Gladly Beyond by Nichole van Read Free Book Online Page B

you like some help with the portone ?” he asked.
    He pronounced portone sharp and staccato, rolling the r . . . port-OWN-ay . He sounded native.
    I turned back to him. “ Portone ?”
    “Like porta and -one. Big door. The door that opens to the outside.” He chuckled. A deep smooth sound that rumbled out of his chest.
    He stepped around me and threw the deadbolt. Or, at least, what looked like the deadbolt. He spun it one, two, three times. On the fourth round, it caught. With a loud click, he pulled the heavy door ajar. Politely motioned for me to pass through.
    Ah.
    “ Grazie ,” I said. Agenda or not, he was being courteous. I could at least thank him.
    “ Parli italiano ?” he asked as I moved to step out onto the bright piazza.
    It would be impolite to not reply. That’s what I told myself.
    It wasn’t that I subconsciously liked every word out of his mouth . . . his very fine, full-lipped mouth.
    Nope. I was e man cipated.
    “Not really,” I said. “Just a few tourist phrases. Art words. Chiaroscuro. Sfumato . My brain short circuits when it comes to learning a foreign language.”
    “ Peccato . I love hearing my native language on the tongue of a gorgeous woman.”
    I rolled my eyes. Oy.
    But the teenage girl part of my brain squealed and shook her hands. He called me gorgeous. Eeeek!
    I was pathetic.
    Just walk out the open door, Claire.
    Unbidden, I found myself pivoting as I stepped past him. My body a compass helplessly pointing to his north star.
    “So you are Italian, then?”
    “ Sì .”
    “Your English is perfect. I could have sworn you’re American.”
    “Yes.”
    I popped a hand onto my hip. Shot him a skeptical eyebrow.
    “My mom is American from Portland, Oregon.” His gaze honey warm. “My dad was Italian from Florence.”
    “ Was Italian?”
    His smile froze. An emotion flickered. “Yeah. My father passed away when I was a teenager.”
    “Oh. I’m so sorry. My dad died in a car accident when I was three.” The words just popped free. I bit my tongue a second too late.
    Why, why, why would I share that tidbit of personal information with Dante D’Angelo of all people? Why would my stupid subconscious leap to confide in him?
    His head canted. Interested.
    “I’m sorry.” Even though he repeated my own words, they hung with genuine sincerity.
    I shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I don’t have any memories of him. Not like being a teenager.”
    “Well, it feels like a long time ago for me too. My parents had been separated for years. Though I lived my first ten years in Italy, after that, I grew up mostly in the States with my mom. I just spent summers here with my dad’s family.”
    Wow. I was standing in a doorway, bonding with a (surprisingly nice) playboy over our shared grief. This could not bode well for my emotional state.
    I needed to leave. C’mon feet, start walking.
    But for some reason, my body had stopped listening to me.
    “So, do you still live in the States?”
    “No. We all live here now. In Florence. My brothers and I took over the family business after college.”
    “Brothers? You have a brother other than your twin?”
    “Branwell is my identical twin, but we’re actually triplets. Branwell, Tennyson and myself. We have a younger sister too, Chiara.”
    I liked how he said her name . . . k ey-AH-rah . Again, trilling the r , so it sounded somewhere between an r and a d .
    He braced an arm against the open door. The movement pulled his suit coat tight against his bicep, angling his body toward me. Looming. He looked expensive. Decadent, even.
    I could always tell him and Branwell apart in photos. Despite being identical twins, it wasn’t hard. Dante had this urbane smoothness about him. Like he had just walked off a Milan runway. His brother, Branwell, was more Free People hobo with a thick beard and homespun vibe. The fun-loving playboy and mountain-man recluse, as the industry gossip labeled them.
    Dante was leaning decidedly too close.