her attitude frazzled, and her nerves frayed.
One look, however, at the small jewel of a town snuggling around its breathtaking azure bay, and she was renewed.
Time seemed to have slipped into slow motion somewhere between La Spezia and this place.
Gone were the bustle and the noise of the city, replaced by a palpable tranquility. Maybe it was the warm breeze that slowed people’s walks to a stroll or the tangy, salty air that filled their lungs and quieted their speech to a pleasant hum. Whatever it was, the magic cast a spell around her instantly and pulled her under its power.
“The Lord Byron Hotel?” she asked an elderly woman waiting in line at a gelato stand.
“Sì.” The woman expelled an additional line of something that hadn’t been on the Italian language CDs, but she pointed to a conspicuously orange building set high up on the hillside—and the walking path that led to it.
Julia eyed the steep incline, noting the weight of her carry-on and her duffel. Both pieces of luggage had wheels . . . and in a few days, she’d be conquering the Cinque Terre.
Determined, she took on the hill, schlepping her bags behind her.
Dragging the extra forty pounds up what felt like eighty degrees of cobblestone incline for two hundred yards left her questioning her fitness and her sanity, however. She stopped at intervals, filling her lungs with huge gulps of air that apparently held no oxygen as she felt little to no recoup in her body. The bags threatened to pull her arms from their sockets, and her fingers gripped the handles with terror, knowing that any slip backward meant having to retrace her excruciatingly painful progress.
By the time she reached the turnoff onto the hotel’s walkway, the twenty-two hours of travel since leaving Paducah hit her like a Mac truck. The warm fuzzies she’d started up the hill with had been abandoned along the way, replaced by hot pricklies that caused her blouse to stick to her chest and back and underarms, making the areas alternate from itch to burn.
She stomped along a walkway built on yet another incline, albeit gradual, up to the sign that indicated the office. In front of the door, two men blocked the path, discussing something that apparently had to do with the swimming pool. From their wild gesticulations and heated tones, one of them had released piranhas into the water.
If you stop, you drop, Julia reminded herself. But it was the sight in front of her more than her mantra that inched her closer.
Adonis—or whatever the Roman mythology equivalent was—had come to life. Stripped to the waist, his torso was an ocean of waves and ripples that made her mouth so dry she longed for a taste. Long legs defined with muscles bulging from the shorts he wore pivoted him gracefully toward the pool and back to the other man whom he towered over.
Julia drew close enough to appreciate the sunlight glistening on the perspiration that poured from the black curly hair onto the wide, sculpted shoulders and chest. Despite the angry undertones, his deep voice had a smoothness that glided across his tongue like caramel gelato.
This was the man, rather than Howard, who should’ve been hooking up with Miss Italy. At thirtyish, he was the perfect age—the perfect everything—and Julia released the breath she’d been holding with a sigh.
“Um . . . excuse me. I need to get through here.”
Adonis swung toward her, pinning her with a sullen gaze from eyes as dark and rich as mahogany. “Mi dispiace, signora. I did not see you.”
Julia drew another sigh and shrugged. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
His dark eyes filled with confusion. “You expect the surprise? A package perhaps?”
Her sarcasm had obviously gotten lost in translation. Julia brushed her fingers through the top of her hair to get the sweaty strands out of her face. “No—never mind. You’ll have to excuse me. It’s the jet lag talking.”
“Americana.” Adonis pinpointed the accent, and Julia nodded. “But . . . the jeta-lag, she is the . . . ? He twirled his hand as if it could wind out the word he was groping for.
Julia would’ve filled in the blank if she’d known what he was going for. But the fogginess in her brain wouldn’t allow the foggiest notion to penetrate the surface layer.
He finally gave up. “English.” He spat the word. “She is the confused language.” His sullen manner pinned all the blame for that on Julia.
The shorter man finally lost the exasperated glare he’d been using on Adonis and turned his attention to her. “You wish to check in, signora?”
Julia nodded. “I’m Julia Berkwith.
“I am Signor Moretti, the owner.” His tone slid into smooth hospitality as he opened the door to the office and held it for her.
Adonis’s disgruntled frown said he hadn’t finished the conversation with Signor Moretti that she’d interrupted, but he directed a pointed look to the hotel owner before stomping off.
Julia breathed a relieved sigh when she stepped into the cool office—out of the heat of the day and away from the heat of their argument, not to mention the heat Adonis generated simply by his presence.
Thank heavens, everything was in order and check-in was easy. She could tell her brain had started to misfire as she signed her name the last time and left out the k.
“You will check out on Sunday, just ahead of the crowd.” Signor Moretti’s English was much better than Adonis’s. “That is when all of Italy come to Lerici.”
“I read that this is a prime vacation spot for Italians. In fact, it’s the main reason I chose this place,” Julia admitted. “If you want the best restaurant, you ask a local. I assumed it would be the same for vacation spots.”
“Sì, signora.” Signor Moretti beamed at the compliment. “Leave your luggage. I bring it to you.”
“I’ll get it,” she assured him, though not sharing the reason why. She couldn’t bear the thought of having to wait even an extra ten minutes to take a shower. “Thank you, though.”
“As you wish.”
He gave her the directions to the room and held the door open for her again.
Before she made the left out of the office, she was treated to one more quick view of Adonis’s perfectly sculpted backside.
Melissa would describe him as a total hottie, and for once, Julia thoroughly understood the term.
* * *
By the time Julia dragged her bags all the way to her room, she was nearly delirious with exhaustion.
She showered, hoping it would revive her, but the warmth made her almost catatonic, so she lay down for a short nap and awoke to different lighting.
Her foggy brain took a minute to explain the discrepancy. She’d gone to sleep with streaks of afternoon sun casting long shadows in her room. She awoke to darkness . . . and hunger. The clock on her bedside table told her it was barely after eight in the evening.
She slipped into one of the new knit dresses she’d bought for the trip and smiled at the bit of cleavage showing in the scoop neck—certainly nothing that would draw attention, but enough to make her marvel at how normal she looked . . . as long as she kept her clothes on.
The scrumptious scent surrounding the hotel led her to its restaurant. She stopped in the doorway, taking in the white linen tablecloths and candlelight—much more romantic than her single status called for. She started to turn away but got caught by the maître d’s greeting.
“Buona sera, signora.”
He asked her something in Italian, which she didn’t understand, but she held up a hesitant finger. “Uno?”
“But, of course,” he answered in English, and his unruffled elegance eased her discomfort a notch. He led her to a table for two but made quick work of