With fists clenched, I stalked down the hillside to the farmhouse where Mylos was staying with his parents. Last night was the second time he’d walked away from me—dismissed me—and I was furiosa.
When my mamma told me an English family with a sixteen-year-old boy would be staying in the farmhouse for the summer, I never would’ve guessed Mylos was that boy.
He wasn’t. He was a man. I watched him that first day when he waited while his mother got ripped off by the merchants at the market. Believe me, once they left, I gave them a piece of my Deltetto mind.
“We will not look favorably on your cheating our friends,” I warned them. I hated imbroglioni—cheaters—which was why I’d reacted so badly when Mylos told me he saw Paolo in the village with “someone.”
I’d longed suspected he saw other girls even though he swore he didn’t. He said it was my own insecurity making me believe he’d cheat. That was true, at least in part.
We were children when we first met. My father and Paolo’s were friends, and he came with his parents to visit. I was a skinny, awkward kid, and he was handsome enough to be a movie star.
When we were older and he came to visit again, I was stunned when he asked me to go on a date with him.
In my mind, I was still the awkward kid and he the movie star. There were times I still wondered why he was interested in sixteen-year-old me—especially since I wouldn’t “put out” like he wanted me to.
But back to Mylos—he was always on my mind these days. In fact, Paolo and I had been arguing about him when he heard us shouting at each other. Paolo had caught me daydreaming, and when he asked if it was about the boy, I corrected him and said he was a man. Stupida, I know. He’d caught me off guard, and before Mylos was around, I was never off guard.
That first day, when he stood with his back to me, his arms folded on the roof of the Fiat his parents had rented, I felt a longing unlike any I’d ever known. I got lost in the way his tight, firm ass looked in his shorts. His legs were sinewy and muscular, and his back and shoulders were broad and chiseled.
When he turned around, I could see the outline of his taut abs through his t-shirt. Not to mention, I almost crossed myself when I lowered my eyes to the bulge between his legs. Santa Madre di Dio.
He didn’t notice, though. I couldn’t say whether I was relieved or disappointed. Instead, his smoldering, brown, deep-set eyes looked me up and down like I was a sweet, innocent Italian signorina in my little flowered dress.
It wasn’t like I was a puttana, but I wasn’t completely innocent either. The temptation I felt that day, looking at the man-boy who smiled at me, was shameful. When I went to bed that night, I imagined that Mylos was the man who would finally take my virginity, and I would take his. I don’t know how I knew he was still innocente, but I did. The idea of it fueled fantasies so intense, I nearly called out his name when my fingers brought me to release.
I could see him now on the terrazza with his father. He came out, set a plate on the table, and then watched me as I walked toward him. Even at only sixteen, he was taller than Paolo. The stubble covering his chin was dark like his hair and made him look older.
There was nothing about Mylos that screamed ragazzo. He was all sculpted, strapping, hard uomo.
“Good morning, Pia,” he said with a smirk when I approached.
“Buongiorno, Mylos, Signore Stone.” His father waved before standing, picking up his plate, and going inside.
“Would you like some fruit?” Mylos asked, motioning to his plate.
“Sì.” I reached over and took a handful of grapes. “Grazie.”
“Why are you here, Pia?”
“You were wrong last night.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Was I?”
“Paolo and I…he doesn’t own me.”
Mylos pulled out a chair and motioned for me to sit. When I did, so did he.
“We are dating. That is all.”
He bent his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. “What you do, or don’t do, is none of my business.”
“You wouldn’t swim with me last night.”
“No. I wouldn’t. Not like that.”
“Not like that. What does that mean?”
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He was close enough that I could reach out and touch his face.