A Little Too Far (11 page)

Alessandro listens, but he never interrupts the flow of the words pouring from the deepest part of my soul. When I’m finally done talking, everything goes quiet. The world below feels like it’s in a different universe. It’s not until I shiver that I notice that the sun is setting. The air is noticeably cooler, and when I lean into Alessandro for his warmth, I realize it’s just him and me, alone at the top of the world. Everyone else is gone. I’m scared to look at him, but when I do, there’s no judgment in his eyes. Only compassion.

A strand of hair blows across my eyes, and he loops it behind my ear. “If you ask the Lord for guidance and open your heart to His answer, you will know the right course, Lexie. But you have to trust: both Him and yourself.”

I feel like a fool for ever lusting after Alessandro. I press my shoulder into his and smile a shaky smile. “You’re going to make an amazing priest.”

He lets go of me and backs toward the exit, holding his hand out to me. “It’s getting cold. Let’s get you down from here.”

I turn and take one last look over the city. I don’t go weak or shaky. I don’t feel sick. I don’t break into a cold sweat. I don’t even grab for the rail. “This is beautiful. Thanks for bringing me up here.”

“My pleasure.” He smiles. “Do you ever eat anything but currant croissants?”

I clasp his outstretched hand, and I feel so much lighter as we move to the stairs, like I’ve finally left the weight of the world behind. “I eat all kinds of things.”

“Perfect. I’m cooking.”

I look at him, eyes wide. “You cook?”

Alessandro’s hand is cool and firm in mine as we start down the stairs. “My grandmother taught both me and Lorenzo. We’ll stop at the market on the way to your place.”

“My place?” My voice squeaks a little around the nerves that rise in my throat at the thought of Alessandro in my apartment. With me. Alone.

He looks back at me when my arm yanks his as I stop moving, and he cocks his head. “Unless that’s a problem. I can’t have guests at the rectory.”

“No.” I start moving again. “No problem.” Right? I mean, it’s not like anything’s going to happen. I take mental inventory of the state of my apartment—cereal bowl in the sink . . . unmade bed . . . clothes on the bedroom floor. Nothing too embarrassing.

But still, as we wind our way back down the stairwell to terra firma, I feel much less claustrophobic than I did on the way up—mostly because I’m distracted by what might happen when we get to the bottom.

Chapter Eleven

T
HE BAR NEXT
door is in full swing when Alessandro and I get back to my apartment with two grocery bags full of fresh vegetables (some of which are totally foreign to me), fresh figs, some chicken breasts, and a bottle of red wine (for the sauce, he tells me). We have to shoo some people away from my doorway to get in. We climb the stairs, and I lead him to the kitchen, which is nowhere near big enough for two people.

“Do you need any help?” I ask.

He steps in and sets the bags on the small counter between the ancient refrigerator and the stovetop. “I’ll need a pot and some utensils,” he says, looking around and pulling my cutting board down from where it’s tucked against the wall near the sink.

“Well, you can see there are not too many places to put things, so you should be able to find what you need either in those two drawers,” I say, pointing past him at the only drawers in the room, “or in the cupboard next to the oven.”

He slides the top drawer open and pulls out a knife. “This is perfect.”

“So, if you’re good, I’m going to get cleaned up.” I feel gritty from sweating so much on our climb, and I’ve got to get out of these clothes. Plus, I can only imagine what my makeup looks like. I’d be better off without it.

His eyes catch on mine for a second, then he nods. “I’ve got dinner covered. Go ahead.”

I strip in the bathroom and flip on the water. Once it’s warm, I climb into my microscopic shower. I shampoo, and while the conditioner is in, I soap up and shave my legs for the first time in days—all the way up and then some.

The water’s starting to run cold by the time I’m done, and I climb out. It’s only as I towel off that I realize I forgot to grab my bathrobe from the bedroom. I’m so used to being able to run around naked that I didn’t even think of it. I tuck my towel around me and click open the door, peeking out toward the kitchen. Once I determine the coast is clear, I scamper across the living room toward my bedroom, but I haven’t even made the dining-room table when Alessandro calls, “I forgot to ask if you have any olive oil.” His head pokes out of the kitchen, and when he sees me standing here in nothing but a towel, his eyes widen for just an instant before he ducks back into the kitchen. “It’s okay. I can make do with butter.”

“No,” I say. “I’ve got olive oil. It should be in there somewhere.”

“Too late,” he calls back, and I hear something sizzle in a pan.

“I’ll be right out,” I tell him as I back toward my room, but just before I slip through my door, I see him peek out of the kitchen again.

I drop my towel on the bed and smooth on some lotion and my deodorant. On my way to the armoire, I tug the duvet back into place, fluff the pillows, and scoop the dirty clothes off my floor, tossing them into the hamper.

I pull open the armoire and peer in. I shouldn’t care what I put on, right? It’s not like I’m trying to impress him—which also explains why I just spent twenty minutes in the shower shaving all the way up to my hoo-hoo.

This is stupid. He’s an almost-priest. And a friend, I think, even though there are times I’d pay to see him thrown into the Colosseum with a tiger or a bear or whatever. I grab my favorite pair of well-worn jeans and a black cotton tank off the top of my clean laundry and tug them on. I rake my damp hair back with my fingers and clip it onto the back of my head, then inspect my face. No major zits at the moment, so I decide to smudge a little blush on my cheeks, brush on some mascara, and call it done.

When I open the door, the first thing I see is that Alessandro has set the dining-room table. But then the smell of his culinary creation literally makes my mouth water, and I follow my nose to the kitchen.

“That smells amazing,” I say as I come around the corner and lean on the doorframe between my toy kitchen and the sitting room.

He’s stirring the pot, and he looks up at me. “I hope you like it,” he says, shifting his attention back to the pot. He stirs its contents with one hand as he gives the sautéing garlic and onions in the pan next to it a few flicks of his wrist. He lifts the pan and dumps the contents into the pot, in which there are chunks of chicken and sliced vegetables stewing in a cream-colored sauce.

“Do you need any help? I could stir . . . or something.”

He picks up my peppermill and grinds some into the pot. “I think I have things under control.”

“What is that?”

“It’s my grandmother’s chicken stew with a twist,” he says, lifting the wine bottle. “Do you have an opener?”

“Oh.” Do I? “Did you look in here?” I ask, squeezing past him in the tiny space and pulling open the lowest drawer. I crouch and rifle through it. In the back, I find an old-fashioned corkscrew. “Voilà!” I say, standing and handing it to him. I push the drawer closed with my knee as he takes it from me.

He runs the pointed tip of the opener around the foil at the top of the bottle and peels it back like an old pro. As he twists the corkscrew into the cork, I can imagine those biceps, the ones I saw at the gym, rippling under his shirt with every turn.

“So, how long until it’s ready?” I ask as he pulls the cork.

He pours about a third of the bottle into the pot and stirs again as the sauce turns a rich, burgundy color. “The flavors need to marry, so about half an hour.”

I lean toward the pot and inhale. “You’re going to have me drooling before the half hour’s up.”

He smiles and reaches into my cupboard for two tumblers. “Do we need a bib?”

“Maybe,” I say, smelling the pot again.

He pours a few inches of the remaining wine into each of the tumblers and hands one to me. I take it and raise my eyebrows as he sips from his. He lowers his glass and looks at me.

“You’re allowed to drink? I mean . . . outside the sacrament?”

One side of his mouth curves up, and his eyebrows arch. “We’re allowed to enjoy life, Lexie. The priesthood isn’t meant to be purgatory.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, it’s just that . . . I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a priest drink before except in church, though I haven’t really spent too much time with one . . . socially, I mean.”

He takes another sip and swirls the wine in his glass, inspecting it. “I chose well.”

I sip mine, and it
is
good. I’m not much of a wine drinker, but this is smooth.

He turns for my sitting room, and, in three strides of his long legs, is at my love seat. He lowers himself into it.

I follow and sit next to him, taking another sip of wine. I dribble a little—so maybe I really do need a bib—and catch the drop that escapes over my lips with the tip of my tongue.

His eyes brush over my face and stall at my mouth. “You look lovely, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

“So,” he clears his throat and settles deeper into the love seat, examining his wineglass. “I didn’t think today could have possibly gone any better. How did you feel about it?”

“Great. I felt great. I mean . . . I guess I was a little nervous at the beginning, but once the kids started to warm up, it was just so . . . fun. It was fun to see them get so excited about Michelangelo and the art.”

He nods and excitement sparks in his eyes. “It
was
fun.”

“I mean, I’ve never really been a kid person, you know? But it’s like it made the whole thing new for me as well. I felt myself getting so excited, like a kid at Christmas, and when they started asking questions and telling me about their Sistine Chapel scenes”—I look at him, and I can feel myself beaming—“it was just the best feeling.”

“You were wonderful with the kids. You’re a natural.” The ghost of a smile flits over his face as he sips his wine. “Have you thought about children of your own?”

I’m sipping my wine, and I almost choke. “Um . . . well. Not really. I guess someday, if I get married, then . . . maybe.”

His expression softens as he looks at me. “You’d make an excellent mother.”

I tip my glass to my mouth, feeling totally self-conscious, and out of the corner of my eye catch his gaze drifting down the V of my tank top, where it lingers.

A shiver runs over my skin as I take another sip. There’s something about those intense charcoal eyes on me that makes me feel . . . dangerous. It must be the forbidden thing, I think. And,
shit.
There’s that tingle in my groin again. I
can’t
have the hots for an almost-priest, no matter how good-looking he is. It’s just wrong in so many ways. I clear my throat. “So, do you know anything about wine, or was this just a lucky guess?”

His gaze lifts back to my eyes. “I know a thing or two.”

“Such as?”

He shifts in his seat, just a little closer, and his knee presses into mine. “Such as, there are a few family-owned wineries in the Lakes Region that produce very small quantities of very good wines. This,” he says with a swirl of his glass, “being one of them.”

I take a bigger sip. “I could use your help picking some wines out for my family. I promised them some.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

I shift in the small love seat, and now our arms are touching at the elbow. “I really want to thank you for everything today.”

“I did it for selfish reasons. I love to share my favorite places with my favorite people.”

There’s a whoosh in my stomach at his referring to me as one of his favorite people. “I don’t just mean for the dome . . . though that was huge. I wasn’t even scared by the time we came down. But I really mean for listening. There’s no one I could ever talk to like that back home. Well . . . except Trent. He was the one I went to whenever I needed advice. He’s the only person I’ve ever been able to be so open with, so . . . I just really appreciate that you were willing to listen—and that you didn’t, I don’t know, tell me I was too repulsive to live or whatever.”

He puts his glass on the side table and takes my hand in both of his. “You are not repulsive”—his eyes flick over me again—“in any way. I want you to feel like you can confide in me, Lexie. I’ll do anything I can to help.”

I don’t even know how long we sit here, staring into each other’s eyes, my hand sandwiched between the two of his, but suddenly, Alessandro lets go of my hand and stands. “I think the stew may be burning.”

As he vanishes into the kitchen, I let out the breath I was holding.

He stirs and seasons for the next few minutes, and when he’s determined through several taste tests that it’s ready, he scoops the stew into bowls. He pours more wine as I carry the bowls to the dining room, where I light the candles on the table. “What? I don’t have company very often,” I say when he comes in with the wine and looks at me funny. “Actually, you’re my only company. So far.”

We eat and talk, mostly about his grandmother’s favorite recipes. He promises to share some of them and tells me where the best produce and meat markets in the city are.

When we’re done, I carry the dishes to the sink. He rolls up his sleeves, but I push him out of the kitchen. “Oh, no. You cooked, so I clean.”

He smiles. “I won’t argue with you. Cleaning up is the only part of cooking I dislike.”

Despite his “dislike,” he ends up grabbing my dish towel and drying the dishes, then wiping down my counters. “I should have thought of dessert,” he says, hanging the dish towel on the magnetic hook on the side of the refrigerator.

“I’ve got dessert covered,” I say, gesturing for him to sit down on the love seat. “Wait there.” I pull down the bag of Skittles I’ve been misering, pouring some into a bowl. I bring it to the love seat and set it down between us. “Dessert is served.”

“Skittles,” he says, grabbing a few in his fingertips and popping them in his mouth. “Lord, I miss these.”

I crack a smile. “Careful, Reverend.”

He smiles back. “I haven’t had these in eight years, since I left New York.”

“I haven’t see them in any of the local grocery stores.”

He shakes his head a little mournfully. “You won’t find anything like this in the small grocers in Trastevere. You have to get outside the old city, where there are more modern supermarkets.”

“Do you like it here?” I ask.

He nods, popping more Skittles into his mouth. “I do.”

“Will you stay here after you’re ordained?”

His hand in the Skittle bowl hesitates for just a second. “That is not up to me. I’ll be sent wherever the bishop believes I can best serve the parish.”

“Do you
want
to stay here?”

He looks at me a long minute, then nods again. “I’m hoping to return to Corsica, but if that’s not in the cards, I would very much like to stay here.”

“I can see myself living here. I hope I get the internship and can stay through the summer at least.”

“What internship?”

“John Cabot offers internships at some of the local museums. I’m really hoping to score the one at Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica.”

“You would stay?” he asks. “If you got the internship?”

“I would. Through August, anyway. Otherwise, my visa is up in May.”

“Would a reference be helpful?”

“You’d do that?” I ask, surprised.

He smiles, and something in it stalls my heart. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Thanks.”

He dips his hand back into the Skittle bowl, then gains his feet. “I really should be getting back to the rectory. I’ve already missed the evening vigil.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

He shakes his head as he moves the few feet to the door. “No need to be sorry. I wasn’t expected to be there, but I usually am anyway.” At the door, he pulls me into a hug. I press my face into his chest and breathe him in, warm and musky. “Today was lovely, Lexie. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“You’re welcome, but I should be thanking you,” I say as he pulls away. “You gave me this wonderful opportunity, and took me to the top of the world, and let me horrify you with all the details of my sordid love life. I meant what I said before. You’re going to make an amazing priest.”

His eyes cloud for just a second, but then he smiles. “I was not horrified, and I’m very glad to have your stamp of approval.” He squeezes my hand. “Good night, Lexie. I’ll see you in a few short weeks for our next tour.”