“Oh, thank fuck,” Lena whispers as we scoot by her, leaning back into the car to grab Pippa’s shoes, purse, and stolen goods from the back seat before shutting the door.
Once I have Pippa’s arm over my shoulder and with her eyes half closed, the two of us wait for Lena to join us against one of the hotel’s carved marble pillars—an attribute of the original architecture from the 1930s when this building was a single-family villa.
When Positano became one of the most exclusively sought-after vacation destinations in the world—a home away from home for the who’s who of the elite—in the 1950s, my grandfather Merl bought the villa from the family who owned it and started transforming it into a Cruz Resorts’ staple.
It’s been through several renovations and many updates since, but the original character of the building remains in place today.
Lena joins us and slides Pippa’s other arm over her shoulder, but before we start moving, my phone rings loudly from its spot in my pocket.
As much as I don’t want to answer it, I know I have to.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Lena over her friend’s head, propping my side of her body weight against the pillar and stepping away so I can put the phone to my ear.
Lena nods her okay and then does her best to arrange her friend’s weight in a way that won’t drag her to the ground.
I’m tempted to keep watching her, but I know that if I do, I won’t hear a damn thing whoever’s on the other end of the phone has to say. And since the number shown belongs to the club, I know it’s best to concentrate.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Cruz?”
“Yes,” I repeat, this time as an answer.
“This is Marco.” The manager at Club Indigo. Fuck. “I’m sorry to bother you, but we have a problem. La polizia are here. They are threatening to shut us down. Saying we’re over our maximum count.”
Shit.
“I’ve spoken to them, and they’ve agreed to hold off, but only temporarily. They won’t leave until they speak to you.”
I glance down at my watch quickly. It’s an hour and a half from closing, but even a small amount of time lost in this first week would have catastrophic consequences. I have to go back to the club.
I close my eyes and take a breath, and when I open them again, I’m ready to do what I need to do.
“All right, Marco. Thank you. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” he agrees as I pull my phone away from my ear and end the call.
When I look up, the front desk manager is behind the counter, so I snap my fingers to get his attention.
He jumps into action and meets me halfway.
“I have to run back to the club, but I need you to do a personal favor for me, Lorenzo.”
He nods immediately. “Yes, sir. Prego.”
“I need you to help my friends over here up to their room.”
“Yes, sir,” he agrees.
“I want you to do it personally, Lorenzo. Their safety is very important, and I trust you to see to it.”
He nods warmly. “Prego, sir.”
“Thank you.” He turns to head toward Lena and Pippa, but I grab his elbow gently and pull him back. “Please…will you call me when you get them settled and are assured they have everything they need.”
“Yes, sir,” Lorenzo agrees.
“Good.”
I turn back to the girls first this time, leading the way so I have a chance to speak with Lena before Lorenzo approaches her unexpectedly. I don’t want her to feel startled.
“Lena,” I say just loudly enough to get her attention. When she looks up, I continue, “I’m so sorry to do this to you, but I have to go. Lorenzo is going to help you get Pippa up to your room and get you settled.”
She looks skeptically behind me to the man she doesn’t know, and I take the opportunity to lean forward and put my lips to her perfect, heated cheek.
“You don’t have to worry. I’ve been here many times and know Lorenzo very well,” I say on a small lie of omission. “You can trust him. I would not leave if I didn’t.”
I wait for her to nod, and then I step away to let Lorenzo drape one of Pippa’s arms over his shoulder. When they go to stand her up, she withers under the weight of her own sleepy body, so Lorenzo scoops her up and into his arms.
My whole body rages against the action, but with careful control—and one last smile at Lena—I turn back to the front door and walk out of it, straight to my car.
I’m a man of many obligations, and as much as I’d like it to, the possibility of one night with a magnificent woman doesn’t make them quit calling.
Lena
In a completely disappointing turn of events, Theo kissed me on the cheek, made sure I had someone to help me get Pippa to our room, and said goodbye at the door of the resort last night.
I think it stung the most because I didn’t expect it.
After all our heat at the club, his commanding presence as we rescued Pip from a stay in an Italian prison, and his company on the twenty-minute drive all the way to the resort, I never imagined he’d get back into the car and leave.
But he did, and maybe that’s why I’m awake now—only three short hours after going to sleep courtesy of the drunk and puking rapper Twenty-Five Cent—thinking about the way his subtle stubble felt rough against my skin.
I glance down at my chest, still dewy from my quick shower, and follow the trail of tiny red blotches from my collarbone to my shoulder. I put my fingers to the skin and press in, trying to recreate the feel of his lips.
God.
I shake my head. I’ve got to snap out of my Theo-induced fog and get back to reality. For all I know, I’m never even going to see him again.
Determined, I make a cup of coffee with the fancy resort Keurig, sit down on the sofa, and flip on the television. An Italian news channel is the first option I come to, and since I don’t understand a word they’re saying anyway, I grab my phone from the coffee table to text my big brother about the most important item on my to-do list this morning: Pippa’s post-inebriation care.
Lord knows, once she wakes up, she’s going to need it.
Me: What is Vicky’s hangover cure? I know it’s a Bloody Mary, OJ, ibuprofen, pancakes, and bacon, but I’m pretty sure I’m forgetting something. What is it?
Victoria Hawkins, if nothing else, taught me the basics of both alcohol abuse and the best ways to cover it up. It’s just been so long since I’ve lived under the same roof—hell, I haven’t even spoken to her since before I left for Italy—that some of the details have grown hazy.
Cap: Jesus. You do realize it’s like one in the morning in New York, right? And where in the hell are you right now? Did you get fucked up last night?
Me: Don’t worry, I’m in a foreign country as I’m supposed to be. And no, I did not get fucked up last night. My friend Pippa did, and any minute, she’s going to wake up feeling like ass.
Cap: WHAT foreign country are you in?
Me: I don’t remember.
Cap: Lena, for fuck’s sake. You better still be in Italy. In fact, you better still be in Milan.