“I always told you, boys,” Nonna says looking to me, Topher, and Matty. “La Famiglia Limone è forte!”
Matty flexes a bicep and Topher says, “Let’s goooooo!” but I’m struggling.
Ricky places a hand delicately on my back, and together we walk to a secluded spot, tucked away from the prying eyes of the Coven and our families.
I take a deep breath and feel the air coat my lungs as we take in the stunning views.
“You okay?” he asks.
I clear my throat and shake off these feelings as best I can. “I could totally move here and work as a lemon farmer.” I nod toward two workers clad in jeans in thick work boots in the blistering sun scaling the terraces and carrying baskets of the mutant lemons.
Ricky laughs heartily. “You have many strengths, Fielder Lemon, but manual labor? Not one.”
“Burn, and touché, but also how dare you?” I laugh and shift my body until we’re parallel leaning against the railing.
Neither of us move, not consciously anyway.
My mouth is dry, so I lick my lips, and his eyes travel down to watch me do so.
Following his lead, I study the balls of his cheeks, the scruff dotting his jawline, the way his plump lips part.
Our feet move us toward one another until I can feel his breath.
Though we aren’t touching, it’s as if his arms are wrapped around my back, putting just the right amount of pressure to lure me into his web.
Ricky’s big, beautiful brown eyes with flecks of green like the sea in the sunlight plead. As I drink him in, his smell is intoxicating—cedar and oak, woodchips with a hint of his favorite Dove “clean comfort” deodorant.
One slight touch of his pinkie against mine on the railing and I shiver.
“I almost missed you two!” Niccolò exclaims, shattering our moment.
Ricky steps backward.
Niccolò’s holding what looks like a regular-sized lemon, but it’s rounder and has more of an orange hue. He holds his paring knife and quickly slices through its skin, juice bursting from its seams. “I was telling the group that we’ve also had some happy accidents. We also grow oranges here, and the way the trees are planted and the rich volcanic soil sometimes accidentally breed, how you say, hybrids?” He nods to Topher and Sienna, a Lemon and a DeLuca. “A marriage between the lemon and the orange, a dazzling pairing that creates a most intriguing flavor.”
Ricky and I hold our cuts.
“Salute!” Ricky says and takes a bite.
“What does it taste like?” I ask him.
“Possibility.”
Hundreds of lemons drip from the overhead terraces as we tour the rest of the groves, winding through endless trees and againststone walls. Lemons of all shapes and sizes and seasons. Some that will never reach full maturity in time and will have to be pruned, some that fell and rotted away, and some that look so ripe and juicy and full I resist the urge to pick them off their stems.
Tucked away behind trees are colonies of bees in wooden boxes full of juicy honeycombs from the citrus flowers. Niccolò explains how the bees are vital in their farming efforts, though, again, the constantly changing climates—colder, longer winters and hotter summers, extreme droughts followed by heavy rainfall in the autumn months—threatens them, too.
When we finally reach the outdoor kitchen near the end of the tour—a sprawling restaurant-esque area with a terracotta tile floor, hand-carved wooden tables and chairs from local wood that makes Ricky drool (and ask a billion questions about local artisan woodworkers), and more lemon trees filling up every available space—Niccolò tells us that the Avello family chefs (his mother and wife) are hard at work preparing traditional Campa-nia dishes, handmade fettucine made from the Amalfi lemon, fresh-caught fish, lemon tiramisu, lemon wine, and of course limoncello in the state-of-the-art facility set into the rock on the far side of the patio.
I record everything, capturing the magic of the Avello farm as best I can.
Then, Niccolò clasps his hands together and exclaims, “My boy!”
We all turn to see one of the most gorgeous guys I’ve ever seen—he looks like a younger Niccolò, tall and tanned olive skin kissed by the gods. Face like theDavidcarved by Michelangelohimself, with cheekbones for days and hazel eyes that sparkle in the sun. He smirks, and I hear Monroe gasp.
Tyler glances at her, clearly jealous.
“Sorry, but wow,” Monroe says.
