Page 18 of I Think Olive You

Peace is an illusion and what she offered me last night was a falsehood. It’s time to get down to business.

Guess you are a Palmer after all.

With dawn comes renewed purpose and the bitch-slap of jet lag. Although I managed to put it off until now, adjusting here will be harder in more ways than one. Someone wakes me up with a quick rap on the door. A note slides under the gap, and I drag my ass out of bed with a sigh. My sleep patterns have never been the best. But there’s a huge difference in forcing myself to try and sleep because it’s nighttime in Italy, and waking up at what would be my normal bedtime.

Still, I promised myself I would see this through. It won’t do any good to quit on day one. I have reconnaissance to do and a trade to learn. Somehow, I have to try and intercept the real volunteer at some point too or my cover will be blown and I can kiss my future goodbye.

I slap a new nicotine patch on my arm and pull clothes out of my bag. Dressing in the early morning light peeking into the room, my linen shirt is as rumpled as I feel. I have the presence of mind to remove the contract from my backpack. Crap, it looks so rough from my constant rolling and unrolling. Foresight would have been good—foresight would have meant a folder to place it in to keep it pristine. But that’s another one of my shortfalls.

One of many.

And so, the magic of being in Italy can no longer contend with the relentlessness of my inner voice.

As if a shiny new location would change anything.

But it does. I will make sure it does. This is my opportunity to get out from under what’s been suffocating me in New York for the summer. New York leaves me listless, aimless… apathetic about life. All I needed was a purpose, and now I have it. Someday soon I’ll stop thinking these things because I’ll have something to show for myself, something to console myself with when my thoughts take a turn toward darkness.

I tuck the contract between two large books sitting on the desk, and slide them into the desk drawer. My insides contract, curling in on themselves. A sick sort of lurch swoops through my stomach at the physical proof of my deception—the continued attempt to hide my intentions.

No risk, no reward.

I haven’t gotten anywhere so far by skating by. Thomas got shit done, even though his methods had been less than stellar. I’ll have more success in life if I take a page out of the Palmer playbook.

A dry swallow grates down my throat as I stuff down the uneasiness rising in my esophagus. I’ll worry about the morality of it later.

I bend to retrieve the folded note, fingertips stroking over the sure indentation on the paper. The handwriting is hard and confident, sloping as if written in a hurry.

It’s fucking foolish to think she means it the way I want her to mean it. Because I am ready. I’m halfway to distraction thinking about her and the possibilities her desk provides. But she made it clear it will never happen again—it was a mistake.

Just like you.

“Fuck off,” I whisper to myself and leave the room behind, creeping through quiet hallways to find the office again.

Giuliana leans her ass against her desk, watching the door when I eventually find my way through the house. The sun pinkens the sky behind her into pastel flames, illuminating the sprawling grove.

“I appreciate your discretion yesterday. It’s been a hard shift for the workers and I don’t want anything to jeopardize the trust I’m building. Some of the men in particular might have a problem with it.”

Some of the men you’re involved with?

Shut up. What a fucked-up thing to think. What she does with her time away from work is not my concern. But my curiosity is a hard thing to ignore.

“The man I bumped into on my way in?”

I shouldn’t be asking. It’s none of my damn business. All I need to worry about is getting the information I came for.

“It’s complicated.”

“Despite appearances, I’m sure I can keep up.” My smirk has the intended effect and I can tell she’s fighting the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she closes them for a moment and a shuddering breath leaves her chest.

“We worked together, yes. Umberto was my father’s foreman and we had a sort of… relationship.”

Ah.

“So, the no dating the volunteer rule?—”

Only applies to me.

“Came about because he didn’t care for ‘his woman’ telling him how to do his job. Umberto assumed we would marry and the grove would be his to run after my father’s death. I didn’t take kindly to him deciding our lives before asking me what I wanted. He left with half of my workforce and decided to show his face yesterday to throw around some new threats.”

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