Entangled (A Tryst Novel) (13 page)

“I’ve got you.”

All I remember is collapsing into his arms, trying to concentrate on calming my trembling nerves, and remembering to breath.

Skyler

My body is being shuffled up straight as I come to, and the feeling of stable ground beneath my feet pulls me to my center as I get a grip on my limbs. Gio’s hands grasp my arms, but he keeps me at arm’s length as he stares at me.

I gulp down the look in his eyes. They spark erratically, half in sympathy and half in fear, waking me up. His features are strikingly beautiful. I feel like an instant burden. I shouldn’t be here like this.

I can feel the water beginning to well up in my eyes, and as if to tear myself away from the agony of staring at the silent Italian man, my eyes dart to the door, considering escape.

“Skyler,” he says sharply, causing my eyes to be pulled to his. “I don’t want you going anywhere. It’s going to be okay. Let me get you some dry clothes.”

He lets go of me, walking down the hall behind me, leaving me alone. I take a step into the expansive room that I remember from before, except this time it looks hospitable. What was once a studio workspace is now a home. My brows knit together as I take in the mismatched surroundings. The furniture is contemporary and bright in some areas, but also dark and antique in others. I get the sinking feeling Gio is more eccentric than I give him credit for.

Gio returns, and I notice his feet are bare as he pads toward me, wearing linen pants that hang from his masculine hips. Since I am the one currently wearing his sweater, the white undershirt, formfitted to his broad chest, gives me the ability to just barely make out the toned physique underneath it, and it has me speechless. His features are wider and larger than the ones I’m so familiar with, so the sight is a bit bewildering, yet annoyingly body-squirming.

With an embarrassingly knowing smile, he hands me a shirt and a pair of shorts.

“I didn’t have much that would fit you. I make my assistants take all of the clothes with them after a shoot.”

I shrug, not caring for an explanation, but feeling like I need to give my own. “Gio, I—”

“No, no,
bella
. Relax. Go change, and then we’ll talk. I understand as much as I need to up to this point.”

His kind smile, devoid of judgment, has me in awe. Such simple words that mean so much.

I turn on my heel, mentally repeating back his words as I pretend to know where I’m going.
 
I understand as much as I need to up to this point.
 
I can’t get over that.

Lucky for me an open door revealing a large modern bathroom catches my eye across the living room. I stride toward the door, feeling heavy with the wet clothes and my thoughts.

With Gio’s clothes in my arms, and three steps in, I see a series of magazines on the coffee table. I stop dead in my tracks, spotting the newest issue of
People
magazine under the
Vogue
that lies on top.

Jason’s irreversible words thrum through my mind like sharp notes on a piano, each cringe-worthy and abrupt.

“They know your name, where you go to school . . . I never figured you for the girl in the spotlight . . .”

Without permission, I grab for the magazine even though I know Gio is watching my every move, I don’t offer an excuse for my action, and instead scurry to the bathroom with it.

When the door closes I turn around to lay the magazine on the counter. I’m not ready to face it so immediately, but I eye it as if it might bite. I want to believe that Jason was wrong. That he was just trying to get a rise out of me. However, my mind can’t rationalize why he would do that in the first place. Although he has misplaced wants and needs, I honestly believe that Jason was just speaking from his dark, irrational heart, as stupid as that might sound.

I gulp at the thought, peeling Gio’s sweater and my soaked tank top from my body, looking at my arm in the reflection of the large oval mirror above the sink, thinking that Jason’s fingerprints will surely show up as faint bruises. The idea of having to explain the marks to Blake is staggering, and I know his freak-out is a guarantee. I want Blake to care, and that reaction would admittedly be preferable, but I don’t want to distract him from his already chaotic life.

Thinking of Blake has my heart clenching. I frantically grab for my phone, tucked away in my sports bra. I call him, eager to hear his voice, but as the phone rings, I realize that I don’t know how to explain myself if he answers. I hold my breath, unsure of what I want out of the call other than to hear Blake’s confident voice, thinking I could feed off of it. The rings soon switch over to his voice mail. I savor the sound of the first few words of the recording but quickly hang up. I toss my phone onto the counter next to the magazine.

Just breathe.

I grab for Gio’s navy pinstripe dress shirt and pull it over my body, buttoning it up my torso, basking in the soft, dry cotton. I glare at the last article of clothing waiting for me. I grab for his navy boxer briefs, and think it’s highly inappropriate to be wearing a piece of his underwear. Actually, I know it’s wrong. I sigh, reaching for my own shorts, knowing that these are too wet to endure, and that asking for a regular pair of his shorts that will most likely fall off of me will only cause a slew of different problems.

I roll my eyes, thinking I need to get over myself as I take off my shorts and pull on the briefs. Gio is just trying to accommodate the sewer rat that showed up on his doorstep. The sewer rat being me.

I look into the mirror again for confirmation, and I’m horrified by my frizzy hair, and yesterday’s makeup dripping off my face. I guess I’m not here to impress anyone, and none of it should matter.

I tug at the hair tie in my hair, letting the damp, stringy waves fall around my face. I shrug, feeling that I have nothing to lose when it comes to Gio and grab for his comb on the counter, brushing through my tangles. I can’t imagine him caring, but I know this might teeter on rude. I don’t want to seem careless. I just look like a disaster.

After combing out the last knot, I move to satisfy the rest of my vanity and lean over the sink to wash my face. The raccoon look that I have going doesn’t suit me. I reach for a towel, wiping my face, and drying the rest of my hair. This time when I look in the mirror I don’t feel like such a hot mess.

I toss my clothes into his bathtub, mostly as a frustrated gesture rather than a form of rational thought, and I finally confront the item glaring back up at me from the gray tile. The magazine.

My nausea creeps back into my gut, and it leaves an acidic burn as my eyes focus on my hand coming up to turn to the only section that I could possibly appear in. I mean, there was a time when I would read this magazine from front to back, soaking in the life of others that I enjoyed observing from afar. The idea of myself somehow slipping onto the pages feels like a cruel joke, but as soon as the thought crosses my mind, the photo of Blake and me sitting in that high-rise restaurant that was supposed to be the setting of our first real date meets my eyes.

My mouth falls slack at the candidness of the photo. There are two, actually. This one is of our profiles, smiling back at one another with a bottle of wine between us, and even from this angle I can remember Blake’s suggestion of spontaneity with that trademark half smile. My heart seizes in my chest, conflicted with admiring the photo and angry that someone was there to take the moment away from us like this, cheapening it by putting it here. My anger only grows when I see that the second photo is a shot of the back of Blake’s glorious figure, and my arms obviously tangled around him before the elevator doors close with our abrupt departure.

The caption reads like a terrible personal ad.
 
Actor Blake Everett with girlfriend, premed student Skyler Silva. While Blake begins filming, Skyler attends UCLA. Here we see the couple sharing tender moments during a night out in Hollywood, California at swanky high-rise restaurant the Horizon.

My insides grind together, and I know I need to walk away from this magazine. I toss it across the counter in disdain, hating it, all of it. Especially combined with not knowing why I feel this way or how to deal with the last hour of my life. If one magazine has this, what do others, or even the Internet, have to say? I cringe at the thought.

When I turn to face the door, I’m overwhelmed by my unfortunate choices. Facing Gio feels hard all of a sudden.

I shake my head, pulling in a deep breath, forcing myself to move forward. I’ll just stay for an hour, and then call a cab so I don’t seem ungrateful. That seems legit. Then I’ll be on my way.

When I enter the living room, Gio is back to wearing clothes, and I feel a bit more relaxed. Good-looking men make me nervous, no matter who they are. This charismatic Italian’s résumé doesn’t help, either.

He tugs down his crewneck, faded red sweater, smiling as I enter. “How’s my
bella
?”

I gift him with an honest smile as I sit across from him on the large white couch, sinking into the plush cushions, liking the feeling of the soft, worn canvas against my bare legs. “I’m much better. Thank you. You don’t know what you saved me from.”

His lips falter. “I have some idea. Did he hurt you?”

I wonder how close Jason was behind me as the blood drains from my face. “Um, no.” I take a short inhale. “Not really.”

“He kept running right past the house, if you’re curious.” He says solemnly, testing each word.

“I’m not curious,” I reply curtly.

Gio’s calculated eyes shoot briefly to my upper arm, which I wasn’t aware I was rubbing with my right hand. I stop, trying to steer the conversation.

“I’m sorry I showed up unannounced. I know we’re supposed to meet next week.”

He leans back into the couch. “A surprise visit from you is all I could hope for. We could do the shoot now?”

I wrinkle my nose, but can’t fight my smile. “No, Gio. I don’t think I can do it right now. I’m too—”

“Raw? If you’d let me, I can really capture that. I wish I could somehow explain to you why you’re so fascinating to me. I think the only way is to show you.”

I most definitely feel like a science experiment, especially with his stare pinned to me, like a beam of desert sunshine. I do like the way he stares at me, even though it makes me fidget. I don’t understand the look, but the more I get used to it, the more I’m willing to accept it. I don’t feel in danger, or even like a piece of meat. I simply feel appreciated.
 
How does he do that?

A whistling kettle echoes from the kitchen down the hall. A giggle squeezes its way through my lips as I watch Gio rise from his seat.

“Why are you laughing?” Gio asks, perplexed.

I exhale, sinking further into the couch, turning my chin up toward him. “You’re just so . . . weird.” The idea of a homely Gio with a tea kettle borders on hilarious.

“Weird?” he repeats back with an obvious accent and bitterness toward the word. I understand. It’s simply a word too plain for him. He’s much grander than his eccentricities.

More laughs emerge. “No, I mean, you just surprise me the more I get to know you. Who still owns tea kettles? What are you? A fifties housewife or a world-famous photographer?”

This time his laughter only ignites more of mine, and the sound makes him glow. The want to just be in his presence is palpable. It must be the normal effect he has on people, and what I assume only helps his success. People are drawn to Giovanni Vigilucci. Period.

“I’m all sorts of things,
bella
. I’m multi-talented, and with characteristics that range through the ages.”

I huff as I digest his words, watching him walk out of the room.
 
Who says those types of things?

He returns with a large white mug, handing it off to me. “Thank you,” I whisper, inhaling the citrus scent steaming from it.

“You’ve been out in the rain,” he says, “and before you run off on me, I feel it necessary to provide you with tea to avoid illness. At least I can clear my conscience with that.” He sips his tea as he sits, his eyes on me, and I think he’s trying to hide his grin.

It’s his form of joking, and I don’t know how it gets me to want to laugh every time when I don’t even find it that funny.

Gio begins telling me about his day, as if to get me to relax further, filling the silence, and I welcome easier topics of general chitchat.

I curl my body around the cup of tea, absorbing the heat from the ceramic through my frigid fingertips. Even cozy in Gio’s shirt, I wonder if I’ll ever completely warm up.

I like listening to Gio talk. I like the rhythm of his words, especially now when combined with the pitter-patter of the rain outside. My heart slows, and I feel he could talk about anything and I’d listen.

Although my body is still acclimating, I feel safe, and that’s all that matters.

It isn’t until I hear the snapping of a camera that I notice my eyes have lazily drifted closed; I am surely exhausted from the peaks of adrenaline and fear. They fly back open, coming in contact with Gio’s annoyingly charming smile, half hidden by his large camera still held up to his face.

“Gio!” I bark, faking a stern reprimand, trying not to bask in his boyish glee.

“Skyler, humor me,” he begs, hinting at our conversation on this topic before.

Gio tends to not use my name unless he’s really trying to get my attention. I bring the tea up to my lips, savoring the lemony steam against my face as I stare into his eager eyes. He doesn’t bother being patient enough for a response.

“I want to play a game, and you don’t even have to do anything.”

I take a final sip before placing the mug on the concrete coffee table, the thud echoing between us. “What kind of game?”

He scoots his chair closer, brushing a soft wave of my hair away and placing it strategically around my face. “A word association game. I say something, a word or a phrase, and all you have to do is let me take a picture of you in that moment.”

My brows scrunch together, which only has his lips bashfully stretching wider as he watches my every move. “I don’t understand,” I reply.

“I know, but you will.” If I were to guess, he looks almost giddy with anticipation.