Viviana - chapter 3
Twenty-six years ago...
I wandered through the city, savouring my usual Friday treat: a strawberry gelato in a cone. But this Friday was different. This was my first Friday out of high school, my first real taste of adulthood.
Turning eighteen last year had been one thing, but finishing high school made it all sink in—I was an adult now, an adult who had to start making my own decisions.
Walking the streets during the day felt liberating compared to being cooped up in stuffy classrooms with other rich kids flaunting their latest birthday gifts from indulgent parents.
Despite the slight trepidation coursing through my veins with this newfound autonomy, there was a swirl of excitement in the pit of my stomach.
As I crossed the bridge over the Tiber River, I paused to admire its blue depths and the way the sunlight danced on its surface.
Lost in the moment, a pair of shoes suddenly obstructed my view, startling me as they crossed on the balustrade.
"Perbacco
!" I gasped, looking up to see a blonde-haired guy smiling down at me.
"Hey," he chuckled, his blue eyes twinkling in the sunlight.
My heart raced, and my hands grew clammy as I took in the sight of this reckless guy balancing on the balustrade.
"What are you doing up there? Get down!" I demanded.
"Why? Are you scared?" He shifted his weight to one foot, standing like a flamingo on the precipice.
I felt a chill run through me. Even in school, my classmates called me a fraidy cat, but unlike them, I understood the value of self-preservation.
"Stop messing around. You could get yourself killed," I tried to reason with him.
A deep laugh rumbled in his chest as he shook his head.
"I'm not going to get myself killed, silly girl," he said with a slight German accent.
"Get down," I insisted, my tone sharper.
He started walking along the edge again, arms spread out like a bird about to take flight.
"Tell you what," he said, looking straight ahead, "give me your ice cream, and I'll get down."
My eyes flicked to the half-eaten treat in my hand before flicking back to him. "Sure, whatever," I held it out, and he swiped it from my grasp.
True to his word, he hopped off the balustrade, landing on the cobbled bridge with a clack of his shoes. He brought the gelato to his lips, which parted almost too attractively.
"Mmm," he groaned, a sound that set my body tingling. "You Italians make delicious ice cream."
"Gelato is actually very different from ice cream," I corrected in a squeaky voice.
The corner of his mouth turned up in an effortless smirk. "Looks the same to me."
I tried to swallow back the butterflies in my stomach.
"It has a lower fat content than ice cream, and we usually make it with fresh ingredients," I stammered a far too detailed response.
He chuckled, that delightful rumble resonating again. "Fine, little miss technical. But it tastes the same to me, only better," he shrugged.
As he took another big lick from the cone, his eyes flicked to mine before raking over my figure, particularly my wide hips.
"Tell me," he said, moving closer, "does everything in Italy taste this good?"
I tried to ignore the suggestive nature of his words, not wanting him to get under my skin too easily.
"Italy has some of the best food in the world. You should try real pizza, not the commercial stuff."
His tongue slid over his lower lip as his eyes flicked between mine. "Are you inviting me to have pizza with you, cutie?"
My cheeks heated up, and the butterflies became even more frantic. "I-I..."
"Because I'd enjoy that very much," he said, silencing me as he placed a finger on my lips.
Sitting awkwardly across from the gorgeous German I fidgeted with the salt shaker. It was hard to ignore the way his eyes seemed to be constantly judging and scrutinizing my every mo
ve.
We were one of the only teenagers at the restaurant which was mostly filled with families; their kids running around and jabbering.
I leaned across the table to set the salt shaker down, causing my t-shirt to dip a little which immediately caught his attention and made me blush
I shook my head vigorously to fight off the blush which caused him to chuckle.
"What's wrong? Mosquito bothering you?" He smirks.
"N-No, no. It's nothing," The words tumble from my mouth.
He leaned forward and spoke in a conspirtal tone, "I'm not sure if it's because you're full or if you don't like the food you seemed to be praising so highly."
I looked down and saw that he was referring to my untouched pizza which was probably cold by now.
"Oh, it just slipped my mind," I reach for a slice and shove it into my mouth.
Cold
He leans back and crosses his arms over his muscular chest which perfectly complimented his lean, athletic body, "You forgot about food? You've got to get your priorities straight cutie."
My cheeks tinged pink and I nervously shoved another slice of pizza down my throat.
He placed his elbows on the table with an oafish thud and cradled his chin in his hands, "So, what do you Italians do for fun? I'm sure not everyone is a fraidy cat like you who can't even let a guy balance on a bridge in peace."
"I'm not a fraidy cat, I'm cautious," I mumble with my mouth full.
He scoffed playfully, "You were basically on your knees begging me to come down."
I swallow, "That's because you were being dumb. Who honestly walks on the balustrade of a bridge?"
"Well, when you're a backpacker travelling to Italy for three days. You need some cheap thrills, cutie."
I shove another slice into my mouth, "So you're just broke and crazy?"
"Maybe I am. I'm assuming that you're rich and boring?" He raises a curious eyebrow.
I pick up my glass of juice to help me swallow the frozen slice of pizza, "How'd you know I was rich?"
He gestured to the Gucci sling bag that cut between my breasts.
"Oh," I say sheepishly.
He teased, "I hope you don't mind associating with poor German boys like me."
"O-Of course not!" I respond flusteredly which makes him laugh and my cheeks turn red again.
I grab my tall glass of passion juice and chug it down embarrassedly.
When I set the glass down my cheeks weren't any less red, but I felt a little calmer.
He playfully rolled his eyes, "You Italians are so boring."
"What makes you say that?" I squeaked.
He picks up my empty glass, "Juice? Really? At our age?"
I stammer, "W-Well I'm still getting used to alcohol."
He sets the glass down, pulls a slice from my pizza and chews on it, "I've known how to nurse a hangover since I was sixteen."
My eyes widened in response which sent him off chuckling again.
He stood up from the table, his chair scrapping across the floor and offered me his hand.
"Come and let's really have some fun."
As he extended his hand across the table, my eyes were drawn to it. His knuckles, slightly pronounced, added a rugged charm, while the veins that ran along the back of his hand pulsed with quiet strength.
It was a hand that seemed to promise safety and adventure all at once, a hand that could just as easily cradle something delicate as it could handle something demanding.
I hesitantly took hold of it as he wrapped mine in a firm grip and pulled me up. He tosses a few euros onto the table before striding out of the restaurant and pulling me along with him
His blue eyes narrowed as he scanned the streets bathed in twilight as we walked and even without him saying a word I knew that a million ideas were racing through his mind.
He kept dragging me along as the streetlights started flickering on and shining with a warm glow before his eyes settled on a group of street performers assembling their instruments on the Spanish steps.
His body twisted towards the famous landmark and lugged me up the staircase.
"Hello," he greeted the performers, who smiled briefly and hastened their setup, eager to play a song for him in hopes of earning a few coins.
Here was a place where locals thrived on the naivety of foreigners, conning them into buying overpriced trinkets and souvenirs.
A swarm of vendors surrounded us, each one clamouring for his attention, as they shoved their goods into his face.
He chuckled, seemingly oblivious to their intentions, and naively bought a few knickknacks and a string of beads for me.
Among the trinkets, he also purchased two alcoholic drinks in paper cups and handed one to me.
I took a cautious sip, my nose scrunching as the liquid burned its way down my throat. I still couldn't fathom the appeal of drinking something that tasted so harsh and left such a fiery trail.
"Let's dance," he suddenly said, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
He tugged on my hand causing me to drop my cup which wet the concrete below and pulled me toward the performers who had started strumming a traditional song.
The music was slow and romantic, the kind that would sweep lovers into a dreamlike trance.
I tried to dance on time with the beat, but I never had a good sense of rhythm.
My awkward movements consisted of little more than nodding my head from side to side, feeling self-conscious as I struggled to keep up with the melody.
He, on the other hand, was a natural. With every strum of the twelve-string guitar, his lean body moved gracefully, following the rhythm with a casual ease which caused my inner thighs to tingle.
As the music played on, I couldn't help but continue to admire his effortless grace. He seemed to be in his element, his body swaying fluidly to the music.
His carefree movements contrasted sharply with my stiff, awkward attempts at dancing. He caught my eye and smiled, a warm, encouraging smile that made my heart flutter.
"Just relax," he said, his voice barely audible over the live music, "Feel the rhythm, don't think too much."
I took a deep breath and tried to loosen up a bit. Slowly, my tense shoulders started to ease, letting the music guide my more relaxed body.
My steps became less mechanical, my body swaying more naturally as I focused on the melody rather than my self-consciousness.
He grabbed my hand and spun me around like a princess in a movie. For a moment, I forgot about the vendors, the tourists, and my awkwardness.
We danced together, our movements gradually synchronizing as we found a shared rhythm. His hands were warm and steady, his touch guiding me with gentle assurance.
The performers watched us with amused smiles, their music weaving a magical atmosphere around us and a gentle breeze carrying the scent of summer.
Time seemed to slow down as we danced. The bustling world around us faded into the background, leaving just the two of us, lost in the music and each other.
The buzz of alcohol and the burning sensation in my throat were replaced by a different kind of warmth—a warmth that spread from my chest, filling me with a sense of freedom.
As the song came to an end, we stopped dancing, our breaths mingling in the evening air.
He looked into my eyes, his gaze soft and filled with a mixture of playfulness and tenderness.
I realized then that this moment, this shared dance amidst the chaos of the Spanish Steps, was something special—something I would remember for a long time.
"I'm Viviana Rossi," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, "What's your name?"
"Why do you want to know?" he asked, a curious smile playing on his lips.
"I want to know who to thank for this," I replied, gesturing to the space between us, the connection we had forged in such a short time.
He grinned, his eyes twinkling with unspoken promises. "James Hall," he said, and at that moment, I knew that this was just the beginning of something wonderful.
