The Kiss Plot by Nicole French

Twenty-Three

“We have the rest of the day,” Eric said a little over an hour later as we stood at the bar downstairs and enjoyed a couple of cappuccinos for breakfast. He had splurged with a brioche too, and I was picking off little pieces of it when he wasn’t looking. “Signora Deflorio said she’ll keep our bags until we meet our train at five.”

“That was generous of her,” I said. The miserly old landlady couldn’t even be bribed to turn up the heat while we were here. “Or was it generous of you?”

Eric shrugged in a way that told me my second guess was the correct one. Then he took a sip of his coffee and made a face. A coffee snob to the nth degree, he barely tolerated the dark-roast styles of French and Italian espresso. I had already heard enough lectures on third-wave coffee and the merits of light roasting methods to last me a lifetime.

Before he could launch on yet another coffee tirade, I jumped in. “So, what’s on the list? Another trip to the Uffizi?” We had spent the majority of Tuesday there after we’d arrived, and Eric couldn’t get enough of the Caravaggio collection.

He set down his cup. “I thought maybe we could walk around town since it’s actually nice today.”

We peered out to the bluebird sky above Florence. It had been rainy most of the week, so our sightseeing had been confined primarily to museums and churches. There had been no idle walks by the river or winding around the Florentine streets, like all the travel websites promised.

“Exploring,” I said. “Okay, I like it. Lead on, sir.”

* * *

“Don’tyou think that makes you stick out more than a phone would?” I asked for the tenth time as we stepped out of the central market with a backpack full of goodies for lunch later. Prosciutto, a couple of tomatoes, bread, and a half-bottle of wine to carry to wherever Eric was planning to take me today. It was cold and windy, but the sky was clear, and the off season meant minimal tourists. A good day for a picnic.

Eric turned the adorable paper map he insisted on using instead of a phone. Having been here before, he actually knew some parts of Florence reasonably well, but occasionally he needed some help, and that was usually where we got into trouble.

“It makes me look like a tourist,” he replied. “Just like everyone else.”

“Maybe if you were seventy. All right, Grandpa, where to?”

He turned to his map, studying it for the fifth time. Something I had learned about Eric on this trip was that he was only a good guide if he knew the place. But once he was disoriented, his sense of direction was terrible.

“Well, I was thinking maybe we could swing by Dante’s house first—I just want to see the outside. Then we can backtrack a little and cross via the Ponte Vecchio, since I know you wanted to see the shops. Which I think is…that way.” He pointed in the opposite direction of the Arno river, which the Ponte Vecchio crossed. Which he should have known, considering we’d walked across it approximately a zillion times in the last six days.

I grabbed his finger and rotated it in the right direction. He watched the action, then a slow smile crept across his face. Before I could say anything, he leaned down and kissed me.

“Thanks, gorgeous,” he said against my lips.

I readjusted my glasses—the kiss had knocked them off-kilter and fogged them up too. “Anytime. Shall we?”

“It’s only a thirty-minute walk all the way to the piazza, I think. Can those shoes take it?”

I looked down at the gorgeous black booties I’d bought in Paris, which went perfectly with my daily outfit of jeans and sweaters. I’d tried to steal a couple of Eric’s shirts just to change up my spare look, but he wasn’t having it.

“These boots were literally made for walking,” I said. “And that is what I’m going to do.”

One side of Eric’s mouth quirked again, and my insides hummed. How did he always manage to do that?

“Come on, Nancy,” he said, slinging a long arm around my shoulder. “Let’s go exploring.”

* * *

“I can’t believeyou skipped Italy when you came to Europe,” he said for the twelfth time as we approached Ponte Vecchio, the famous medieval bridge crowded with jewelry shops over the Arno river. The stacked bridge also provided a helpful shield from the winter wind coming off the river.

“Well, I was twenty, and on a shoestring,” I said. “I had a rail pass and approximately twenty-five dollars a day to live on. Italy was too much of a detour.” I said it flippantly, but I had to admit he was right. I had missed something big by skipping Italy.

“It’s my favorite country in Europe. Everything here is beautiful. Even the ugly stuff is beautiful.”

Eric gesticulated toward the stolid, tile-roofed buildings that bordered the river up and down both sides. Florence wasn’t a huge city, but its center was dense, with tight, stone-colored streets that wove behind the main avenues like snakes.

I looked up and down the river as we crossed the bridge. I hadn’t really seen anything ugly in Florence, but the grime of age coated the bottoms of the stone and stucco buildings, and everything sat just a little crooked as the city had sunken unevenly into itself over centuries. It wasn’t ugly, though—not at all. I would say more that it had seen some stuff. Florence, maybe even more than most cities in Europe, wore its history like a pair of perfect leather boots, the kind that just look better with every scuff.

“Penny and I came to Europe in college too,” Eric said. He chuckled at some unspoken memory. “Man, I had to beg her parents to let her go. But I sponsored the trip from my trust, so they couldn’t really argue much—this was before Grandmother cut me off. They were just upset they couldn’t take her to Greece themselves.”

I listened curiously as we took a tiny side street to get out of the wind whipping off the river. It was a nice day, but it was December, after all.

Eric, however, continued to chatter uncharacteristically. For most of this trip, Eric had been too busy looking over his shoulder to engage in carefree conversation. I’d gotten used to his paranoia over the last month, but that didn’t make it enjoyable.

“It was for a month, and we did the rail pass thing too. Hostels and all of that. Penny was always kind of uncomfortable with luxury…” He trailed off, remembering the girl he’d lost ten years ago. “She couldn’t take this life with me,” he said quietly.

For the first time, I saw guilt in his memory. When he’d told me about Penny before, Eric had blamed her suicide on his family. It was because of their harassment that she’d slit her wrists, convinced she was worthless, to him or anyone.

But now…I couldn’t quite say why, but something about that story didn’t fit. I knew Eric’s family now. I had spent countless hours with his cousin, his aunt, his mother, and his late grandmother: the matriarchal quartet of a great New York dynasty. True, they weren’t the warmest bunch in the world. Nina, Eric’s cousin, was the nicest, and she was still basically an iceberg in training. Violet, her mother, and Heather, Eric’s mom, each had the warmth of a freezer, while his grandmother, Celeste, had been a glacier.

But while I’d suffered my fair share of hazing upon my introduction, the worst had been from outsiders, not the de Vries family themselves. And not once had his grandmother ever suggested that Eric and I split up. From the second I’d walked into her perfect Park Avenue apartment, complete with rainbow-colored hair and my very weirdest clothes, she’d wasted no time inducting me into the family, even if it was paired with incessant criticism of my looks and harsh ribbing. And by the end, whether it was through the hours of wedding planning or the weekly trips to the Met, somehow, Celeste and I had become almost close. Bonded, maybe, by our mutual love of Eric.

Which was why it was hard for me to believe now that she would have ostracized a young woman to the point of death. Celeste would have seen an impressionable, and probably beautiful, young woman that her grandson loved…and she would have molded her. Not isolated her.

“Have you ever talked to Penny’s parents? Since everything happened?”

Eric shook his head. “They were convinced it was my fault. They said she’d still be alive if she’d never met me.” The three worry lines across his brow suddenly appeared. “They were right.”

We walked silently down the long, narrow street, both of us lost in our thoughts. Occasionally a small car or someone on a moped would shove us back onto the “sidewalk” that was barely wide enough for one person, but for the most part, we had the cobbled street to ourselves. After checking his map a few more times (and making a couple of wrong turns), Eric eventually guided me up a large hill switch-backing up several wide, winding concrete staircases, until we found ourselves on top of the city.

“Look familiar?” he asked as we reached a large expanse of concrete surrounded by pillared stone railings.

I examined what looked like a glorified parking lot, dotted around the perimeter with a few cars and some closed stands. “Ah…should it?”

Eric smiled, then turned me around.

It was like looking at a postcard.

“Holy shit.” I strode to the edge of one of the railings to look out.

It was Florence. But not the Florence I’d been staying in for the past week. It was the Florence of a million Instagram posts, of thousands of landscapes, of countless movies. Balancing my hands on the wide stone rail, I stared out at the cityscape, taking in the familiar muddy line of the Arno, the bridges I’d crossed so many times, the towering battlements of the Palazzo Vecchio, the massive cupola of the San Lorenzo Basilica, plus countless other landmarks I’d come to know.

On the other side of the piazza flowed Tuscany, now a bit browner than more popular photos would suggest, with leafless trees and fields left to rest for the winter. But beautiful nonetheless, dotted with villas and even larger buildings, and rows of tall cypresses guarding the hills. I sighed. Yes, this was worth the walk, for sure.

When I turned back around, I found Eric standing at the edge of the railing, staring out at the city too.

“Was this someone’s castle once?” I asked.

He started as if he’d just realized I was there. “What? Oh, no. It was built in the nineteenth century, I think. As a meeting place, like a city center, and supposedly to showcase replicas of Michelangelo’s work.” He gestured toward a bronze statue that was indeed a replica of the David.

I looked back toward the city with him. “It seems like it would be a good place for a castle where a feudal lord could survey his holdings. The city in one direction, farmland in the other. You can see everything at once.”

Eric looked down at me with a hint of a smile. “I don’t think there was ever a king here, though. Florence was founded by the Roman empire. And then it was a mercantile city. Right?”

I shrugged. I wasn’t exactly well-versed in Italian history. “My argument stands. Even if this wasn’t a king’s landing, it would have been a good one.”

“Mmmm.”

There it was again, that noncommittal shrug.

But it couldn’t be denied, as I looked at him. Even with the bad dye job, Eric couldn’t hide what he was any better than when he was in law school. He was kind. He was humble. But something else practically dripped off every inch of that strong, dignified posture. It was in the lines of his nose, cheekbones, the tip of his chin. Entitlement, some might have called it. But I saw something else: nobility.

“What?” he asked when he caught me looking at him. He smirked. “What are you thinking, pretty girl?”

But I wasn’t in the mood to flirt.

I pushed a few strands of windblown hair out of my face. “I want to know when you’re going to stop being such a damn chicken and really take what’s yours.”

All signs of amusement disappeared. “What?”

I licked my lips, trying to think. “You were a prince, Eric. And now you’re a king. But you still act like a scared peasant.”

His brow furrowed in confusion. “Jane, you don’t know what—”

I stared at my hands. “I don’t know? Okay, fine, I don’t know. But I’m right next to you every night when you wake up shouting because of what Carson did. You’ve told me enough that I can imagine at least some of it. Ten days in a box having your balls swatted? And my picture flashed in front of you on a slideshow, right?”

Eric cast me a suspicious look. “Well…when you put it that way…”

I waved my hands in front of me. “I’m not trying to say it wasn’t horrific. Traumatic. I’m just trying to say it didn’t work”

He nodded slowly. “It didn’t work?”

“Don’t parrot me. You’re not a circus animal. But no, it didn’t. You said so yourself.”

He crossed his arms. “I just said it didn’t work with you. But like you said, I’m acting scared, just like he wants. Fuck, Jane, I am scared. That guy is capable of anything.”

I turned, because the thought had only just occurred to me.

“It didn’t work,” I told him, “because you’re here with me. All he wanted to do was make you hate me. Make you want to stay away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t, could you?”

Eric’s hands fell to his sides, allowing me to put my hands in his pockets and pull him close.

“It didn’t work,” he repeated again, this time with a slight smile.

“No, my king,” I said, only half playfully. “It did not.”

“Your…” He shook his head again, confidence dashed. “Jane…

“Don’t ‘Jane’ me. Not to get all Lion King on you, but in the words of Rafiki, ‘it is time.’ Mufasa’s gone. Scar’s on the loose, and he’s trying to chase you back into the elephant graveyard. Except you’re not a stupid lion cub, you’re a full-grown man, and you belong in New York.”

“I didn’t realize you were such a Disney fan, Lefferts.”

“Don’t change the subject. Time to take your place, Simba.”

“Jane…”

“And don’t take that tone either, like you feel sorry for me for not knowing your reality. Of the two of us, who’s made the biggest effort to learn that Gossip Girl world?”

“What is it you think I’ve been doing every day at DVS?” he burst out. “Needle pointing?”

I snorted. “I’d actually like to see that.”

“I’ve been working,” Eric reiterated. “Doing my best to learn a company I never wanted in the first place.”

“Never?” I countered. “Or just since you thought they killed Penny?”

“Thought?” Eric asked incredulously. “They did. They bullied her until she slit her wrists, Jane! I know you want to think my family isn’t so bad, but their avarice and cruelty is the reason we are here alone right now. Meanwhile, half the stockholders at DVS think I’m just a trust fund brat there to fuck up their stock options, and the other half think I’m the devil himself.”

“Are you really telling me there isn’t any part of you that doesn’t like it?” I demanded. “Or was that just an act, the way you would come home and chatter about your day? Tell me this and that about such-and-such deal before I traded the latest gossip from Nina? Was I imagining the way you enjoyed that give-and-take?”

His expression told me I wasn’t. We both remembered those scant, beautiful days before the wedding. Before John “Titan” Carson. A few sweet months where things had seemed to gel.

“But it takes more than just a king to make things happen,” I continued. “The good ones knew their entire courts. You were just getting to know yours, and now you’ve quit and run away.”

Eric shook his head. “This isn’t a monarchy, Jane. I’m not trying to maintain power.”

“Well, maybe you should.”

“What are you saying?”

I stepped up and pulled on his collar, looking for something to do with my hands. “I’m saying you were born for this. You’re running away from the big bad guy like everyone else. But you’re not everyone else. If you just take the time to really understand what is at your disposal—not just the company and the money, but the people, the businesses, the power brokers. John Carson spent plenty on courting politicians last year, but you know what? Your grandmother spent even more. You have thousands of people in your debt, Eric. Learn who, and you’ll be just as big and bad as him.”

Eric pulled me close and set his chin atop my head. It was a protective move, but also one that prevented me from watching that implacable face I was learning to read better and better.

“If I’m a king, does that make you my queen?” he asked finally.

I pulled back. His tone was light, but there was no laughter in his expression.

I pressed my lips together. “Well, that has yet to be decided, hasn’t it?”

That marriage certificate felt like a ticking time bomb, but it wasn’t fair to pressure him about it now. We had enough going on. I also couldn’t blame him if he wasn’t sure about it himself. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

“If I’m a king,” he said quietly, a few minutes later, “it’s because you make me one.”

I snorted. “Right. I’m sure a half-breed bastard child of a trick-turning stewardess is super royal.”

Eric pulled back to look down at me, but there was no joke in his eyes. “You know I don’t like it when you talk about yourself like that.”

“Is any of it untrue?” My words were unnecessarily sharp. Maybe it was because I hadn’t quite come to terms with them myself. After all, I had liked being the daughter of a mild-mannered psychologist and an esthetician.

Be honest, Jane Brain. You never felt quite right in that life anyway,

I sighed. Dad was right even if he was a product of my imagination. I had always felt a little out of place in Chicago. Hell, everywhere. Maybe now I knew why.

“There are a lot of ways to command people,” Eric said. He reached down and took my hand, then slowly pulled off my glove, one finger at a time. “You do it better than anyone I know. You sure as hell command me, gorgeous.”

“Stop,” I whispered. Don’t stop.

“It’s true,” he murmured as his thumb brushed over my knuckles, lingering over my bare ring finger. “I might have the pedigree, Jane, but you’re the one who’s royal.”

Then, before I could reply, his broad hands wrapped around my waist and lifted me suddenly to sit on the edge of the wall. They remained around the small of my back, keeping me from falling, strong and solid, as much a foundation as he claimed I was for him.

Maybe when we challenged each other, we made each other stronger. Maybe that was what Eric and I really did for one another.

But he didn’t let me say it, instead kissing me. This time he commanded me, with strong lips, strong hands, the kind of kiss that whistles through the air right along with a brisk December wind. The kind that makes you forget that you’re missing a glove on one hand and that no one else in their right mind is standing outside in this kind of chill. He kissed me long and hard and didn’t release me until we were both breathless.

A sudden gust of wind sent a shiver down my spine, even under my thick wool coat. Eric held me close, shivering right along with me.

“I think,” he said, “that maybe it’s a little too cold for a picnic. Would you agree?”

I sighed, then nodded. We could always use our food from the market for dinner on the train.

“We passed a couple of good cafes on the way here,” I said. “Why don’t we get our fill of pasta while we can?”

Eric nodded, seemingly relieved that I was letting go of our previous topic of conversation. And I would, of course. But only for now.