AUBREY DRAGGED ONE eye open, then the other, to find herself face up in a big soft bed; a fresco of a dozen naked cherub babies with wings hovering high above.
The sight of their chubby little legs gave her a massive twinge, right in the ovaries. Meaning it took her a few extra seconds to remember where the heck she was.
She rubbed her eyes, rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed. Through the gap in the gauzy curtains leading out to her balcony, her gaze settled on the sight of Ponte Vecchio, one of the most famous bridges in the world, right outside her window.
And it all came back to her.
Viv’s exorbitant gift. Convincing her parents, her doctors, herself that she had to take it. The lo-o-o-ong, exhausting flight. Landing in Italy on a sweltering summer’s day. The three-hour drive from Rome to Florence with a driver who did not seem to know how to use his brakes—
And, the David. Her life-long crush. In all his marble glory.
Feeling much better about the world and all things in it, Aubrey tipped down onto the floor, padded to the coffee machine and booted it up. Yawning as the coffee poured, hot and dark, into her glass.
And, as she had done every day for the past year and a half, she checked in with herself. Hand over her heart, eyes closed, as her psychologist had taught her. She waited till she felt her heart beat. Even and sure.
Next her fingers. No numbness. Her legs were a little worn out. A slight ache behind her eyes. Not surprising considering her last couple of days and the amount of things she’d jammed into them. It was a lot, even for a normal person.
Perhaps heading out into the heat to explore the moment she’d reached the hotel hadn’t been the smartest choice.
She pictured her mother, hands wringing out a kitchen rag, eyes on the mobile phone propped in the stand her oldest grandchild had made at kindy. Her brothers pacing by their phones, waiting for Proof of Life. Her father, working at the auto shop, pretending he wasn’t laying a hand on the phone attached to his tool belt with a clip she’d painted, so he wouldn’t miss the buzz.
Should she stay in for a day? Recoup her energy? Rethink her beautiful vintage backpack as Sean had suggested, while she was at it?
“Oh,” she said, the word catching in her throat, as Sean Malone came back to her in a whumph.
Grumpy, bossy, quite famous furniture builder and all around hot guy. Imagine if she’d stayed in the day before and missed that?
Question answered, she squared her shoulders. Grabbed her phone. Took a quick photo of her view and added it to the family chat with the message My view is better than yours! then tossed her phone onto her bed and padded to the bathroom, which was bigger than her apartment back home.
Showered and dressed, with her vintage backpack over her shoulder, she headed out into the beautiful summer’s day.
If she couldn’t run with the bulls, or drink herself under the table, or boldly touch a piece of art that connected her to centuries of masters who subsumed themselves to the wonder of beauty, then what was the point in dreaming big at all?
She just had to find a way to do all that, while not wearing herself to collapse, before her world tour had barely begun.
And she knew just where to start.
* * *
Sean sipped on an espresso, his elbows leaning on the countertop in his showroom in the Via Alighieri, his mind a million miles away.
Or, to be precise, a couple of hundred metres away, where, on the opposite bank of the Arno River, stood the Florentine Hotel where he’d left one Aubrey Trusedale the afternoon before.
The Florentine was no backpacker joint. It was six-star, with views of the Ponte Vecchio and across to the Pitti Palace. What a girl in cut-off overalls and flappy sandals was doing staying in a place like that, on her own so far as he could tell, was a mystery.
A mystery he had no intention of spending another moment concerning himself with after he’d done all he could the day before to send her safely on her way. And yet, here he was, spending moments. Plural. Thinking about those warm, unfiltered, golden brown eyes.
But it was either that, or stew over the email from back home. The one he’d yet to answer.
Through the cracks in the stone walls Sean could hear the faint echo of applause from the ten o’clock tour group, no doubt packed to the rafters watching the leather-stamping display in Bella Pelle next door.
Distraction. That was what he needed. Noise, not quiet. Not time inside his own head.
He moved around the counter, boots scuffing the ancient mosaic floor, and Elwood lifted his smooth silvery head, solemn blue Weimaraner eyes looking at Sean.
“Walk?”
The dog’s chin slid back to the floor.
“Maybe later.”
Sean propped open the glass door, using a wooden wedge—an offcut from a table he’d made years ago. The summer air hit like a furnace blast, tendrils leaking around him into the air-conditioned comfort beyond.
Summer in Florence was a testament to the city’s draw; the heat enough to make a person squint, but not enough to turn them away.
Leaning in the doorway, letting the Italian sun thaw him out, he hoped the heat, the noise, the colour, the life outside his door would burn away the thoughts that refused to clear.
Turned out half the proprietors in the laneway were doing the same; leaning in their shopfront doorways, eyes on the street as it thrummed under the weight of the summer tourist infestation.
Enzo, the restaurateur, called out the daily specials to those who wandered by. Offered free wine, free garlic bread, free hugs. A couple of people took the hugs, more still fell for his charm and found themselves swept inside.
Gia, the leathersmith, shooed the tour group out of the door, while wiping a hand across her brow.
Roberto, the jeweller, was no Enzo on the charm front, but his wares were inducement enough. The man was a true artisan. He even had another shop on the Ponte Vecchio itself.
Sean knew their stories. They were vocal about their successes. And their heartaches. For they were a bold bunch; effusive, emotional, happy to be all up in one another’s space.
But they did not know him. Or his story. Polite hellos. Discussions about the weather. That was his limit. He didn’t do sharing. It was not his way. Not here. not any more.
“Gian!” called Enzo, snapping his checked tea towel over one shoulder. “You look hungry! What can I bring you?”
Sean shook his head, and lifted his espresso glass to show he was good.
Enzo scoffed. “I’ll bring you tiramisù. Or cassata Siciliana…panna cotta…babà…tartufo di Pizzo…”
It was a play they had acted out so many times he could recite it by heart. Enzo trying gamely to feed him, the Italian way of bringing someone into the fold. And Sean resisting.
“I’m fine,” Sean called, stepping back as a group of young female tourists scurried close, giggling behind their hands.
“Ah, you hurt me. You really do,” Enzo cried, all drama, before turning his decidedly unscathed attentions to the paying customers.
No one came to Sean’s door. His spot was a display case rather than a shopfront. A stage on which to show examples of his team’s more esoteric pieces. The current range his most daring and difficult yet—chairs and coffee tables made of wood warped and shaped in flowing, twisting lines that had them appear as if made of ribbon. Some simplified form of which would soon trickle down into his wholesale lines.
But more than that, it was a place to get away to when the energy of the workshop became too much. Just as the workshop was a place to get away to when the energy of the street circled too close, his life a constant balancing act of punishing work, and solitude.
When Roberto the jeweller looked as if he was building up enough steam to hurtle himself through the crowd and across the laneway, Sean pressed himself away from the doorframe. “Elwood,” he said with a whistle. “Time for a walk.”
Elwood huffed, then unfolded himself from his spot beneath the air-conditioning vent and lolloped to the door. Sean grabbed and pocketed a lead. Dogs, by law, were free to roam in the city but the Australian in him was too strong to go so far as to take Elwood into a café, or a museum.
He locked up—the cool lighting in the showroom permanently on—then spun out into the lane only to run smack bang into someone coming the other way.
Arms flailed.
Elwood barked.
The stranger swore rather magnificently in English, then dropped to a crouch, collecting sunglasses, hat, bag and any number of things that had gone flying.
Sean froze. Something about the top of the head—the short, shaggy auburn waves—looked familiar.
“Aubrey?”
She looked up, while shoving things inside her ill-advised backpack before attempting to drag its fallible opening closed.
“Malone? Is that—? Oh, my. Hi!” Big, liquid brown eyes beamed up at him. The colour of unstained cherry wood. The colour of home.
Elwood sat on his foot, tail wagging as he panted gently up at their interloper, and when Aubrey caught the dog’s eye she lit up, leaning down to ruffle Elwood’s ears. “Oh, hello! Aren’t you beautiful? Such a good boy. And a big boy! Whoa!”
She laughed, all easy grace as she got a nose to the crotch.
“Jeez, Malone,” she laughed. “Your dog’s a little fresh. I wonder where he learned that move.”
Before he could hope to respond, out of the corner of his eye, Sean noted that they had an audience. His fellow vendors were no longer trying to out shout one another. They all hovered in their shopfronts, watching. Patently intrigued by the fact he had a visitor. Or a customer. Or that he was engaging in conversation at all.
Aubrey stood, her eyes finding his once more. “How funny is this? You and me, finding one another again while I was out and about following my feet and… Hang on a sec. My phone!” Aubrey spun on the spot, smacking at her right butt cheek, eyes frantic.
Sean found it beneath Elwood’s wagging tail, face down, the case detailed with a photo of what looked like a heart made out of stained glass. Looking closer, he saw it had been painted onto the hood of a muscle car.
He turned it to make sure the screen wasn’t damaged, to find the phone on, open to the map. A little red pin pointing right at his showroom.
Following her feet, was she? A muscle flickered in his cheek as he handed the phone over. He watched her eyes widen as she realised she’d been sprung.
“Okay, fine,” she said, “I wasn’t following my feet. I was kind of stalking you.”
“Stalking me.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Sean saw Gina hustle over to Enzo, and stage whisper “stalker” while pointing his way. Enzo nodded effusively, as if that made far more sense than him having an actual acquaintance.
“Well, my friend looked you up online, you see,” Aubrey was saying. “My other friend is too nice to do that kind of thing. She’s Canadian. We kind of drag her along for the ride.”
Sean opened his mouth to ask what on earth she was talking about, then thought better of it. The way her eyes moved over his face, the sigh in her voice, transparent, unbridled, he had a pretty good feeling what her conversations with her friends might have entailed.
Aubrey spun to watch an older woman on a Vespa curl in and out of the crowd meandering down the centre of the alley. Her face was bright, alive, as she said, “This place is wild. Crumbling yet posh. You know?”
Figuring it better not to indulge her, he said, “Were you stalking me for a reason?”
She caught his eye, and blinked. “Surely one doesn’t stalk a person on a whim.”
He lifted an eyebrow and waited.
Eventually she puffed out a surrendering breath. “Okay, then. Here’s the truth. Since you’re the only person I know in this city, I was hoping you might be able to point me in the direction of a chaperone.”
“A chaperone?”
“What? No. Not a chaperone. Pfft. I’m a grown woman living in the twenty-first century.”
She cocked a hip.
“Look, I hate even asking, because I am a grown woman living in the twenty-first century. But I’m here on my own. And while that was my plan, to do this trip alone, to own it, you know, to follow my curiosity and soak in every ounce of adventure that fell my way without having to ask permission, it was actually kind of nice, yesterday, having someone to hang with. Someone to remind me to stop and have a cuppa rather than go go go till I collapse.”
She waited for him to respond. But he had nothing. Whatever she was asking he was the exact wrong person to ask.
“I don’t have a natural off switch, you see,” she went on, rocking from foot to foot now, her energy levels ramping up. “Which is totally part of my charm. But Florence is my very first stop. I’m in this travel thing for the long haul, and I don’t think packing my days quite so full is a recipe for longevity.”
When she looked at him, beseeching him to say something so she could stop, Sean ran a hand up the back of his neck, and glanced down the laneway. “Do you need me to hook you up with a tour company? Gia, next door, the leathersmith, has a lot of groups go through her door.”
Aubrey stopped her swaying, and gave him a look that was both direct and shrewd. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t know what I want, clearly, and you shouldn’t be the one to figure it out for me. Just because we’re both Australian, and you clearly find me delightful, doesn’t mean we’re friends. You hardly know me! I mean, what’s my last name?”
“Trusedale.”
“Oh. Oh,” she said again, the second time softer than the first. “You were paying attention.” Her face came over all sweet, with a good dose of canny, and Sean wished he’d kept his trap shut.
Just then, a bunch of well-dressed young Florentine men burst from the entrance to Enzo’s bistro. Laughing, jostling. One of them bumped Aubrey as they passed.
A couple of the men turned to apologise. When they saw who they were apologising to—a long-legged beauty in short shorts, with glowing skin, huge smiling eyes, who was lapping up every ounce of attention—they moved in. All apologies, promises, playing up their accents for the pretty tourist.
Her backpack slid from her shoulder, the lip opening wide. And before he even felt himself move, Sean stepped close, and reached out for the handle; his finger tracing her shoulder, skin warmed by the sun, as he slid it down her arm and into his hand.
He moved in front of Aubrey as he yanked the cord tight, and turned to the men. “Vai avanti,” he said. “Vamoose.”
The young men bowed, held up hands in supplication, one stopped to pat Elwood, who panted blissfully, his tail wagging once in the heat, and off they went.
When Sean turned back Aubrey’s eyebrows were halfway up her forehead. Her lips clamped between her teeth as she waited for an explanation.
The fact was, he didn’t have one. Not one he cared to verbalise.
So he went with, “Maybe a chaperone is exactly what you need.”
“Ha! Sexist much.”
“My observations,” he said, “have nothing to do with your being a woman and everything to do with the fact you can’t keep your damn bag closed.”
She held out a finger and he draped the loop of her backpack over the digit. When his finger grazed hers, the lightest imaginable touch, he felt a crackle of electricity.
She gave the cord an extra tug, as if he’d been about to rifle through the thing. But her smile… She liked him. She liked the tension strung between them. That much was crystal clear.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the pull, a leaning towards her effervescence, but, while she was so full of light it was hard not to squint, he’d been burned hollow a long time ago.
“Gian! Caro amico! Did those young men bother your friend?”
Sean looked up to find Enzo descending, eyes locked onto Aubrey—his conduit to a conversation outside food, or whether or not it looked like rain.
“Not at all,” said Aubrey. “They were hilarious.”
“Ah. Bene. Bene. That is good.”
Knowing the older man would burst if he was not at least given an introduction, Sean said, “Enzo, this is Aubrey, my—”
“Your friend! Sì. It is so nice to see you with a friend. And a lovely friend at that!”
Not a friend. Barely an acquaintance. Absolutely a thorn in his side.
In the end, Sean corrected with, “She’s a fellow Australian. Aubrey Trusedale, this is Enzo Frenetti. The owner of the fine bistro you see across the way.”
“Oh, how brilliant,” Aubrey said, reaching out to shake Enzo’s hand. “Cannot wait to eat there!”
“So, you and Gian are not friends?” Enzo queried, expression near comical in its confusion as he took in the gap between Sean and Aubrey. Or lack of gap more like, as Aubrey had leaned into him until the barest sliver of daylight peeked through.
Sean inched away. One hand curling Elwood’s leash tighter, the other shoved into the pocket of his jeans.
“That’s right,” Aubrey said, grinning. “We are most definitely not friends.”
“Then… Are you here to check out Gian’s wares?” asked Enzo.
“His wares, you say?” Her big Bambi eyes turning his way before glancing down to his shoes then back to his face. Not even trying to hide the fact she’d just checked him out. “Sure. Why not?”
Sean cocked his head. Really?
She shrugged. The tiniest movement of her shoulders. So sue me.
“Sì,” said Enzo, chest puffed out, missing the subtleties entirely. “This young man is one of the most talented artisans I have had the pleasure to meet in my entire life.” Was that a tear brimming in Enzo’s eye? “He is a marvel. A visionary. Florence is lucky to have him as our adopted son.”
“Visionary, you say?” Aubrey was no longer trying to hold back her grin. It was pure sunshine. Utter delight. “Do tell.”
“Another time,” said Sean, before the two of them steamrollered him with their combined enthusiasms. And he’d already engaged in more conversation than he usually did in an entire day.
Enzo took the hint. “Another time. Till then, I shall leave you young people to your adventures.”
With a bow of his head he backed away, banging into Roberto, who was hovering behind him. Enzo flapped his hands at Roberto, chastising him in presto Italian as they scuttled off to their respective shopfronts and began beckoning passers-by as if nothing had gone on.
The sounds of the crowd bustling around them crept back in as Aubrey turned his way. She took in the dog now leaning against his leg, and the lead gripped in his palm. “So, we are walking, yes?”
Sean baulked. He could just as easily claim work, and head back inside the air-conditioned comfort. Pull out his laptop. Get some admin done. Answer a certain email—
Chances were, she’d follow her feet right inside his showroom and settle in for the day.
“We are walking,” he said, regretting the words the minute he said them.
Till her lovely face lit with delight.
“Any place in particular you’d like to go?”
“Every place.” She bounced on her toes and clapped her hands and pointed in every direction till he picked one.
“Would you like me to show you my favourite things to do around Florence?”
“Really? That would be grand. I can’t imagine why it never occurred to me to ask!”
Sean almost laughed. Or more that he remembered how it felt to do so. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”