Summer's Lease (The Shakespeare Sisters 1)

Her palms pushed against his chest as she tried to lever herself away. Looking down, he could see the expression on her face, her pure shock mirroring his own.

‘Get off me,’ she muttered. It was as though she had no strength. A moment after trying to move out of his embrace, she gave up, collapsing back onto his chest.

‘I think you’ll find you’re the one on me.’ He couldn’t disguise the amusement in his voice. ‘You keep throwing yourself at me. Literally.’ All the anger he’d felt earlier was forgotten. Replaced by a kind of schadenfreude at her predicament. ‘You’re drunk, aren’t you?’

She struggled in his arms again. This time she managed to dig an elbow into his ribs. It was surprisingly painful, and he instinctively released her in order to grab at his chest, making Cesca once again fall to her knees.

‘Shit,’ she muttered, her hair falling over her face. Through the blonde veil he could see her eyes still shining, her cheeks still flushed. ‘You dropped me, you arse.’

A rumble of a laugh formed deep in his abdomen. The absurdity of the situation was going a long way to take his mind off the pain in his ribs. There was something so comical about the way she was sprawled on the floor, yet still as feral as a cornered animal.

‘Are you laughing at me?’ she demanded. The cadence of her voice had been slowed by the wine. ‘Because there’s nothing funny about this.’

But there was. Here was Sam, hiding away from the world in his parents’ villa, towering over the tiny spitfire who unabashedly hated his guts. It was almost Shakespearian in its drama, making Sam the fallen hero who was finally having to deal with his nemesis, in the form of Cesca Shakespeare, the pretty, furious, playwright who just couldn’t write.

The laughter that erupted from his lips sounded almost alien to him. He cocked his head, frowning, attempting to work out why it sounded so different. It was only after he pondered on it for a minute that he realised the answer: he hadn’t laughed so genuinely in a long, long while.

When he was a small child, giggles were as easy as breathing. There were no expectations, no judgements, and no revelations to muffle the sound. Of course he’d laughed in the past six years, he was an actor after all, but even the act of smiling when he was in LA had a control that was lacking here in Varenna.

Right now, he was Sam the boy who grew up in this villa. Not Sam the adult who had failed so completely in living up to everybody’s expectations.

‘Oh, it’s funny,’ he managed to say between paroxysms. ‘In fact it’s goddamn hilarious.’

The corner of her lip twitched. It was the smallest of movements, but it caught his eye all the same. He could see the struggle behind her gaze as she tried to stop the amusement from rising, her attempts at stifling it slowly losing out.

Then she was laughing, too. A giggly-hiccupy sort of laugh that made her whole torso double over. She collapsed back on the floor, her bottom hitting the marble tiles, as she hid her face behind her tanned hands.

‘This is all your fault,’ she spluttered. ‘You mojo-stealing, house-invading, good-looking bastard.’

Even her insults were backhandedly amusing. Her eyes were screwed up, her chest rising and falling with every gulp of laughter, her arms flailing as she once again attempted to scramble to her feet.

It hadn’t escaped his notice that she’d told him he was good-looking. Wisely, he decided not to comment on it at that moment. Something to store up and use later, when the time was right.

Cesca slipped as she rose to her feet, the alcohol stealing any sense of balance, and Sam automatically reached out to steady her. This time she let him, failing to pull away from his hold, her body pressing heavily against his.

‘Let’s get you to your room, OK?’ he whispered, the laughter disappearing as suddenly as it arrived. ‘You can sleep it off, that’s the best thing.’

Cesca didn’t protest. Instead she let him half-carry her to the staircase, and carefully lead her up the steps. He had to pause more than once when the effort got too much for her and she became unsteady on her feet. When they reached the top, he breathed a sigh of relief, leading her through the door to her bedroom, where she collapsed onto the king-size bed. It seemed as though she was asleep before her body hit the mattress. Sam stood there, looking at her in her skirt and top, wondering if he should just leave her like that, or take away the hazard that the layers of fabric could impose.

He hesitated. Cesca already hated his guts. If she woke up in the morning wearing only a bra and panties, God only knew what kind of fury she would unleash. He was in enough trouble already, he really didn’t need any more.

Even unconscious, Cesca was definitely trouble.

Pulling the covers across her still-clothed body, he took a final look at her face. An expression of peacefulness had stolen the derision that usually crafted her features whenever he was around, and it transformed her appearance completely. For the first time he could see a resemblance to that eighteen-year-old kid he could barely remember, the one whose face lit up whenever she talked about her play. The memory constricted his chest, a strange taste of regret coating his tongue, and he had to swallow hard to take it away.

Had he done this? Been the one to steal away her happiness, her hopes, and her big dream? The thought was like a black cloud in his mind. No wonder she hated him so much.

Turning away, he left her bedroom, walking down the hallway until he reached his own. And as he readied himself for bed he had to fight the urge to stare at himself in the mirror, to berate the man who was staring back. He was a fuck-up, pure and simple. A Midas in negative. The need to make amends took hold of his mind. But what on earth could he do?

There was no point in entertaining the idea of saving her. He couldn’t even save himself.

11

All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players

– As You Like It

Oh. My. God.