Chapter 29
Morgan
Nate and I are holding hands as we stroll across the Ponte Vecchio. We’ve been in Florence for less than a week and my internal clock still isn’t used to the time change. I’m wide awake when I shouldn’t be, and sleepy when I should be wide awake.
I was right about Nate being the best tour guide I could ever have. He knows more than he lets on.
I think he stops himself from saying as much as he wants to say because he doesn’t want to come across as a know-it-all. I told him he’s already a know-it-all, may as well work with it and enlighten me.
This evening was all about bridges, especially the Ponte Vecchio, the only one to survive WWII. Apparently, Hitler liked the view. I guess even monsters can find beauty in something.
As for the artwork, we’ve only seen a fraction of what’s here. There’s too much to take in at once.
Some of it, I fear is taken for granted, because it’s like awestruck overload when you witness pure genius and your brain is too tiny to handle it. Kind of like being around Nate.
Florence is surreal. The tombs of Galileo, Michelangelo, Machiavelli, and Rossini are all in the same basilica. Infamous persons of historical significance, all in one place, like it’s no big deal. Nate had to force me to leave after our fourth lap around to each tomb.
I make a promise to myself to come back, with or without Nate. I want to experience this all over again. It’s kind of like falling in love.
I swear he’s a mind reader because he picks that very moment, as I think about falling in love with him, to look at me. I smile then yawn, which is super-attractive. Nate insists we stop for an expresso.
We sit at a small sidewalk café, talking and enjoying the sights around us. It’s not dark yet, so we can still see the buildings and architecture around us. Most of these buildings are older than the United States of America.
The city is amazing. Small enough to walk around, but filled with so much history that we won’t be able to see everything. Nate said he’d bring me back someday.
I blushed at the implication that we’ll be together long enough to travel to Europe a second time. It’s what I want, too.
We haven’t had much alone time yet. I share a room with the other girls on the trip, and Nate shares with Penny and Drew. Plus, we do have assignments that must be completed.
Our days start early in the hotel, having class right after breakfast. Then Dr. Fishel takes us on an excursion, either in Florence or to a nearby town.
I don’t mind, though. We’re together and enjoying the birthplace of the Renaissance. What more could I want?
Okay, I do want more alone time with him. Without clothing. But it might not happen for a while and I’ll just have to deal.
“Fishel’s giving us the weekend off,” Nate says, leading me in the direction of the hotel. There’s a bar nearby where we like to drink before we turn in the for the night.
“I know. What would you like to do?”
“I’m taking you to Switzerland,” he says, as though it is no big thing.
“What?”
“The country. It borders Italy to the north.”
“I’m aware, smartass.”
“I thought you might like to see it. I booked us a hotel room.”
“Just us?”
Earlier, I had overheard Penny and Drew considering a visit to Switzerland, as well.
“Just us in the hotel room. The guys might tag along for the trip up and back, but I told them I’d be occupied.”
“So, we’re going to Switzerland so you can get laid?” I joke.
“No. So, that we can get laid.”
“You’re terrible.”
“You love it.”
“I do.” Only, I’m talking about something else entirely.
We stop in front of Ghiberti’s Bronze Doors. We walk past them almost every time we leave the hotel, which is just down the street.
Michelangelo called them The Gates of Paradise. They might be my favorite thing to look at, other than the sexy man beside me.
“Fitting, don’t you think?” Nate asks, turning and grabbing my other hand so he now has them both wrapped in his.
“What’s fitting?”
“Making declarations of love in front of The Gates of Paradise.”
My mouth is suddenly very dry. I lick my lips, nervous.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Nate moves into my personal space. It’s cold outside, but I don’t feel it. I only feel the heat radiating off his perfect body. I stare at his chest, too afraid to look up.
“Morgan.”
Just a word. A name. A command. He wants me to look at him, so I do. I’ve never been able to resist him, nor do I want to.
“Never hide what you’re feeling, Morgan.”
I bite my lip. He’s so demanding of me, of what I’m feeling. How about him? How about what he’s feeling?
“I could say the same to you, Nate.”
He grins. “Ah, Monday. I’ve never hidden how in love with you I am. You’ve had me since, well, since August 24th. Since that Monday.”
“But you never said—” I stop as I start to comprehend that he just told me he loves me.
“Nate,” I whisper, teeming with feelings so strong I don’t know if I can speak. A tear slips past my defenses and Nate wipes it away.
“No, no tears. This is a happy occasion.”
Nate wraps his arms around my mid-section and picks me up so we’re at eye level. He kisses me chastely.
“It’s okay to say it, you know. I can take it. I’m a man.”
I slap his shoulder. Damn smart aleck know-it-all.
“I love you. There, are you happy?”
Nate nips my bottom lip and smiles. “Yes. Very.”
He sets me down and puts his mouth to my ear. I love it when he does this.
“I’ll be even happier when you say it while I’m inside you.”
I inhale sharply, picturing it. It’s been weeks since we’ve had sex and it feels like even longer. It’s not like I can touch myself in my hotel room, with three roommates.
Abruptly, he taps my nose, reaches for my hand, and walks me to the bar down the street. As though nothing momentous has just occurred.
“Oh, and I’d really like you to call me Nathaniel.”
“What?”
“The next time we make love. I think I’d like that very much, in fact.”
Nate has started referring to sex as ‘making love’ and I told him to stop being such a girl. Secretly, I thought it was sweet. But it would sound weird if he spoke like that in front of his fraternity brothers.
“You want me to shout out, ‘I love you, Nathaniel?’”
“Yes.”
I chuckle, shaking my head.
“What? Come on, Morgan, work with me here.”
“You don’t think scripting my words is, oh, I don’t know, a little inauthentic?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll mean them. Every. Last. Word.”
Two days later, he proves to me he’s right. Then I smack him for smirking about it. It must be true love.