“Tell me the truth, Pia. If your boyfriend hadn’t been talking to your father all night, would you still have pulled me away from dinner to go swimming?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
He sat back and laughed. “You’re a liar.”
I should be offended, but he was right. I was lying. When I didn’t say anything, he leaned forward again. This time, he touched my arm with his fingertip.
“If you want to swim with me, then invite me, but not because you’re trying to make another guy jealous. Do it because you want to spend time with me.”
“Do you have a brother?”
His eyes scrunched. “No. Why?”
I shook my head and looked out over the vineyard. “It is impossible that you are sixteen.”
He laughed, but it didn’t bother me. Not like it did when Paolo laughed at me.
“Go swimming with me,” I blurted.
“I’d like that. When?”
His gentle touch on my arm gave me chills. I shuddered a
nd moved away from him. “Tonight, at sunset.”
“No Paolo?”
“No.”
He grabbed my hand before I could move farther away. It felt so good, so strong. I longed for him to pull me into his arms and kiss me. I wouldn’t have cared who saw, even Paolo.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
My cheeks flushed; I could feel them. “Why?”
“Because I think I’d like whatever it is.”
I shook my head, pulled my hand from his, and walked away.
“Ci vediamo presto, Mylos.”
“Quando il sole tramonta, Pia.”
“Sì, when the sun sets.”
The rest of the afternoon passed slowly. I checked the time again and again while I worked in the winery office. It took almost a year after the first time I’d asked, for my father to allow me to help. It was only after I showed him how our computers could spit out reports in minutes, instead of the hours he spent poring through handwritten journals, that he finally consented.
Now, though, he expected the reports no later than noon each day and sometimes additional ones at closing time. I’d created a monster, but I loved every minute I spent working here, whether it was doing things like running reports or being in the winery itself, recording the readings on the fermentation tanks.
I pulled the papers from the printer and looked them over. Sales for the vintages we’d just released were strong; my father would be pleased. Perhaps it would soften him up enough that he wouldn’t scold me for spending time with Mylos.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Dio mio, Georgio! You scared me.”
“You’re lost in thought.”
I turned my chair to face him. Georgio and I had been friends since we were ragazzi. His mamma was our cook. Nonna Bella, as everyone called her, and Georgio lived in a piccola casa on the estate.