Page 21

Lori

‘Maybe I should move here,’ I mused with a sigh.

It was full dark, now, the wooden shutters of the old brick houses drawn.

I usually craved pizza after a race, which was convenient when I was in Italy.

We’d shared two perfect pizzas – a classic salami and a garlicky white one with fresh yellow tomatoes and olives – washed down with a glass of sangiovese that had felt like a good idea at the time.

Now I was a little too loose and the alcohol added another layer of complexity to the mix of natural chemicals building up in my body.

Passing under a stone archway illuminated by the soft light of the wrought-iron lamps, I was certain now that we were lost, but I wouldn’t be the one to mention it.

I needed to rest, was about to shut down, but I was too stubborn to succumb.

‘There are fewer aggressive creatures in Siena than Australia,’ Seb agreed and I had that urge to touch my shoulder to his again. He was so… nudgeable. But I wasn’t supposed to be nudging anyone. Plus, he’d already turned me down once today.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t stopped the tightness in my chest, the thump of fresh adrenaline fizzing in my blood as my skin tingled with memories and possibilities every time I looked at him.

‘I have an Italian passport you know,’ I commented absently.

‘Ah, so you only date compatriots?’ Seb teased. ‘You’re lucky that gives you three countries in your pool of candidates. I would be stuck with Belgians.’

‘How awful!’ I gave a mock shudder. ‘How come you speak such good English? I didn’t find a mention of your qualifications on the internet – or maybe I was just distracted by the mud-spattered cyclocross photos.’

His grin gave me that little heart-flip again.

He had more pride than he realised and I kind of liked stoking it.

‘I learned English, but not very well – not at my technical school. But I’ve been in international teams for a long time.

Even in a Belgian team – I speak better English than Flemish, so…

Except the swear words. I’m good at those. ’

‘Do you realise you talk about Belgium like you’re apologising for its existence? But I suspect you wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.’

‘Well, my mum and my grandma… and my sister.’

‘What do they think about your career?’

‘They don’t know what to think,’ he said with a far-off smile. ‘They often come to watch if it’s not too far. They drive up in the old truck and stand by the barriers in their rubber boots. I don’t think they really understand what’s going on.’

He painted a vivid picture and it was striking how much I wanted to meet them in real life. ‘Not quite like my dad, then,’ was all I said. And unlike my mum, his family seemed to value him just the way he was, regardless of his achievements.

‘No, not like your dad,’ he agreed emphatically.

The lane opened out up ahead and we emerged onto the Piazza del Campo, the scene of our ignominious race finishes today. Seb stopped so suddenly I walked into him – a rather soft landing against his pliant, tired body. He turned to me, standing close, and I wouldn’t have moved for the world.

The crescent of warm stone buildings with wrought-iron balconies and the crenellated town hall looked different at night from this afternoon, when the square had been filled with barriers and marquees and officials with lanyards.

Staring at the stunning white loggia at the top of the tower, while Seb did the same, I thought that this quiet moment in a place I loved would surely turn my luck around.

His fingers brushed mine and I froze, my heart pounding. I was tense, mixed up, with no idea what I wanted from him – except definitely more touching. The world seemed different when we were together. But I wasn’t supposed to be indulging in romance .

He swept past without taking my hand. ‘I’d rather not look too closely at the piazza,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I hope someone’s cleaned up after me at least.’

I caught up to him quickly and we dawdled together, the cold air swirling around us while heat gathered between. It had been a hellish day with a fruitless, painful race and tears – far too many tears.

More of them gathered as my thoughts flitted aimlessly over the events of the day.

Laura and Gaetano, the armchair in Seb’s room, his dimpled cheeks and my cute mental image of his mother and grandmother in rain gear, failure, rejection, a saint’s severed head and this overwhelming feeling that I would do it all again if it meant we got here.

I didn’t even know where ‘here’ was and he wasn’t even holding my hand.

A car clattered past on the flagstones and we veered off onto a little piazza to make room. It was ridiculous that cars were allowed to drive these narrow lanes but I didn’t mind squeezing off the road because it brought me back into a full-body nudge against Seb, his arm slipping around me.

Nudging. That seemed to be where we were at.

I recognised the drinking fountain with the brass statue of a panther and realised we weren’t far from the hotel now.

He saw me looking at the fountain. ‘Maybe we were on the wrong track with the coin and Saint Catherine.’

‘You think?’ At least the weird, romantic mood hadn’t killed my sarcasm yet.

‘Since your bad luck has been distinctly zoological, we should have been visiting all these animals around Siena and rubbing the statues for luck. How’s your calendar looking for tomorrow?’ he asked with a little huff.

My throat was thick. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow.’

His gaze shot to mine. ‘You should at least rub this one. The bones of Saint Francis are too far away, in Assisi. He’s the patron saint of animals.’

‘I think we established that looking at bits of dead bodies isn’t the right way to turn my luck around,’ I muttered as I ran my hand over the cool brass.

Seb did the same and when our fingertips brushed, we both paused, but he didn’t look up.

His throat bobbed and, after a long hesitation, he drew his fingers back.

‘That will— Ehm… Surely the panther is a good-luck animal,’ he said softly, taking a step back. When he glanced at me, the wariness in his gaze sucked me in. He feels all this too .

As we set off again in the direction of the hotel, I scuffed my feet, my mind racing.

Digging my hand out of the pocket of the hoodie, I let it hang, my knuckles grazing his while I tried to decide if I wanted to take his hand and ridiculing myself for agonising about something so simple, given the places on me he’d already had his fingertips.

He could make a move, although I wasn’t usually one to stand around waiting.

But maybe he didn’t want to. Hand-holding was some whole different shit to banging the tension out of our systems and that’s all we’d done – as well as spend a couple of hours together trying to shed my bad luck while nudging each other.

We passed under another brick archway near the hotel and I wondered with some detachment whether I was going to hyperventilate, my body was so wound up. About nudging and hand-holding! What was wrong with me?

Although we were walking more slowly than a nonna with a Zimmer frame, it was only when we reached the stone porch that my thoughts progressed to goodbye kisses and that dilemma landed on me with a whump to my stomach.

He paused by the first step, opening and closing his hand. ‘I— Erm… You—’ He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at me and away again as though there was something painful about the action. ‘What time are you leaving tomorrow?’

I gulped, trying to switch off the prickle of awareness of everything he did, but he drifted closer and, instead of turning off, I zoned right in. As though I was on the bike, every fibre of my being trembled into focus.

His gaze rose warily to mine, all warm amber and confusion. I wanted to rub my thumbs in the hollows of his cheeks, kiss his angular jaw. I forgot everything except how the air buzzed when he was this close and how it had felt to kiss him – like letting go.

His nostrils flared and his chest rose sharply on a ragged breath. We stood so close the steam clouds of our breath dissipated as one.

‘You…’ he tried again.

His brow dipped as a sigh escaped his lips and he studied me, my mouth. He’d done nothing, but I still felt the look in my spine.

‘You left your phone in my room. Do you want me to get it for you?’

Only when I stumbled back onto my heels did I realise how close I’d swayed to him and with the crash of my feet came the tumble of my pride.

‘I’ll just come and get it,’ I mumbled, gritting my teeth.

I turned away, but his hand shot out and closed in the soft fabric of the hoodie, at my waist.

‘Okay, maybe I don’t even care if you only want me when you lose,’ he murmured. Before I’d had a chance to process those words, his hands plunged into my hair, he tilted his head and then everything flipped upside down again as he pressed a hard kiss to my mouth.

What began as firm pressure, the scrape of his bottom lip over mine, quickly turned deep as I fumbled for him, for something to hold onto. My mouth fell open and I needed to get closer, even closer, clawing at him as his tongue swept through my mouth.

Maybe I did want him because I’d lost, because that evening had been wonderful, when I could have been wallowing in my own failure. Maybe if I lost again, he’d be there for me.

He broke away with a heavy breath, his eyes still closed.

That upside-down floating sensation was still interfering with my balance when I stared at his face, his dark eyelashes, sharp cheekbones.

I blossomed into a different person when I looked at him – someone protective and soft and chaotic.

That person didn’t win races, but I didn’t mind her that night.

Turning his head so his cheek was on my forehead, his breath tickled my hair as he said, ‘I don’t want you to think I’m rejecting you.’