Page 40 of No One But Us

“I like hearing you speak Italian,” he says. “Say something.”

“Hai dimenticato di comprare il latte.”

“That sounded dirty,” he says.

“You just have a dirty mind. I said, ‘You forgot to buy milk’.”

He laughs. “Say something else.”

“Il mio pastello e grande.”

“What was that?” he asks.

“My crayon is large.”

He gets a sly grin on his face. “Je promets que mon crayon est plus grande,” he says, close to my ear again.

French, spoken too quickly for me to follow. He’s right. It sounds positively filthy.

“I promise my crayon is larger,” he translates with a smile so dirty I find myself squeezing my thighs together.

I’m having the best moment of my entire summer, until it’s ruined by a chair sliding between James’ and mine.

“I’m Domenico, the owner,” the guy says in Italian, talking only to me.

For one horrible moment I worry that he’s going to card me, but instead he angles the chair, shutting James out entirely. “My waiter is in back telling us all of your flawless accent,” he says, “so I had to hear it for myself.”

“I think he was being kind.” I smile. “I just spent a little time there as a kid.”

“We don’t get a lot of Italian speakers here,” he says. “And certainly not beautiful ones.” The smile he flashes makes me want to edge my chair farther away.

We speak for a few minutes about the coast, and then he asks if I want to see their garden after the meal. I agree with some trepidation, sensing he has something he wants to show me there besides organically grown herbs.

“What was that about?” asks James when he leaves.

I shrug. “I guess they don’t get a lot of people in Rehoboth who speak Italian.”

“Yeah,” he says, his jaw tight. “I saw the way he was looking at you. I’m pretty sure this isn’t just about his desire to speak Italian.”

I wish he was wrong, but I’m fairly certain he’s not, especially when Domenico sends over several bottles of wine we didn’t order. My guess is he’ll be asking me to pay in other ways later during my tour.

But I forget about that as the meal progresses, too focused on James beside me. He seems to lean closer as the night goes on, his thigh pressing more heavily against mine, his hand brushing my fingers…or perhaps I’ve just had enough wine that I can think of nothing anymore but his proximity. Fireworks explode overhead once it’s dark, and I see now why James insisted on getting us a table outside. We tip our heads back to watch.

“This must seem kind of lame after watching them in DC every year,” he comments.

I breathe in deeply, my contentment residing in my chest like a physical presence. “I like it. I don’t remember ever having a better 4th.”

I don’t look at him as I say it, but I sense that he’s no longer watching the fireworks.

“Me either,” he says, his voice barely audible over the explosion above us.

After the fireworks, we sing “Happy Birthday” and Ginny opens her gifts. From Max, a 10-inch vibrator and anal beads.

“Seriously, dude?” James asks. “In front of me?”

“Ginny is on the cusp of blooming, sexually,” Max argues. “It’s a cause for celebration, not shame.”

Domenico returns as we’re paying the bill and asks if I’m ready for my tour. I rise reluctantly. I’ve had plenty of experience fending off advances, but it doesn’t mean I relish the task.