Page 221 of Mario
Elegant.
Articulate.
His thumb moves along my jaw. “Does that bother you?”
“No,” I say too quickly.
His mouth twitches.
I look away. “It maybe does the opposite of bother me.”
“Good.”
I should not feel giddy.
I am a grown woman.
A professional woman.
And yet, apparently, all it takes is Mario Conti telling me I am the first woman he has brought into his home in ten years for my entire nervous system to start throwing confetti.
Breakfast ends up in the garden.
Not because I am composed enough for the garden, but because Mario puts on a robe, hands me another robe, and tells me again not to worry.
The robe is black, soft, and ridiculous on me. It falls practically to the ground, the sleeves swallowing my hands if I do not roll them. I pair it with yesterday’s underwear because I refuse to sit in his garden completely bare beneath this thing like some kind of scandalous woman.
Unfortunately, the effect is probably not much better.
Mario seems pleased with it, which is definitely not helpful.
The garden is beautiful.
Everything here is beautiful, like the way it is when someone with an obscene amount of money actually has taste. Stone terrace, black iron furniture, thick hedges blocking the world from view. The air is cool enough that the coffee steams when it is poured.
Beyond the terrace, the garden spills out in layers. Not wild, exactly, because nothing in Mario’s life seems truly unmanaged, but lush in a way that feels deliberate without looking stiff.
Flower beds are overflowing with late-season color, deep burgundy dahlias, cream roses, purple salvia, and clusters of white hydrangeas beginning to blush faintly green and brown at the edges.
Ornamental grasses sway along the stone path, tall and feathery, catching the morning light like silk. There are herbs planted near the terrace, rosemary, and basil, and thyme, their scent rising sharp and clean whenever the breeze moves through them.
Farther back, the garden turns darker and more private. Cypress and evergreens stand like guards along the hedges, and climbing vines crawl over a black iron arbor heavy with the last stubborn flowers of the season.
The leaves have not turned yet, but hints of gold and rust show at the edges, just enough to remind me summer is ending. A fountain sits half-hidden beyond the hedges, the low sound of water moving beneath the clink of silverware and porcelain. It should feel too perfect, too curated, but instead, it feels secluded. Protected. Like the outside world has been trimmed away and kept on the other side of the walls.
Breakfast is simple but perfect.
Eggs, fruit, warm bread, butter, jam, espresso for him, coffee for me. He watches me eat with the same satisfaction he had when he ordered food for me the other night.
“You enjoy feeding people,” I say, spreading jam over toast.
“I enjoy feeding you.”
My knife stills.
There it is again.
That honesty that slides under every defense I have.
