Page 13 of In Italy for Love

Slipping past her to open the door, he only realised when the cool October breeze swept over his skin that he was still shirtless and wearing only his boxer shorts. His arm rose to his chest, as though that would help.

She ran her fingers roughly through her mussed hair and took Arco’s lead from Alex’s limp hand. ‘We won’t swap numbers, right? Because we’re both “not”.’

‘That might be for the best.’

‘Okay,’ she said slowly, as though she was trying to convince herself. ‘You… take care of yourself too,’ she said.

He just gave a single nod in reply.

Lifting her face, she pressed another kiss to his cheek. With a gulp, she dipped her gaze and kissed him on the lips, quick and sharp, as though she hadn’t quite meant to do it.

‘Good luck,’ he mumbled, words still insufficient.

‘Think of me sometimes?’ she said in a rush, her voice going up at the end.

‘Oh, I will,’ he assured her. It was his turn to grasp her jacket at the waist and press one more soft kiss to her mouth before heforced his fist open and stepped back. He stood there, his skin pebbling with goosebumps, and watched as she passed under the old persimmon tree, crossed the courtyard, and walked back out of his life.

7

Jules awoke to her alarm the following morning, fumbling groggily for her phone to switch off the annoying tone. Arco barked for good measure and she rolled over and fumbled to quiet him too. With a flash of goosebumps, her memories of the night before washed over her: talking and laughing; blue eyes she hoped she never forgot; eager kisses and intimacy that had left her drained and melty.

The most striking image was the last: Alex standing in his doorway half-naked, looking lost. It felt strange that she’d never see him again. But at least she’d leave Italy with a favourable impression of one man at least – and an accordion player at that!

After slurping two coffees and hastily consuming as much of the sweet breakfast buffet as she could in half an hour, she stuffed her things into her backpack while Arco wolfed down his own breakfast. Then she hauled the shopping bag full of dog food onto one poor shoulder and trudged downstairs to pay her bill.

She’d chosen the cheapest B&B she could find, but she still tapped her fingers nervously as the payment processed. She had money in her account, but in a few weeks, she’d have to buy alast-minute flight home – for herself and a dog. She didn’t want to know how many thousands of euros she’d be on the hook for.

If the sale of the building only covered the debts from the renovation and didn’t return any cash, she would be in trouble. Luca’s voice echoed between her ears, accusing her of not watching the bank balance. She thought with bitterness that his accusation was true this time. She hadn’t been brave enough to check her own balance since she left.

But screw Luca. Counting the pennies wouldn’t have made money magically appear and necessary expenses were exactly that. Yes, the business account had regularly been significantly overdrawn, but she’d cut back where she could. He’d kept his day job working at an events company and, while that had kept them fed over the past three years when the B&B struggled to make money, it meant he’d had no idea how expensive it was to run the business – and could conveniently blame Jules.

It was impossible to be financially responsible when there was no money to be responsible with.

Whatever her current bank balance, the payment to the severe-looking Maria Grazia further reduced it, and then Jules was free again, all her worldly goods on her back and the road stretching ahead of her. It was a long road that morning – over an hour’s trudge to the farm – but at least, she thought, Arco would get some decent exercise.

While Jules had almost lost track of the days of the week since leaving Parma, for the rest of the world it was a Thursday morning and the lanes were full of people running their errands or on their way to their work. She tried not to search their faces for Alex, but the occasional head of wavy brown hair caught her eye.

Slowing her steps as she approached the bridge, she told herself he wouldn’t be there playing his accordion. He must move around the city and probably take time off – if he couldeven survive and rent what had been a nice enough apartment just from busking.

Frowning, she realised he’d never said if he played music full-time or had another job and although they’d left each other behind on purpose last night, she suddenly wished she’d asked him all of those questions, even if it had meant sharing her own sorry tale.

Her wondering was in vain, however. The little stone square on the other side of the bridge was empty, no gorgeous man or droning instrument. With a sigh, she paused in the middle of the bridge for a final look at the stunning ravine with its emerald-green water and the view of the colourful little city perched on the rock.

Perhaps the next time she crossed the Ponte del Diavolo, she’d be on her way to the train station starting her journey home.

She shouldn’t be thinking about last night. She definitely shouldn’t be thinking about Alex and how he’d put her at ease and suddenly come out of his shell when she’d confirmed she wanted to come back to his apartment. She shouldn’t wonder why he hadn’t named his own cat.

Today, she was headed out to the farm. It was a family operation with a vineyard and an olive grove and a restaurant for tourists that only opened for lunch. The photos online had looked idyllic: a stone farmhouse set in a field with a wooded hill behind; squat, bushy trees with twisted trunks and swing-cap bottles full of cloudy olive oil with handwritten labels.

Thinking of farms just reminded her of the tomato banter from the night before and she shook off those goosebumps again as she walked steadily onwards.

The plain seemed to unfold endlessly once she’d cleared the outskirts of the city, knobbly hills of vineyards, topped with crowns of forest, stretching to the horizon. Clouds hungsuspended in the wide sky. The trees were every shade between green and brown: orange oak, evergreen cypress and yellowing birch trees with white trunks.

There was no footpath to speak of, so Jules had to juggle Arco on a short lead and the bag of dog food that kept slipping off her shoulder. Only her sheer determination and the changing colours of the russet hills kept her spirits up.

She wondered if there were traffic-free footpaths amongst the trees and vines but she couldn’t risk getting lost, so she stuck to the road, the cars zipping by too fast, putteringmotorini– the iconic scooters that dominated Italian roads – and industrial and agricultural vehicles of all shapes and sizes forcing Jules and Arco into the damp grass. Her trainers were quickly soaked, although they hadn’t been in great shape anyway.

Roads grew sparse two kilometres out of Cividale, and trees plentiful. She upped her pace even though her backpack had grown heavy and the dog food now sagged in its bag, hanging from her elbow. Her hair tickled her face and her brow was muggy with sweat, despite the cool October day. Dapper and well-dressed Luca would be horrified to see her now.

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