An only child, Sam’s mother Lucia had inherited everything when her parents both died in a car crash. That was when Sam was a tiny baby, and they were living in New York, where Foster was an up-and-coming theatre producer. Every summer since then, Lucia had brought her family home, to spend the warm days frolicking in the sun. Villa Palladino had become an anchor in Sam’s life, even if he’d avoided it in the past few years. It was here, where there was no phone or Wi-Fi, that he felt most like himself. The pre-Hollywood Sam who loved to read, to play, to spend time with his family. The Sam who could never please his father, but couldn’t understand why.
He lay back in his bed, the mattress groaning beneath him. It was ironic that he’d come to Italy to escape his problems, yet had only managed to make more for himself. He should go back to LA, face his self-inflicted demons, and forget that Cesca Shakespeare ever existed. Yet somehow he found that difficult to do. Even when he closed his eyes she was there, staring back at him, her anger and ire somehow only enhancing her beauty.
Because she was beautiful. That was impossible to ignore. But more than that she was talented, strong, and not afraid of speaking her mind. There was a wildness to her that enticed him, made him want to know more. That was why he’d been so absorbed by her play. Seeing her intelligence laid out in black and white, in the dialogue between the characters she’d so carefully crafted, had been an eye-opener. Giving him an insight to the woman beneath the hard exterior. Last night, when he was reading her words and adding in comments, it felt like a dialogue between him and Cesca, even though neither of them had said a word.
It was a conversation she hadn’t wanted, though. One she’d openly rejected, and it felt like a swift, sharp kick to the gut. It had wounded his pride – of course it had – but it had also made him want to curl up into a ball.
Because he liked her. Damn it, he more than liked her. Somehow, since that first night when she’d screamed at him in the driveway, he’d become more intrigued by Cesca than any girl he’d met in his life. By her straight way of talking, by her refusal to take any bullshit, and by the quiet way she managed to slide into his consciousness.
He liked her, and it only made him feel worse.
It was his stomach that made him climb out of bed. The hunger pangs that made him put one foot in front of the other and walk out of his room. Sam wasn’t sure what time it was – his phone was dead and he wasn’t wearing a watch – but the stillness of the air told him it was some time after midnight.
Walking past Cesca’s bedroom, he felt an urge to push open the door. To see the girl lying there, her hair fanned out across her pillow, her body curled up the way it was the night he carried her to bed. His empty stomach lurched at the memory of her soft skin, the way her breath had breezed across his cheek. Even then, the protectiveness he’d convinced himself he felt had been something more. Something deeper.
In the kitchen, there was a plate of food in the refrigerator just as Cesca had promised. He inhaled deeply when he took it over to the microwave, lifting up the clingfilm to allow the air to circulate. A different man would have eaten this food when it was fresh, sat opposite the pretty girl and talked until he made her smile. Maybe he would have poured her a glass of wine, made her mellow, seduced her with stories, until he could see the thrum of her heartbeat reflected in her gaze. He might have moved a little closer, until he could feel the body heat radiating from her, let his arm rest against hers, until their fingers began to entwine.
Sam knew how to seduce. He’d done it before, with women he could barely remember. But he didn’t want to seduce Cesca, he didn’t want to give her sweet words that meant nothing.
The microwave pinged and Sam pulled the plate from inside, using a fork to swirl the pasta in the creamy sauce. It was a little thick from being in the cold for hours, but apart from that it smelled delicious. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator door, popping the cap open and taking a long, slow drink. After hours of fasting it was like a balm to his rough lips.
He was halfway through eating when the sound disturbed him. As ravenous as he was, he barely noticed it at first, but when he paused to take a breath, the mechanical whirring made its way through his consciousness, registering in his brain.
It was so familiar, yet out of place in the middle of the night. It took him a while to realise it was his father’s old printer, creaking and bitching as it spewed out paper. It had been in the office for years, brought in by Foster when he was trying to work from the villa, until Lucia had chastised him and said that vacations were for relaxing.
When he finished eating, Sam tidied up, then walked out into the hallway where he stopped for a moment. The library was directly opposite, only fifteen feet away, and yet he hesitated, waiting for a sign.
She was behind that carved oak door. Separated from her only by air and wood, Sam tried to imagine what kind of mood Cesca was in. She’d made him dinner, after all, and left it for him to eat later. Hadn’t even poisoned it, he didn’t think. Yet it didn’t tally with her response earlier, or the vitriol that had poured out of her mouth. It was that memory that stopped him from closing the gap that lay between them. Stopped him from doing anything at all, apart from stand there. Because he was drawn to her, in spite of her anger. Like a kid picking at a scab he couldn’t help but want to see her again. To tell her how much he loved her writing, and he was sorry as hell for what he’d done to her.
But his feet remained stuck. He stood there for the longest of minutes, watching, waiting, wishing. And when he finally made his mind up to go back to bed, and sleep off whatever madness had stolen hold of him, the door to the library creaked open. Cesca walked out, coming to a complete stop as soon as she saw him. She was holding a whole pile of papers in her arms, white A4 pages printed with black. Her mouth dropped open, her brow dipping as she stared back at him, neither of them saying a word.
Then the pile of paper fell out of her arms, the sheaves falling to the marble floor, spreading out until the cream and brown marble was covered by a sea of white.
Before he knew it, Sam was at her feet.
She hadn’t expected to see him there, that’s why her heart was racing. That and the fact she’d managed to drop her entire script across the floor. There was nothing more to it than that, Cesca told herself. Simply a reaction to the unexpected shock.
‘Oh shit,’ she breathed. ‘And the bloody ink cartridge dried up, too. I can’t even reprint it.’
Sam chuckled as he surveyed the mess, scooping up the sheets of paper, frowning as he looked at the typed words printed across them.
‘There are no numbers,’ he said.
‘What?’ She’d felt surprised to hear his voice. As if she hadn’t spoken to him for an age.
‘The pages aren’t numbered. How are we going to get it in the right order?’
Cesca blinked. ‘I don’t know . . . ’ She shook her head. ‘I hadn’t thought to add any. There must be a hundred pages here.’
‘The acts and scenes are numbered, though?’
Cesca felt as though she’d just woken up, her thoughts clouded by the treacle in her mind. ‘Yes, they’re numbered.’
‘Then we’ll have to read through it. Make sure we have it ordered in the right way. I’ll just pick it all up for now, and we can take it back into the library. Lay them out.’
‘It’s OK, I can do it,’ Cesca said, dropping down to help Sam pick up the papers. ‘It’s my fault anyway.’
‘I’d like to help.’