Page 36 of My Dark Fairy Tale

“Yes.”

“Well then, what does order have to do with it?” He spoke English well because his father was a Canadian who had moved to the region years ago after meeting his mother while she was studying abroad in Halifax.

Guinevere sniffed at him in such a haughty, catlike way, I could not help but smile.

“I want to be sure I get to everything I want to do. I’m only here for six weeks, and I wasted one of them being sick and in bed.”

“Ignore Carmine. It is what I do. What is on your list, then?” I asked, disregarding her original entreaty.

For whatever reason, I did not want her to leave the shelter of my roof. Even if I had convinced myself to resist her temptation, I was not immune to this strange, celestial connection between us. It felt likefortuna, like fate. The hand of some greater force playing us both likeburattini.

I could not stop wondering if I was meant to know her.

There was this inarguable sense that I had known her before. Or, maybe, that I had been waiting for her all this time without knowing it.

Could a stranger feel so immediately like a friend?

“I want to visit a winery, climb the steps of the Duomo, watch the sunset from Piazzale Michelangelo, spend hours at the Uffizi, eat my weight in gelato, explore the Etruscan ruins at Volterra, visit Siena and San Gimignano and Montepulciano—”

“Bene, bene, basta!” Carmine said, laughing as he held up his hands in surrender. “You have a lot to see and do. I agree.”

“It’s a good thing you have Raffaele,” Martina announced as she joined us on the terrace in her workout kit, glistening with sweat from her morning exercise. Renzo followed closely behind, wet with perspiration too. “He is the best tour guide.”

Carmine snorted orange juice out his nose, and Ludo barked out a laugh.

“I hate to ferry out-of-towners around,” I admitted to Guinevere, who focused on smearing a gob of Nutella on top of a cream-filled Ringo cookie.

“Well, no pressure. I came here alone, and I am happy to travel alone. You don’t need to be forced into my company just because you hit me with your car.”

Renzo laughed into the back of his hand.

“Di classe,” Carmine drawled.

Smooth.

“It is the least I could do, I suppose, after hitting Bambi,” I teased with a flash of a smile that bared my teeth.

I’d noticed that whenever I did that, a flush spilled down her front like spilled wine. It was no different now, the white of her dress emphasizing her blush.

“I wouldn’t want to bother you,” she insisted between her teeth, her gumption fighting through her conservatism.

I felt as I had when I was a boy pulling a girl’s pigtails, giddy and mean.

“Well, I think we are past that, do you not?”

She glared at me.

I glared right back.

Until Martina laughed and clapped her hands. “Perfetto. Today is a good day to show her the wines. You promised Imelda you would visit Fattoria Casa Luna today, anyway. Guinevere can visit while you do business.”

“Fine,” I agreed.

“Can we swing by my apartment first?” Guinevere asked, standing up and fruitlessly trying to brush the wrinkles from her dress.

No.

“Fine,” I repeated, colder than before.