Mister and Missus By E L James - 13

It takes me a couple of seconds to orient myself, and she screams again.

Fuck.

Alessia.

I fly out of bed as adrenaline fuels my body, bringing all my senses to attention. Punching the lights on in the hall, I burst into her room. Alessia is sitting up in her bed. Her head whips around at the sound and light from the hallway, her eyes wild with terror.

She opens her mouth to scream again.

“Alessia, it’s me, Maxim.”

Her words rush out in a torrent: “Ndihmë. Errësirë. Shumë errësirë. Shumë errësirë!”

What?

I sit down beside her on the bed, and she launches herself at me, nearly knocking me over and wrapping her arms around my neck.

“Hey,” I soothe her once I’ve regained my balance, and I hold her, stroking her hair.

“Errësirë. Shumë errësirë. Shumë errësirë,” she whispers over and over as she clings to me, trembling like a newborn foal.

“English. In English.”

“The dark,” she whispers against my neck. “I hate the dark. It is so dark here.”

Oh, thank fuck.

I’d imagined all manner of horrors and was prepared to fight any number of monsters, but I relax at her words. Keeping one arm around her, I lean over and switch on the bedside light.

“That better?” I ask, but she doesn’t let go. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” I repeat several times.

After a few minutes, her trembling ceases and her body relaxes. She sits back, and her eyes meet mine.

“I am sorry,” she whispers.

“Hush. Don’t worry. I’m here.”

She glances down at my chest, and a slow flush pinks her cheeks.

“Yeah, I normally sleep naked. Count yourself lucky I put these on,” I quip.

Her mouth softens. “I know,” she says, and peeks up at me through her long lashes.

“You know?”

“Yes. You sleep naked.”

“You’ve seen me?”

“Yes.” Her smile is unexpected.

“Well, I’m not sure how I feel about that.” I’m grateful that she’s back from whatever terror she was facing in the dark, but she continues to glance around the room anxiously.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to wake you,” she says. “I was frightened.”

“Was it a nightmare?”

She nods. “And when I open my eyes and it is… it is so dark—” She shivers. “I did not know if I was dreaming or awake.”

“I think that would make anyone scream. It’s not like London here. There’s no light pollution in Trevethick. The dark here is… dark.”

“Yes. Like the—” She stops and cringes in revulsion.

“Like?” I whisper. The teasing amusement in her eyes has vanished, replaced by a harrowed, strained expression. Turning her face away, she stares down at her lap.

I rub her back when I’m met with her silence. “Tell me,” I prompt.

“In the—how do you say— kamion… Truck. In the truck,” she says, suddenly inspired.

I swallow. “Truck?”

“Yes. That brought us to England. It was metal. Like a box. And dark. And cold. And the smell…” Her words are barely audible.

“Fuck,” I say under my breath, and fold her in my arms again. She seems a little more reluctant to hug me this time, probably because I’m shirtless but I’m not going to leave her to face these gruesome nightmares on her own. In one swift movement, I stand, cradling her against my chest.

She gasps in surprise.

“I think you should sleep with me.” And without waiting for a response, I carry her into my room, flick on the lights, and deposit her on the floor beside the walk-in wardrobe. Inside I find the pajama shirt and hand it to her. I point to the en suite. “You can go and change in there. You can’t be comfortable sleeping in your jeans and that school sweater.” I grimace at her green woolen pullover.

She blinks rapidly.

Shit. Perhaps I’ve really overstepped the mark.

And suddenly I feel a little self-conscious. “Unless of course you’d rather sleep alone.”

“I have never slept with a man,” she whispers.

Oh.

“I won’t touch you. This is just sleep—so the next time you scream, I’ll be right there.”

Of course, I’d like to make her scream in a different way.

Alessia hesitates, looking from me to the bed, and her lips purse with what I think is resolve. “I want to sleep here, with you,” she whispers and she marches into the en suite, not shutting the door until she’s found the light switch.

Feeling relieved, I stare at the closed bathroom door.

At twenty-three she’s never slept with a man?

I’m not going to think about that right now. It’s after three in the morning, and I’m tired.

Alessia gazes at her pale face in the mirror. Wide eyes with dark circles beneath them reflect back at her. Taking a deep breath, she shakes off the remnants of her nightmare: she’d been back in the container, but this time without the other girls.

She was alone.

In the dark.

In the cold.

With that smell.

She shivers and strips off her clothes. She’d forgotten where she was until he appeared.

Mister Maxim. Saving her again.

Her own Skënderbeu… Albania’s hero.

He’s making a habit of this.

And she’s going to sleep with him.

He’ll keep her nightmares at bay.

If her father found out, he would kill her. And her mother… she visualizes her mother fainting at the news that Alessia is sleeping with a man. A man who is not her husband.

Don’t think about Baba and Mama.

Her dear, dear mother had sent Alessia to England thinking she was saving her.

She was wrong. So wrong.

Oh, Mama.

For now she is safe with Mister Maxim. She struggles into the pj top, which is too big. She undoes her braid, shakes out her hair, then tries to tame it with her fingers but gives up. Gathering her clothes under one arm, she opens the door.

Mister Maxim’s room is larger and airier than the other bedroom. It’s also off-white, but here the furniture is polished wood, matching the sleigh bed that dominates the room. He is standing on the far side of the bed, and his eyes widen as he studies her. “There you are,” he says, his voice husky. “I was wondering if I should send a search party.”

Her gaze drifts from his startling green eyes to the tattoo on his arm. She has only glimpsed parts of it before, but even from across the room she can see the design.

A two-headed eagle.

Albania.

“What?” He follows her stare and looks down at his tattoo. “Oh. This,” he says. “It’s a folly of youth.” He sounds a little embarrassed, and he frowns, seemingly puzzled by her keen interest. She can’t take her eyes off the ink as she walks toward him. He raises his elbow so she can have a better look.

Inscribed across his biceps is a black shield bearing the image of an ivory two-headed eagle hovering over five yellow circles that are in the shape of an inverted V. Alessia places her clothes on the footstool at the end of the bed and raises her hand to touch his arm, glancing at Maxim for permission.

I hold my breath as she traces the outline of my tattoo, her finger skirting across my skin, her light touch echoing through my body, toward my groin, and I suppress a groan.

“This is the symbol for my country,” she whispers. “The two-headed eagle is on the Albanian flag.”

What are the odds?

I grit my teeth. I’m not sure how long I can bear her touch without reciprocating.

“But not these yellow circles,” she adds.

“There’re called bezants.” I sound really hoarse.

“Bezant.”

“Yes. It represents a coin.”

“In Albanian, we have the same word. Why do you have this tattoo? What does it mean?” Alluring eyes peer up at me.

What can I say?

This is the shield from my family’s coat of arms.

I don’t want to explain my family’s heraldry at three o’clock in the morning. And the truth is, I had the tattoo done to piss off my mother. She hates them… but of the family coat of arms? How could she complain?

“Like I said, a youthful folly.” My eyes stray from her eyes to her lips. I swallow. “It’s too late to discuss this now. Let’s sleep.” I toss back the quilt on the bed and step aside so that she can climb in. She obliges, revealing long, slender legs beneath the pajama shirt that is way too big for her.

This is torture.

“What is this word ‘folly’?” she asks as I walk around the bed. She’s propped herself up on her elbow, and her glorious dark hair falls in a riot of loose waves over her shoulders, past the contour of her breasts, and onto the bedding. She looks gorgeous, and I’m going to have to keep my hands off her.

“ ‘Folly’ in this case means a foolish action,” I say as I join her in bed. I almost snort at the irony of my word definition.

If sleeping next to this beautiful girl isn’t folly, I don’t know what is.

“Folly,” she whispers as she lays her head on the pillow. I dim the bedside light so it glows in the darkness, but I don’t switch it off, just in case she wakes again.

“Yes. Folly.” I lie down and close my eyes. “Go to sleep.”

“Good night,” she whispers, her voice soft and sweet. “And thank you.”

I groan. This is going to be torture. I turn on my side, away from her, and start counting sheep.

I’m lying on the lawn near the towering stone wall that surrounds the kitchen garden at Tresyllian Hall.

The summer sun warms my skin.

The scent from the lavender that rings the lawn and the sweet fragrance of the roses that climb the wall waft over me.

I’m warm.

I’m happy.

I’m home.

A girlish laugh catches my attention.

I turn my head, drawn to the sound, but I’m blinded by the sun and can see her only in outline. Her long, raven hair blows in the breeze, and she’s swathed in a translucent blue housecoat. It billows out around her slim silhouetted figure.

Alessia.

The scent of the flowers intensifies, and I close my eyes to inhale their sweet, intoxicating perfume.

When I open them, she’s gone.

I wake with a start. Morning is bleeding through the cracks between the blinds. Alessia has trespassed onto my side of the bed, and she’s nestled under my arm, her hand balled in a fist on my abdomen, her head on my chest. Her leg intertwined with mine.

She is all over me.

And fast asleep.

And my cock is wide awake and rock hard.

“Oh, God,” I whisper, and brush my nose against her hair.

Lavender and roses.

Intoxicating.

My heart rate flips into overdrive as I make a mental list of all the possibilities this scenario presents: Alessia in my arms. Ready. Waiting. She is so tantalizing, so close… too close. If I roll over, she’ll be on her back, and I can finally bury myself in her. I stare up at the ceiling, praying for self-control. I know if I move, she’ll wake, so I torture myself some more and lie still, enjoying the sweet, sweet agony of having her sprawled all over me. I gather a lock of her hair between my fingers, surprised by how soft and silky it feels. She stirs, her fisted hand flexes, and her fingers splay out on my belly, tickling the beginning of my pubic hair.

Fuck!

I’m so hard and want nothing more than to grab her hand and wrap it around my erection. I’ll probably explode if I do.

“Mmm,” she murmurs. Her eyelids flicker open, and she looks dreamily up at me.

“Good morning, Alessia.” I’m breathless.

She gasps and scrambles to put some space between us.

“I was enjoying your visit to my side of the bed,” I tease.

She pulls the covers up to her chin, her cheeks rosy, her smile shy. “Good morning,” she says.

“Sleep well?” I ask as I roll onto my side to face her.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Hungry?” I know I am. And not for food.

She nods.

“Do you really mean yes?”

She frowns.

“You said in the car yesterday that in Albania it’s the opposite.”

“You remembered.” She sounds pleased and surprised.

“I remember everything you say.” I want to tell her that she looks very lovely this morning. But I refrain. I’m behaving.

“I like sleeping with you,” she says, confounding me.

“Well, that makes two of us.”

“I did not have bad dreams.”

“Good. Me neither.”

She laughs, and I try to recall the dream that woke me. All I know is that she was part of it. As usual. “I dreamt about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure it was not a nightmare?” she teases.

I grin. “Quite sure.”

She smiles. She has a bewitching smile. Perfect white teeth. Pink lips that are parted possibly in invitation. “You look very desirable.” The words come out of my mouth in an unguarded moment. Her deep brown eyes dilate, captivating me.

“Desirable?” Her breath catches.

“Yes.”

The silence stretches between us as we gaze at each other.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispers.

I close my eyes and swallow while her words from last night echo in my head.

I have never slept with a man.

“You’re a virgin?” I whisper, and open my eyes to study her face.

She blushes. “Yes.”

Her simple affirmation is like an ice bath to my libido. I’ve only slept with one virgin, and that was Caroline. It was my first time, too, and it was a disaster that nearly got us expelled from school. After that my father took me to a high-class brothel in Bloomsbury.

If you’re going to start fucking girls, Maxim, you’d better learn how to fuck.

I was fifteen, and Caroline moved on…

Until Kit’s death.

Bloody hell.

Alessia’s a virgin at twenty-three? Of course she is. What did I expect? She’s different from every woman I’ve ever known. And she’s looking at me all big eyes and expectation. I wonder again at the folly of bringing her here.

Alessia frowns, anxiety etched on her face.

Shit.

Reaching forward, I brush my thumb against her pouty bottom lip. She inhales sharply. “I want you, Alessia. Very much. But I want you to want me, too. I think we need to get to know each other before we take whatever this is any further.”

There. That was the grown-up response. Yes?

“Okay,” she whispers, but she looks uncertain, and possibly a little disappointed.

What does she expect of me?

And I know I need to put some distance between us to think about this. Here in my bed she’s a distraction, a pouting, soft-lipped, and beautiful distraction. I sit up and cup her face in my hands. “Let’s just enjoy this holiday,” I murmur, and kiss her, and clamber out of bed.

Now is not the time.

It’s not fair to her.

And it’s not fair to me.

“Are you leaving?” Alessia asks as she sits up in bed. Her hair tumbles down around her small frame like a veil. Her eyes are round with concern; she looks effortlessly sexy, swamped in my pajama shirt.

“I’m going to grab a shower, then cook us breakfast.”

“You can cook?”

I laugh at her shock. “Yeah. Well, I can cook bacon and eggs.” I give her a sheepish smile and stride into the bathroom.

Bugger.

More self-abuse in the shower.

Water streams over my body, and with one hand spread on the marble tiles supporting me, I come quickly, thinking of her hand on my stomach and her hand wrapped around my dick.

A virgin.

I frown. Why am I making such a big deal of this? At least she hasn’t been brutalized by those fuckers. Anger flares in my gut as I think of the men coming after her. She’s safe here in Cornwall. So that’s something.

Perhaps she’s religious. She did say her grandmother was a missionary, and she wears a gold cross around her neck. Or maybe premarital sex is a taboo in Albania. I have no idea. I wash my hair and my body with the soap Danny left for me.

This is not what I had in mind when I brought her down here. Her inexperience is an issue. I like sexually adventurous women who know what they’re doing, know what they want, and know their limits. Breaking in a virgin is a big responsibility. I towel-dry my hair.

It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.

Might as well be me.

I stare at the cad in the mirror.

Dude. Grow up.

Maybe she wants a long-term relationship.

I’ve had two relationships, but neither of them for longer than eight months. So not that long. Charlotte was socially ambitious, and she moved on to a baronet from Essex. Arabella was too into drugs for my liking. I mean, who doesn’t like a bump now and then, but every day? No way. I think she’s in rehab again.

A relationship with Alessia. What would that entail?

I am getting way ahead of myself here. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I head back into the bedroom. She’s gone.

Fuck. My heart rate doubles.

Has she fled? Again?

I knock on the door of her room. No reply. I enter, and I’m relieved to hear the shower.

For fuck’s sake, get a grip.

I leave her and go to get dressed.

Alessia doesn’t think she’ll ever leave this shower. At home in Kukës, the bathroom had a rudimentary shower and the floor had to be mopped after each use. At Magda’s the shower was over the bath. This shower has its own enclosed space, and the hot water cascades over her from the biggest showerhead she’s ever seen. Even bigger than the one in Mister Maxim’s bathroom at his apartment. It’s blissful and like nothing she’s experienced before. She washes her hair and carefully shaves her body with the disposable razor Magda gave her.

She scrubs herself with the body wash she’s brought from home. Her soapy hand moves over her breasts, and she closes her eyes.

I want you, Alessia. Very much.

He wants her.

Her hand moves down.

And in her mind it’s his hand on her body. Touching her. Intimately.

She wants him, too.

She recalls waking up in his arms and feeling the warmth and strength of his body against her skin. Her belly flutters at the memory as her hand moves. Faster. Faster. And faster. She leans against the warmed tiles. And raises her head. Her mouth open as she gulps in air.

Maxim.

Maxim.

Ah.

Her muscles clench deep inside as she comes.

Catching her breath, she opens her eyes.

This is what she wants… isn’t it?

Can she trust him?

Yes.

He’s done nothing to shake the trust she’s placed in him. Last night he rescued her from her night terrors, he was kind and gentle. He let her sleep with him to keep her nightmares away.

She feels safe with him.

She hasn’t felt safe for so long. It’s a novel feeling, even though she knows that Dante and Ylli are still out there somewhere looking for her.

No. Do not think about them.

She wishes she knew more about men. Men and women in Kukës don’t interact like they do in England. At home men socialize with men, women with women. It has always been this way. Not having brothers and kept separate from her male cousins in social situations, her experience was limited to the few male students she met at university—and her father, of course.

She runs her hands through her hair.

Mister Maxim is not like any man she’s ever known.

With the water pouring onto her face, she resolves to put all her problems out of her mind. Today, as Maxim says, it’s a holiday. Her first.

Wrapping her hair in a towel and her body in a bath sheet, she pads into the bedroom. A pounding beat is coming from downstairs. She listens. The music seems at odds with what she knows about him. His compositions suggest a quieter, more introspective man than the one blasting this loud music through the house.

She lays out her clothes on the bed. All of them, with the exception of her jeans and bra, had been given to her by Magda and Michal. She frowns, wishing she had something more attractive to wear. She slips on an off-white, long-sleeved T-shirt to wear over her jeans. It’s a little shapeless, but it will have to do. It’s all she has .

Towel-drying, then brushing out her hair, she leaves it loose and heads downstairs. Through the glass wall surrounding the staircase, she watches Maxim in the kitchen. He’s wearing a pale gray sweater and the ripped black jeans and has a tea towel draped over his shoulder while he stands at the stove. He’s frying bacon—the aroma is delicious—and he’s shuffling to the beat of the dance music that is thumping through the room. Alessia cannot help but grin. While cleaning his apartment, she had never seen any evidence that he could cook.

Men, where she is from, don’t cook.

Or dance while cooking.

The flex of his broad shoulders, the swivel of his slim hips, and his bare feet tapping in perfect time to the music are mesmerizing. She feels a delicious tightening in her belly. He rakes his fingers through his damp hair and then flips the bacon. Her mouth waters.

Mmm… the smell.

Mmm… the sight of him.

He turns suddenly, and his face lights up when he sees her on the stairs. His enormous smile mirrors hers.

“One egg or two?” he shouts above the music.

“One,” she mouths as she comes down the stairs and into the big room. She turns and gasps as she looks out through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The sea!

“ Deti! Deti! The sea!” she shouts, sprinting to the glass wall of doors that lead onto the balcony.

I lower the heat under the bacon and hurry to the balcony doors to join Alessia, who’s jumping from foot to foot, incandescent with excitement.

“Can we go down to the sea?” Her eyes are alive with delight as she bounces up and down like a child.

“Of course. Here.” I unlock the balcony door and slide it open so that she can go outside. A gust of glacial air catches us both by surprise. It’s freezing, but she rushes out, not caring about her wet hair, bare feet, or thin T-shirt.

Doesn’t this woman have any decent clothes?

I pick up a gray throw that’s draped over the back of the sofa and walk out after her. I wrap my arms and the blanket around her, holding her as she admires the view. Her face is lit up with wonder.

The Hideout and our three other holiday homes are built along a rocky promontory. A small winding path at the end of the garden leads down to the beach. It’s a bright, clear day. The sun is shining, but it’s bitterly cold in the howling wind. The sea is a chilly blue, flecked with white surf, and we hear the boom of the waves as they crash against the cliffs on each side of the cove. The air smells fresh and salty. Alessia turns to me, her expression one of complete awe.

“Come on, let’s eat.” I’m conscious that breakfast is on the stove. “You’ll catch your death out here. We’ll go down to the beach after breakfast.” We head back inside and close the door. “I just have to do the eggs!” I shout above the music.

“Let me help!” Alessia shouts back, following me into the kitchen area, still draped in the blanket.

I turn the Sonos volume down via the app on my phone. “That’s better.”

“Interesting music,” Alessia says in a tone that tells me that perhaps it’s not her thing.

“It’s Korean house. I use a few tracks when I DJ.” I retrieve the eggs from the fridge. “Two eggs?”

“No, one.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Just one. I’m having two. You can make some toast. Bread is in the fridge, and the toaster is over there.”

Together we work in the kitchen, and I’m able to watch her. Using her long, nimble fingers, she fishes the toast out of the toaster and butters each slice.

“Here.” I take the two plates out of the warming drawer and place them on the counter, ready for toast.

She grins as I serve up the rest of our breakfast.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.” I abandon the frying pan in the sink, collect both plates, and usher her toward the dining table, where I’ve laid two places.

Alessia looks impressed.

Why does this make me feel like I’ve finally achieved something?

“Sit here. You can enjoy the view.”

“How was that?” Maxim asks.

They are seated at the large dining table, Alessia at the head, where she’s never sat before, and she’s enjoying the view, the seascape.

“Delicious. You are a man with many accomplishments.”

“You’d be amazed,” he says dryly, his voice a little husky. And for some reason his tone and the way he looks at her make her breath catch.

“Do you still want to go for a walk?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Taking his phone, he dials a number. Alessia wonders who he’s calling.

“Danny,” he says. “No. We’re fine. Can you bring a hair dryer over… oh, there are? Okay. Then I need a pair of Wellingtons or walking boots…” He looks directly at Alessia. “What size?” he asks.

She has no idea what he’s talking about.

“Shoe size,” he clarifies.

“Thirty-eight.”

“That’s, um… size five, and some socks if you have any. Yes. For a woman… It doesn’t matter. And a decent bloody warm coat… Yes. For a woman… Slim. Small. As soon as possible.” He listens for a moment. “Fantastic,” he says, and hangs up.

“I have a coat.”

“You won’t be warm enough. And I don’t know about the Albanian sock thing, but it’s cold out there.”

She flushes. She has only two pairs of socks because she can’t afford more—and she couldn’t ask Magda for another pair. Magda had done enough for her.

Dante and Ylli had confiscated her luggage, and when she’d arrived in Brentford, Magda had burned most of the clothes she’d been wearing. They were no longer fit to be worn.

“Who is Danny?”

“She lives not far from here,” Maxim says, directing his attention to the empty plates as he stands to clear the table.

“Let me,” she says, shocked that he’s clearing up. “I will wash them, too.” She takes the plates from him and places them in the sink.

“No. I’ll do this. There should be a hair dryer in the chest of drawers in the wardrobe in your room. Go dry your hair.”

“But—” Surely he’s not going to wash up! No man does that!

“No buts. I’ll do it. You’ve cleaned up after me often enough.”

“But it is my job.”

“Today it isn’t. You’re my guest. Go.” His tone is clipped. Stern. A frisson of apprehension runs up her spine. “Please,” he adds.

“Okay,” she whispers, and hurries out of the kitchen, confused and wondering if he’s angry with her.

Please don’t be angry.

“Alessia,” he calls. She stops at the foot of the stairs and studies her feet. “Are you okay?” She nods before she dashes up the stairs.

What the fuck?

What did I say? I watch her retreating figure noting that she deliberately avoids eye contact with me.

Shit.

I’ve upset her, but I don’t know how or why. I’m tempted to go after her but decide against it and begin to load the dishwasher and clean up.

Twenty minutes later, as I’m putting away the frying pan, the entry phone rings.

Danny.

I glance up at the stairs, hoping that Alessia will appear, but she doesn’t. I press the buzzer to let Danny in and turn off the music, knowing she will not approve.

The hair dryer’s high-pitched wheeze rings in her ears as Alessia brushes and brushes her hair beneath its heat. With each stroke her heartbeat settles to a more even pace.

He had sounded like her father.

And she’d reacted the way she’d always reacted to her father, by getting out of his way. Baba has never forgiven her or her mother that his only child is a girl. Though it’s her poor mother who bears the brunt of his anger.

But Mister Maxim is nothing like her father.

Nothing.

She finishes her hair and knows that the only way to restore her equilibrium and forget about her family for a while is to play the piano. Music is her escape. It’s been her only escape.

When she comes back downstairs, Mister Maxim has disappeared. She wonders where, but her fingers are itching to play. She sits down at the little white upright, lifts the lid, and with no preamble launches into her angry Bach Prelude in C Minor. The music blazes through the room in hues of brilliant orange and red, burning away any thoughts of her father and setting her free.

When she opens her eyes, Maxim is watching her.

“That was incredible,” he whispers.

“Thank you,” she says.

He takes a step closer and strokes her cheek with the back of his finger, then tilts her chin up so she’s lost in his magnetic gaze. His eyes are the most spectacular color. Up close she notices that the irises are a darker green around the edge—the color of a Kukës fir—while toward the dilating pupil they’re lighter, like a fern in the spring. When he leans down, she thinks he’s going to kiss her. But he doesn’t.

“I don’t know what I did to upset you,” he says.

She puts her fingers over his mouth, silencing him.

“You did nothing wrong,” she whispers. His lips purse into a kiss against her fingertips, and she removes her hand.

“Well, if I did, I’m sorry. Now, do you want to go for a walk on the beach?”

She beams at him. “Yes.”

“Okay. You need to wrap up warm.”

Alessia is impatient. She practically pulls me down the stony path. At the bottom we step onto the beach, and Alessia can contain herself no more. She releases my hand and runs toward the raging sea, her hat flying off and her hair whipping in the wind.

“The sea, the sea!” she cries, and twirls around, her arms in the air. Her earlier pique is forgotten, her smile is wide and her face bright, lit from within by her joy. I stride across the coarse sand and rescue her discarded woolly hat. “The sea!” she shouts again above the roar of the water, and she gesticulates wildly, her arms like a crazy windmill, welcoming each wave as it crashes to the shore.

It’s impossible not to smile. Her unbridled enthusiasm for this first-time event is too appealing and too affecting. I grin as she squeals and dances back to avoid the breakers on the shoreline. She looks ridiculous, dressed in oversize Wellingtons and an oversize coat. Her face is flushed, her nose pink, and she is utterly breathtaking. My heart clenches.

She runs toward me with childish abandon and grabs my hand. “The sea!” she cries once more, and drags me to the crashing waves. And I go willingly, surrendering myself to her joy.