Passionate Calanettis. Cara Colter

it was going to be him!

      “I actually like to swim before I eat anything in the morning. This is the perfect time of day for swimming.”

      “It’s not even light out.”

      “I know. That’s what makes it perfect.”

      Whenever he could, Connor had begun every morning of his life for as long as he could remember with a swim. That affinity for the water had, in part, been what made him such a good fit for the SEALs. But when he left the SEALs, it was the only place he had found where he could outrun—or outswim, as it were—his many demons. Despite Justin’s well-meaning advice to take a rest from it, Connor simply could not imagine life without the great stress relief and fitness provided by the water.

      “You’ll wake people up.”

      “Actually, Nico invited me to use the pool at his private garden in the villa, but I’d prefer to swim in the river.”

      “The river? It’s very cold at this time of year.”

      “Perfect.”

      “And probably dangerous.”

      “I doubt it, but I already warned you about men like me and danger.”

      “Yes, you did,” she whispered. “There’s a place on the river where the boys swim in the summer. Would you like me to show it to you?”

      “You aren’t trying to protect me from danger, are you, Isabella?” he asked quietly.

      “That would be a very foolish undertaking, I’m sure,” she said, a little stain that confirmed his suspicions moving up her cheeks. “It’s hard to find, the place where the boys swim. That’s all.”

      “Yes, please, then, show it to me,” he heard himself saying, though he had no doubt he could find good places to swim all by himself. He didn’t want to hurt her pride. “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

      And so he found himself, with dawn smudging the air, painting the medieval skyline of Monte Calanetti in magnificence, walking down twisting streets not yet touched by the light beside Isabella to the river.

      And enjoying the pink-painted splendor of the moment way more than he had a right to.

      * * *

      Isabella contemplated what moment of madness had made the words slip from her mouth that she would show Connor the way to the river. By getting up so early, she’d been trying to avoid him this morning.

      Instead, she was walking through the still darkened streets of Monte Calanetti with him by her side.

      And despite the pure madness that must have motivated her invitation, she would not have withdrawn it had she been given a chance. Because that moment, of unguarded impulse, had led to this one.

      It was unexpectedly magical, the streets still dim, the brilliance of the dawn that was staining the sky above them not yet reaching into the cracks and crevices of the town. The occasional light was blinking on in the houses and businesses they passed.

      Isabella was intensely aware of how it felt to have this man walk beside her. He was so big, his presence commanding. He had gone back up to his room for a moment, and when he came down he carried a small black bag and had a white towel strung around his neck.

      He had a way of walking—shoulders back, stride long and confident and calm—that gave a sense that he owned the earth and he knew it. Isabella had never felt unsafe in Monte Calanetti, but she was aware, walking beside him, of feeling immensely protected.

      “I can’t believe the light,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

      “It’s part of what makes Tuscany famous, that quality of light. Artists throng here for that.”

      “How would you say this in Italian?” he said, making a sweeping gesture that took in everything—the amazing light and the twisting streets, still in shadows, dawn beginning to paint the rooflines in gold.

      She thought a moment. Wasn’t this exactly what she had longed to do and had decided was dangerous? The morning was too beautiful to fight with herself, to be petty about what she would and wouldn’t give. She would give him a few words, nothing more.

      “In tutto il suo splendore,” Isabella said.

      He repeated it, rolling the words off his tongue. Mixed with his drawl and the deepness of his voice, it was very charming.

      “And the translation?” he asked her.

      “In glory.”

      “Ah,” he said. “Perfect.”

      After that neither of them attempted conversation, but the quiet was comfortable between them as they moved down the narrow streets. It gave a sense of walking toward the light as they left the last of the buildings behind and followed the road past the neat row of vineyards that followed the undulating green of the hills.

      “There it is,” she said, finally, pointing at the ribbon of river that had become visible up ahead of them. “When you come to the bridge, turn right and follow the river. You’ll see a tire suspended on a rope where the boys swim.”

      “Thank you. Grazie.”

      “You’re welcome.” She should have turned back toward the town, but she did not. She recognized a reluctance to leave the simple glory of this moment behind. He must have felt that, too.

      “Come with me.” His voice was husky.

      Come with him? Where?

      “Swimming?” she asked. Her voice felt very squeaky. It felt as if he had asked something far graver. To tangle their lives together, to follow the thread of magic that had led them through the town in the enchanted light of early morning.

      When he said nothing, she rushed to fill the silence. “I couldn’t possibly. I don’t know how to swim. The water will be cold. I—I—I don’t have proper bathing wear.”

      “Don’t come this far and not at least put your feet in the water.”

      It felt as if he was saying something else altogether. He was inviting her to wake up instead of sleeping. He was inviting her to really live instead of going through the motions of living.

      “I have to tell you a little secret,” she confessed. “I’ve never learned to swim because I am a little bit afraid of the water.”

      “All the more reason to say yes instead of no,” he said.

      It occurred to her Connor Benson was that kind of man. Being with him would challenge you to be more than you had been before. She had always been perfectly content with who she was before!

      “Maybe another time,” she said uneasily.

      “Putting your feet in the water is the first step to swimming, to overcoming that fear.”

      “It’s not as if it’s a crippling fear—it’s not as if it changes my life,” she said defensively, already sorry she’d confided in him that she was afraid.

      “Fear can be a gift,” he said, his voice calm and low. “It can show you that you are in very real danger. But an irrational fear can change your life in ways you don’t even understand. If you give in to it, it can expand. So, one day you’re afraid of swimming, the next you’re afraid of everything.”

      Did he see her as afraid of everything? And how much truth was there in that? She looked at the safe little world she had created for herself. Maybe, even if it was annoying, maybe he was right. She needed to stretch just a tiny bit out of her comfort zone.

      What would it hurt to get her feet wet?

      “All right,” she whispered, and was rewarded with a tentative smile. The smile put the dawn to shame and warned her exploring new territories and experiences was always going to be fraught with hidden dangers.

      That’s