Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I’m in one of Kent’s linen shirts, nothing under it, the sleeves cuffed twice and still threatening to eat my hands. The collar is open, just to the point where you can see the shallow dip between my collarbones, and a little lower if the breeze kicks up. The shirt is so white it glows in the dusk, and I love how it makes my legs look even longer, my skin pale as ivory in the cool shadow. My hair is down, combed out after our shower but already going wild in the humidity. The air smells like cigarettes, orange blossoms, and the ozone that comes before a summer rain.
I hear Kent before I see him. The scrape of a chair, the heavy step on the polished wood inside, the low hum of his voice as he ends a call. The glass door hisses open behind me.
His presence hits like a wave: a backdraft of sandalwood and male musk, his big body crowding the threshold. He’s in jeans and a t-shirt, which emphasize his broad frame; his hair’s wet at the temples, his jaw newly shaven. He leans against the frame, phone still in his hand, and watches me with that look—the one that’s half hunger and half devotion, the one that makes me feel both ten feet tall and hollowed out.
He nods at the city, then at me. “You’re going to catch cold,” he says, but there’s no judgment in it. Just the faintest curl of a smile.
I shake my head. “It’s warm,” I say. “Besides, you like me wearing as little as possible.”
“Fair.” He pockets the phone, then pads out onto the balcony, the stone cool under his bare feet. He sets the phone face-down on the granita table, careful not to topple the glass, and wraps both arms around me from the back, gently nuzzling my hair. We stand that way for a while, locked together, staring down at the river of scooters and tourists and stray cats picking through the cigarette butts in the gutter. The evening is thick with sound: a woman yelling at her kid from a window, a distant ambulance, the flutter of pigeons roosting under the eaves.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” I whisper. “It was so terrible back at home, and I couldn’t stay any longer. Everyone was talking and whispering and saying nasty things about me. I mean, a lot of people suspected it was a deepfake, but I don’t think anyone knew exactly what to think when there’s no way to prove these things.”
Kent’s big arms squeeze me tight.
“It’s fine, sweetheart, and I’m happy to bring you to Italy. You’re an Italian major, so just consider this visit part of your studies. In the meantime, forgot about all that bullshit because Nate’s taking care of it.”
“Your tech guy?” I ask.
“My tech billionaire buddy,” he corrects. “Nate says his team’s already on it. The video’s getting scrubbed. Whatever’s out there now—they’re taking it down, frame by frame. He can’t do much about the people who’ve already seen it, but the rest will be dust by morning.”
The words hit me in the chest, a weight and a relief at the same time. I grip the iron railing, let my fingers go white against the black paint.
“Thank you,” I say, too quiet.
He shrugs, but it’s not dismissive; it’s the gesture of a man who can lift the world and knows it, but never brags. “You don’t have to thank me, sweetheart,” he says, voice low. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
A silence stretches between us, warm and humming. I listen to the way the city moves, the air shifting from exhaust to basil to the cold stone scent of the Tiber. Somewhere, a window slams, and a dog starts barking, then stops. The church bell tolls again, one clear note, almost like it’s checking to make sure we’re still here.
I turn to him. “You didn’t have to,” I say, and my voice cracks at the edge. “I mean, you’ve already done so much. I just keep—” I make a helpless motion. “I keep fucking up your life, what with my mom, me, the videos, everything.”
He looks at me, then, full-on, his blue eyes piercing even in the failing light. He reaches across the space and puts his hand on my shoulder, thumb tracing the edge of the linen, and leans in until our foreheads almost touch.
“Mary Kate,” he says, soft but certain, “you are my life.”
For a second, I want to laugh. Or maybe cry. I do neither. I let his words land, let them settle into the space between my ribs, and when I finally inhale, I realize I’m shaking.
Kent pulls me closer, his hand drifting down to the small of my back, palm warm even through the shirt. He doesn’t say anything else, just stands there with me, looking out over the city like we own it. The streetlamps flicker on in waves, one block at a time, and the sky goes from lavender to a deep, bruised blue, the first stars popping out over the domes and towers.