“I made reservations for us to visit a place I’m sure you’ve been countless times, but I haven’t been once.”
I watched as she sipped her coffee, hoping she’d make the mewling sound she did whenever she tasted something she loved. She didn’t disappoint me. The downside: it made my cock rock hard.
“Where?”
“The Accademia Gallery.”
She smiled. “I’ve only been once.”
“Someone determined to make you as happy as I am suggested the best time to go is later in the afternoon when there are fewer people.”
Tara’s cheeks flushed. “Sometimes I think Pia is my fairy godmother embodied.”
“She cares about you.”
“It hasn’t been a week since I arrived at Valentini.”
I shrugged. Some may find an immediate connection surprising. I didn’t. “Kismet.”
She walked over to the door that led to a balcony and went outside; I joined her. Looking in one direction, there was a perfect view of the Giardino della Gherardesca. In the other, Brunelleschi’s Dome. Something occurred to me.
“Do you carry a sketchbook with you?”
“I don’t, but I should.” She waved her arm. “Isn’t it magnificent?”
“Do you think it’s too late to catch the views from Ponte Vecchio?”
“Not if we leave now.” Tara took another sip of her coffee and set it down on the tray. “Ready?”
After watching the sunrise from Florence’s most famous bridge, we had breakfast at an outdoor café with views of the Arno and then walked the side streets of the city.
“Look,” I said, pointing across the cobbled road at a shop that looked as though it sold art supplies. “Do you want to go in?”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“I don’t mind anything that brings a smile to your face.”
It was obvious to me that while Tara had been brought up in what most would consider a charmed life, having someone pay attention to the things she liked or was interested in, surprised her.
While she took her time perusing the paints, brushes, and canvases, I pretended to be doing the same. Instead, I watched her. “Nothing?” I asked when I saw her walk toward the shop’s door.
She shrugged. “I don’t know that I’ll have time to paint.”
“What if I commissioned you?”
Tara laughed out loud. “To do what?”
“Paint Valentini.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m not. In fact, maybe I’ll be inspired to write a story about it.”
“I suppose I could paint when I’m not working in the tasting room, not that I’m taking your joke about a commission seriously. I’m just re-thinking the time I might have.”
We left the shop several minutes later, my arms laden with all sorts of painting supplies. While she was gathering them, I sneaked a purchase of a leather-bound sketchbook that I dropped into one of her bags when she wasn’t looking.
We took the bags to the hotel and then found a place near the Accademia Gallery, where we could have an espresso while we waited for our reservation time. We’d been seated a few minutes when Tara pulled out the book I’d intended to be a surprise along with a pencil.