Another speedboat races past, and with a stroke of genius, I ask him if he’s been to Italy before.

“No.”

One word, and no question in return.

If not for the fact that he invited himself on this walk, I would assume he didn’t want to be here.

Our feet crunch the gravel as we follow the path away from the lake, up along a line of hedges. My skin prickles at the absolute silence that blankets us. Is he thinking of how badly this walk is going, or is his mind on something else?

Again, I can’t seem to decide where my hands belong. Clasped at my back? Wrapped around my waist? Hanging loose and limp at my sides?

It’s unbearable.

We make it up the hedge line, and I suddenly stop. Royce does too, looking back at me expectantly.

“You know what? I just realized I promised my grandmother I’d help her finish unpacking.”

Never mind that this is a total lie.

Royce nods. “Of course. I can escort you back to the villa.”

Dear god no.

“It’s all right. You continue your walk. It’s such a nice day, I wouldn’t want to ruin it for you.”

His brows furrow as if he’s slightly disappointed.

“I’ll come retrieve you and your grandmother for dinner then.”

“Sounds good.”

One more tight smile, then I offer him a weird reverential bow like I’m one of the servants up in the villa before I turn and flee.

Chapter Fifteen

Lainey

Later that evening, I’m sitting in my dressing robe on the chaise lounge at the foot of my grandmother’s bed, watching her get ready.

She’s already in her dinner dress, a rich dark green caftan she’s paired with absolutely massive emeralds dangling from her ears. The stones tug on her earlobes, only emphasizing the carat weight. She’s studying her tubes of lipsticks, having arranged them just as neatly as she does at home.

“When you were engaged to my grandfather, were the two of you good friends?” I ask.

All afternoon I’ve been mulling over my walk—or sort-of walk—with Royce. It’s obvious that something feels off, but I’ve been trying to pinpoint what exactly is bothering me about it. I thought I’d accepted the betrothal for what it is, so what does it matter if he and I can hold a conversation or not? So what if I’m not overly comfortable in his presence? It makes no difference.

“Your grandfather was never a nice man, even less so when he’d had a bad day at the office.”

She lifts a gold tube of Yves Saint Laurent lipstick. It’s a dark berry shade I always love on her. She holds it up, and I nod my approval. She uncaps it and leans toward the mirror to swipe it on.

“So the two of you didn’t get along? Not even in the beginning?”

Her assessing eyes meet mine in the mirror. “It wasn’t a love match, if that’s what you’re hunting for.”

“So you married him for money?”