“Yes,” he says slowly. “Just like luck.”
“Felisa said you were out on your motorbike.”
He nods again, coming to stand beside me. One of his hands wraps along the railing as he stares out at the view, his back ramrod straight.
“I didn’t hear it come in,” I note, trying to keep the conversation going.
“I park it on the street. There is a gate for it.” He turns his head in my direction. “You were in your own little world here.”
I sure was. “I was lost in the view,” I say.
He takes a slow drag, not saying anything. I can see my reflection in his glasses and wish that I could have put maybe a bit more effort into my appearance. Also my purse is pulling on my shirt and making my cleavage pop out more than what’s considered classy. I think about adjusting it but don’t want to call attention to myself.
“It is beautiful,” he says, and at first I think he’s talking about my cleavage. Then his head swivels back to the sea. “Angry sometimes, but still beautiful.”
“Just like a woman,” I remark.
He actually breaks into a full grin. It’s so gorgeous—his teeth, my God, his perfect white teeth—that I actually suck in my breath. “Yes, I suppose you are right,” he says, his voice sounding the most lighthearted it has been since I’ve known him. Then the smile vanishes and the clouds settle again. “Tell me, Amber, do you really think you have what it takes to do this job?”
I swallow hard, wishing I had more confidence. “I’m going to find out.”
“Have you ever really been tested before?” He flicks ash to the ground and the breeze blows it away. “Not by children. I mean by life.”
I frown at him, feeling a bit pissed off at the question. “Of course I have. Who hasn’t?”
He shrugs. “Some people go through life without a single true trial.”
“Not me.”
He runs his hand under his jaw, his stubble making a scratchy sound, and then says, “Good. Trials make you stronger.”
Yet as he says that I wonder why he doesn’t take that to heart. His own trials, his brother and sister’s trials, it all seems to have made them weaker. But here I go again, making assumptions about things I know nothing about. I’ve had my tribulations in life but they don’t compare to what he’s been through.
“You called me Amber earlier,” I point out. “Not Signorina MacLean. I know you’re my boss and everything, but I’d really rather not call you Signor Larosa. And I really hope you’ll address me with ciao instead of salve.”
He cocks his head at me. “You are a very bold woman.” Then he nods, as if affirming something to himself.
I try not to beam at that. “But what should I call you? Desiderio? What do Alfonso and Annabella call you? Desi?”
“Actually, they call me Derio. And you can, too, if you wish.”
“All right, Derio,” I say to him and hold out my hand. “My name is Amber, pleased to meet you.”
He arches a brow but shakes my hand again. There is no electric shock this time but the feel of his warm palm against mine is doing something funny to my insides. My nerves feel carbonated. “Piacere,” he says in a low, charming voice, and the feeling intensifies.
He finally lets go of my hand and I try to compose myself. Damn it, when did I turn into such a girl? Swooning over a handshake?
He clears his throat. “You better hurry if you want to catch the next ferry back to Positano,” he says. “That is, if you wish to be back here tonight for the first lessons.”
I nod, feeling that moody distance creep back into his tone. He’s right, though. Not only do I have to get back to the mainland and hike all the way up that damn hill to get my stuff, I have to find a bookstore somewhere that has something that might tell me the first thing about teaching English to Italian children. I have a feeling that won’t be so easy, though. Thank God for my Kindle and the ability to buy just about any book at any time. I’ve always been a lover of paperbacks and hardcovers, but eReaders really save your ass while traveling.
“I will see you later,” I tell him, then add, “Derio.” I love the way it rolls off my tongue.
Despite what we just shook on, he doesn’t seem all that pleased to hear me calling him that. His mouth draws together into a thin line and he nods curtly. I trot off, ignoring his personality change. I hope he’s not Moody McMooderson when I get back.
* * *
Going back to Positano seems a lot more dramatic than the trip coming over to Capri. Maybe it’s because there’s a slight swell to the seas and I’m extra conscious now of the way that Derio’s parents died. Maybe it’s because once I step foot on the mainland, I know I never have to go back to Capri if I don’t want to. I can stay in Positano and avoid responsibility and spend my days lounging on the beach with a few good books.