CHAPTER 79: A COLORFUL FRIENDSHIP
CHAPTER 79: A COLORFUL FRIENDSHIP
LUCA
We stand in awkward silence while a paint-covered and obviously miffed Henrik puts up a tarp on the car seat so Kristian and I can sit without staining the leather.
I washed most of the paint from my face and arms, but drying paint still makes it uncomfortable to make basic facial expressions.
Kristian sits as far from me as the leather seats allow. His once-pristine suit now looks like a fashion disaster, and I'm certain I must look even worse. He has his head tilted back and his eyes closed, but I know he's not sleeping.
“You've got…” I gesture to my cheek. His eyes fly open at the sound of my voice.
He swipes at his cheek with a ruined sleeve, only smearing the pigment further. “Better?”
“Worse. Come here.”
I reach out before thinking, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. His breath hitches. The car hits a bump, and my knuckles graze his lower lip.
Giovanni clears his throat from the front seat.
I retreat, and Kristian turns to stare out the window, his neck flushed.
The tension between us is getting nearly unbearable.
When we get to the Palazzo, we're immediately ushered inside, but Gio pulls me aside while the rest of the envoy escorts Kristian.
“Your mother would like to see you in her office.”
I have a deep sigh. I know the lecture will come, but this is a little too soon even for her.
“Gio, I look like unicorn vomit, respectfully. Tell her I'm tired or something. I've been out all day. You know as well as anybody that I cannot face her like this."
He gives me an apologetic look. “I tried everything already. She said I should bring you as you are. She's very intent on seeing you.”
I give him a tight smile. I knew there would be consequences when I threw paint at Kristian, but I didn't think it would be so bad that I'd be subjected to a scolding as soon as I set foot in the Palazzo.
I let Gio march me to my mother’s office, resisting the urge to drag my feet. Isabella Romano is a petite woman, but when she sits behind her mahogany desk, coupled with the view of Rome from the floor-to-ceiling windows, she looks larger than life.
Her hair, usually wrapped in a bun, has been left to fall down her back, reaching the middle of her waist. She's in a silk blouse, dress pants, a string of pearls, and, of course, Crocs for her private office. She's objectively the most stunning woman I know.
She's reviewing a bunch of documents, looking down through her glasses. My mother has no spatial awareness when she's working, and she hates knocks because they can be distracting. She doesn't even notice us come in.
But when Gio clears his throat, she looks up, and her expression softens at the sight of us. I brace myself for the inevitable lecture. The words play in my mind before she even speaks, retrieved from my expansive memory of scolding sessions.
“You are reckless.” “That behavior is undignified for someone of your status.” “You are unfit for the honor of this position.” “Do you forget who you are?” “You have disgraced me today.”
Instead of saying any of the things I expect her to, she merely extends her tablet and gives me a small smile.
“Read.”
The Prince And The Scion: A Colorful Friendship
Beneath it, there is a photo of Kristian and I mid-paint war that I want to frame and keep forever. Kristian is laughing as yellow paint drips from his hair, my hand is tangled in his shirtfront, and a glob of blue paint is trapped between his hand and my cheek. We look happy.
I blink. “This is...favorable,” I say cautiously, my surprise showing through my voice.
“‘Favorable’ is an understatement. We've received a glowing review from the top newspaper in the country. Her nail taps the screen. “The world loves a redemption arc. The icy prince and the reckless scion, finding common ground.” She gives me a smile that lights up her eyes. “This is brilliant, Luca; play into it.”
Her words are a command subtly veiled as a suggestion. I give her a small nod, and she goes back to reviewing her documents. “I just wanted to tell you, good job. I'd love to chat for a bit, but can we do that later? These are pressing.”
“Of course, Mamma,” I say, already turning to the door.
As soon as it closes behind me, I break into a run, abandoning all appearances of decorum. Gio yells something at me, but I don’t listen. I'm on cloud nine, and there’s only one place I want to be right now.
Kristian’s door is slightly ajar when I get to his room.
I knock once, but I don't get an answer. All I hear is the sound of running water.
Bad idea. Terrible idea.
I step inside and shut the door behind me.
The ensuite bathroom door is open, steam curling from the shower into the bedroom. Kristian is in the doorway, standing with his back to me. He's wearing just his briefs, his shirt half-peeled over his shoulders, revealing the pale expanse of his spine streaked with violet and green and blue. The paint seeped through our clothes down to our skin.
He freezes when the floor creaks. “Henrik, I told you—”
“Not Henrik.” My voice comes out hoarse.
He turns to face me, and my brain short-circuits, all my blood rushing south.
Cristo.
He's covered in paint of various colors, ranging from light to violent brush strokes. It drips from his collarbones, smears across his abdomen, and disappears down the sides of his hips into the band of his briefs. He looks like art—a walking, talking, breathing embodiment of art.
The towel in his hand falls from his face and hits the floor with a wet slap.
We stare at each other. The air between us grows so thin, all my breaths come out ragged. I leave my place by the door and slowly make my way towards him.
I urge my brain to start talking. Words will break this tension—we could discuss the article, my mother, or the outreach.
But all I can focus on is how his throat moves when he swallows. Besides, my words will probably come out wrong.
I step closer, and Kristian shifts back till I have him pinned between my body and the wash basin.
His voice is a tight, strained sound. “Luca—”
I can’t help myself; I kiss him.
Cristo (Italian)- Christ