?” I gently pushed her shoulders, teasing.
“If I’d asked, you would’ve talked until it was too late.”
“And now what? Are we in love?”
“Of course we are, Bas. Don’t you believe in legends?”
“So what does it mean?”
“It means you can’t go anywhere without me.”
Transparent, but I smiled. “Or you without me?”
She sat back, smug. “Sorry. You can’t argue with legends.”
I pointed up at a pigeon perched along the side of the canal. “See that bird?”
“Yeah.”
I leaned in and kissed her quick. “Legend has it if you kiss a woman as you pass in front of a pigeon, she’ll kiss you back.”
“Is that so?”
“You don’t believe it?”
The corner of her mouth curved up. “Of course.” She moved closer and pressed her lips to mine, slower than before. I had the time to savor the feel and the taste of her tongue. My stomachswooped with the power of a fantasy coming to life. She broke away, eyes closed at first, then opening deliberately, gazing at me from an inch away, tempting me to make out with her on a gondola.
And so I did. I kissed her like I’d wanted to since Christmas Day, like I had when I’d taken it for granted. I wasn’t taking it for granted anymore. She relaxed in my arms and sighed.
We didn’t see the rest of the gondola ride, which could have lasted another hour or another ten seconds. Time lost all meaning, and I kissed her first soft, then hard, first slow, then frantically. By the time the gondola parked in its original spot, I’d kissed Chelsea until I remembered every way she liked to be kissed.
We stumbled out of the boat, hands clasped. She relinquished my grasp only to clutch at my biceps and pull me toward her. We kissed on the waterfront. We kissed as we walked along the cobbled path, under arches, and over bridges. I pushed her against the side of a church and kissed her in darkened doorways. She dragged me ten steps farther toward our hotel, walking backward, hurrying, slowing down, touching my face. And kissing me. Always kissing me. Like it was new. Like we were reckless. Like she’d never known fear.
Our arms intertwined as we crossed the hotel lobby. I fumbled with the key card, but finally the door opened, and we were all alone, together, with that one bed.
