My Super Sweet Sixteenth Century Read online

  “Yeah, I slept gr—very well.” Frick, this is hard. I grab the small gold fork, prepared to stuff my mouth before it can mess up again, and do a double take. The tines are short and straight, with no curve at all. I turn it over in my hand. How weird.

  I lift my eyes and see both my aunt and Alessandra staring at me strangely. I guess they are used to the medieval fork shape. I quickly drop my hand and straighten my shoulders, playing off the momentary lapse in my façade. The most important thing I’ve learned over the years is that confidence is half the battle. If you project a certain image with confidence, people tend to believe it.

  My aunt shakes her head and then smiles brightly. “Today Alessandra and Cipriano are going to escort you to the piazza and help acclimate you to your new home. Then tonight we shall attend a party hosted by your uncle’s business associate.” A rare frown appears on her face. “The family is quite horrid, but the food should be agreeable. And it is our duty to attend.”

  Alessandra has continued to watch me through squinting eyes, but at this last bit, she sighs. She leans forward and whispers, “Antonia is most unpleasant. She thrives on causing others to feel inferior.”

  Well, yippee. Sounds like I’m in store for a barrel of laughs tonight.

  Although I appreciate my cousin’s warning, I’m not worried about old Antonia. I live my life by the wise words of Eleanor Roosevelt: no one can make you feel inferior without your consent. It’s why I don’t really do the whole boyfriend or girl-bonding thing. I mean, yeah, life would be easier if I had someone like Ella again—but it’d just be one more person who’d eventually leave.

  My aunt gets up and flits about the room as if she is bursting with energy and needs to get it all out. I continue stuffing my face while I watch the lively display, wondering how it’s possible the two of us are related. Even though we are family, and she believes I’m Patience, she literally opened her home and life to a complete stranger. It’s as if she doesn’t know how cruel people can be, or worse, doesn’t care. How can she live her life with such blind trust? She certainly didn’t pass that trait along in the gene pool.

  She floats to the other side of the room, stopping to fuss and fluff Alessandra’s hair and flash me a brilliant smile. She also has that maternal affection thing down.

  Obviously she failed to pass that trait along, too.

  …

  The Piazza del Mercato Vecchio is teeming with people. It’s like the mall of Renaissance Florence. Not only is it a great place to shop—anything you could possibly want, from food and flowers to clothes and tools, can be found here—but it’s an excellent place to people watch.

  Cipriano stays a few feet behind us as we stroll through the crowded streets. He’s nice enough and takes his role as chaperone and protector very seriously, but he seems so intense. I lean closer to Alessandra and whisper, “Is Cip always so glum?”

  She wrinkles her nose at my choice of nickname. “Cip?” She follows my eyes to her brother, and the lightbulb turns on. “Ah, yes. Mostly, though his spirits are much lighter when he is among his friends.”

  Alessandra tilts her head and looks at me, and a glorious smile breaks across her face. She links her arm through mine and pulls me closer. “I have not had many friends myself, and I am ever so pleased to now have a sister.”

  I nod and smile, keeping my mouth shut. I haven’t had a lot of friends, either, but the difference is I’m not exactly itching to break that record—as tempting as it can sometimes be. But telling this sweet girl that would be like kicking a puppy.

  At the corner of the Via del Corso, a man pulls a slab of roast pork off a spit and bites into it. In the next stall, a vendor offers a group of women slices of bright red fruit. Everything looks fresh and delicious and unbelievably mouthwatering. I slow my stride, about to ask for a sample, when Cipriano screams, “Lorenzo!”

  The sudden exclamation from my silent cousin successfully diverts my attention from my greedy stomach.

  I watch as he breaks into a jog down the road and stops in front of a guy facing away from us. Cipriano laughs as he pounds the guy on the back in a manly dude-hug. This family is all about the hugs. From the corner of my eye, I see Alessandra look at me, then at the boys, then at the ground with a frown.

  Suspicious.

  With a hand on my hip, I squint to get a better look at whoever made her so flustered. All I can see is curly blond hair and broad shoulders and an outfit like all the other guys walking around the crowded piazza. But seeing as how she didn’t get all twitchy before, I figure something has to be up. Distracted, I ask, “Who’s that dude, Less?”

  A group of women stops in my line of vision. Unable to see around them, I turn back to Alessandra. She has a weird look on her face. I meet her stare, then hear my own words play back.

  Two verbal gaffes in one sentence—so much for my nailing the old-world gig.

  Alessandra’s forehead scrunches up. “Your manner of speaking is quite strange at times. I have yet to travel to London, but it must truly be an unruly place.”

  Her lips purse as she continues to stare. Then, as if realizing what she said, her mouth opens and her eyes widen. A pink glow blooms on her cheeks as she grabs my arm. “Oh, Patience, my sincere apologies for my ill manners. I do not know what came over me, but I assure you I did not mean to offend.”

  She looks so horrified I have to fight back a smile. Not only is it impossible to imagine her ever trying to hurt anyone’s feelings, but her “unruly London” comment kinda gives me an out. For whatever reason, Alessandra’s natural innocence is severely cramping my ability to continue the Patience charade. I’m forgetting to keep my walls up—something I never do—but with her excuse, I might as well embrace it. Plus, if I go with it, I may even get her to stop looking like a sappy Hallmark commercial.

  “None taken,” I say as formally as I can. Then with a smirk, “Now are you gonna tell me who the dude is that made mild-mannered Cipriano run like a banshee or what?”

  The pained look washes from her face and is replaced with one of complete shock and confusion. She shakes her head and laughs. “I do not know what a dude is, but the gentleman in question is Lorenzo, Cipriano’s best friend.” She glances back at the boys, now visible again. “He is an impressive artist, and he comes from one of the wealthiest families in all of Florence.”

  She had me at the impressive artist part. “And I take it he’s cute, too. Is he, like, your beau or whatever?”

  Alessandra jerks back like I just suggested she prance around the square naked or something. “No! I believe I understand your meaning, and Lorenzo is certainly not my suitor. He is like a brother to me—the three of us grew up together.”

  I purse my lips, knowing there has to be more to the story, but fall in step beside her as she resumes walking. As we near the end of the row, I finally ask, “If you’re not into the guy, then what’s the problem?”

  At that same moment, a rich, deep chuckle hits my ears. My stomach involuntarily clenches, and my gaze sharpens on the back of this mysterious Lorenzo.

  Alessandra sighs. “That is the problem.” She places her hand on my arm, holding me in place, and solemnly looks me in the eyes. “You must be careful, Patience. Lorenzo is beautiful, and it is not uncommon for a girl to walk away from meeting him with a piece of her heart left behind. But he is just eighteen and not yet ready for marriage.”

  I roll my eyes and laugh, then realize she’s serious. Smacking my lips, I nod. “Yeah, I assure you, there’s no danger on my end. Trust me. I’m not exactly looking for marriage myself.” Because that would be crazy-town.

  What I don’t tell Alessandra, what I haven’t told anyone, is the other reason I’m certain to be free from any danger. The truth is, I’ve never had a boyfriend. Or even a date. There’s a taunting lyric from one of Dad’s favorite seventies songs that pretty much sums things up: Sweet sixteen and never been kissed.

  Yep, that’s gonna be me.

  Alessandra shakes her head as
if she doesn’t believe me, but she removes her hand. We close the distance, and Cipriano flashes me an open, honest-to-goodness lighthearted smile. Finally my stern cousin looks like a normal teenage guy. This Lorenzo must be some kind of miracle worker.

  “Lorenzo, this is the cousin I was telling you about.”

  Slowly the guy turns, and I fall headfirst into the richest chocolate-brown eyes I’ve ever seen. He blinks, and long, luscious lashes feather across his bronzed cheeks. I feel myself gawking, just like I did with Skater Boy yesterday at the piazza, but I physically can’t drag my eyes away. Lorenzo doesn’t smirk or act all conceited like the other guy, either. He simply stares back, his eyes casually skimming over me, causing my skin to warm and break out in a whole body tingle.

  Time seems to stop, and the sounds of the market mute. Alessandra was right. This boy is beautiful.

  And he’s looking at me.

  Lorenzo’s full peach-colored lips form a devastating smile, exposing one slightly crooked tooth. He kneels down in front of me and takes my hand in his.

  “You are an angel, a vision sent from Signore.”

  His eyes twinkle with amusement, and alarm bells ring in my head. Even though I can’t help the zing down my arm—come on, in any language that’s a smooth line—I straighten my spine and pull on my hand. But his grip tightens.

  Obviously this guy is a player and used to girls falling at his feet. Unfortunately for him, I’m not gonna be one of them.

  Lorenzo stands and plants a kiss across my knuckles, a move straight out of a romance novel. He winks, undeterred by my lack of a swoon, and with his free hand runs his fingers through his curly golden locks.

  My heart goes a little wonky, but it doesn’t mean anything. Experience taught me long ago how fickle that particular bodily organ can be.

  Determined to get control of the situation, I yank my hand back and wipe it on my skirt. “Thank you for the compliment,” I say, and then, feeling Alessandra watching me, I flash a confident smile. “I hear you’re good friends with my cousins.”

  Those perfect lips of his purse, as if he can’t fathom why I’m not a puddle of drool by now. He nods slowly. “Sì, I have known them both since we were babes.” Then that twinkle thing happens in his eyes again as he leans forward and lowers his voice into a stage whisper. “But I fear Cipriano will have to explain himself for keeping you a secret for so long.”

  I curl my lip and scoff. Now that I have his number, the lines are so not working on me.

  My gaze sinks to his mouth.

  Nope, not at all.

  Cipriano shakes his head. “Lorenzo, I have not kept her a secret. You know she has only just arrived from London. However, had I known you would attack her like a bird of prey, I might have considered keeping her in seclusion.”

  I do a double take at the joking smile on Cipriano’s face. This simply cannot be the same guy I met yesterday.

  Lorenzo’s gaze slides over my face, and I stuff down the warmth bubbling up in response. He turns to Cipriano and laughs, and then parts his lips to toss back a reply. Before he can, an unsmiling older woman approaches and interrupts him.

  “It is time we take our leave.”

  Instantly the playfulness vanishes. Lorenzo nods once, keeping his head down until she steps a few feet away. Alessandra touches his shoulder, and Cipriano shakes his head. “Things still unpleasant at home, I see.”

  Lorenzo nods again and gives a tight-lipped smile. “I expected nothing less.”

  When he turns to me, his face is softer than it was before, and my breath catches. But a nanosecond later, the player comes back. “Patience, I must leave you now, but I will see you again.” He bites his lower lip and raises his eyebrows. “Of that you can be sure.”

  Lorenzo grins before turning and walking over to the glacier-like woman, falling in step behind her. I watch him disappear into the crowded market and ask, “Was that his mother?”

  Sweet Alessandra actually grunts. “Yes, a most unfortunate situation.” She shakes her shoulders, then turns to me with bright, curious eyes. “But he certainly seemed enamored of you. Pray tell, have you become another victim to Lorenzo’s charm?”

  Flicking the net around my hair, I snort. “Not hardly. I mean, he was cute. I guess.”

  “Cute?” Alessandra says with a laugh. “A word used for pups. I believe our Lorenzo may have finally met his match.”

  Cipriano rocks back on his heels, mouth pinched, and saunters down the path, clearly not comfortable with the thought of me hooking up with his friend. At least one of my cousins is thinking straight. And soon, Alessandra will figure it out, too.

  This is one girl who refuses to be added to Lorenzo’s extensive list of groupies.

  Traipsing over to a nearby stall, I close my eyes and inhale the sweet smell of the merchant’s roses. In the darkness, a flash of vulnerability on Lorenzo’s face after his mother showed up flickers in my mind, and my betraying stomach does a somersault. Disgusted, I lift my head.

  Who knows, I think as I stomp behind my cousins on our way back home. Maybe I’ll even prove it to my stupid, giddy hormones.

  Chapter Six

  The D’Angeli carriage rolls through the cool, dark streets of Florence, the flickering torches on the passing palaces providing the only source of light. Inside the carriage, shadows dance across my family’s faces from the lantern hanging above.

  It’s the perfect setting for a ghost story.

  “Antonia is a miserable wretch,” Alessandra mutters, fidgeting with the folds of her skirt.

  “Sì, her mother is not much better.” Even in the dim light, I can see the deep frown lines etched on Aunt Francesca’s face. “I have known the woman for quite some time, and I fear her viciousness has passed down to her daughter.”

  I’m glad the darkness of the cab hides my cowardly sinking into my seat. I may talk a big game, but seeing my aunt so rattled is freaking me out. I haven’t known her long, but one thing I’ve already learned is if there’s any possible kindness in someone, or a silver lining in a situation, she’ll mine that baby until it’s discovered.

  Maybe tonight will be as bad as Alessandra’s making it out to be.

  My aunt leans across and places her hand on mine. “We must remember, girls, that regardless of our hosts’ actions this evening, it is our duty to treat them with respect according to their station. You must bring pride to your family name.”

  Uncle Marco clears his throat. “It cannot be as bad as you make it.” He looks around, meeting our eyes and expecting assurance—in his guyness completely not understanding the subtle art form that is women’s cattiness—and not receiving it from any of us. He tries again. “Tonight is a party, after all. There will be plenty of things to distract us from Stefani female spectacles. In fact, I am quite confident that our own Patience will be the star of the evening.”

  The star of the evening?

  I swallow hard and take a breath before asking the dreaded question. “Uncle, how many others will there be tonight?”

  “I am not certain. Along with our family, and our host family, the Rinaldi and the Cappelli families are both expected to be in attendance.” He turns to Aunt Francesca and gives her a weighted look. “As well as an important business associate, Signor di Rialto.”

  My aunt’s eyes widen as my brain replays the word important. Alessandra slides her arm around me and whispers in my ear, “Lorenzo is a Cappelli.”

  Great. So now I’m expected to be the belle of the evening in the midst of mysterious important people, and regardless of how hard I’m trying, I’m a complete cultural idiot. I have no clue how to act, what utensils to use, or what topics to bring up. Are women even allowed to start a conversation?

  I hate feeling like I’m under a microscope, and now, to top it all off, Lorenzo’s gonna have a front-row seat to watch the insanity.

  Awesome.

  Our carriage stops in the courtyard of another stone palace. Countless torches fill the air, lighting
the square like a red-carpet premiere. All around me, servants bustle about. One of them comes to greet us, leading us up the stone steps and onto the equally bright second floor. I scan the crowd of standing guests, pretending I’m not searching for Lorenzo, and catch his eye from across the room. The right side of his beautiful mouth lifts in a sexy grin.

  Good heavens, I’m in trouble.

  Alessandra playfully bats my arm and gives me a knowing look. I straighten my shoulders, ignoring her infectious giggle. Despite what she thinks, one look from Lorenzo—a smile he probably practices for hours in the mirror—isn’t about to change my mind. In fact, it only proves my theory. The boy’s a player.

  I steal another glance and find him watching me intently.

  And he’s extremely dangerous.

  I continue my inspection of the room, where enormous portraits of sour-faced men stare back at me. Rich, expensive rugs cover the length of the hardwood floor. The entire room exudes haughtiness. I know people like this in Beverly Hills, people who think showcasing their money makes them superior. It never does. It just makes them look like pompous jerks.

  A stunning girl around my age approaches from the other end of the gaudy hall, giving me the once-over with a barely contained sneer. The skirt of her crimson gown brushes the floor with each sway of her hips, and as her feet bring her closer, I register the pure venom in her annoyingly beautiful brown eyes.

  This must be the infamous Antonia.

  A much older man walks beside her, his dark hair curling over the collar of his russet doublet. As they walk, Antonia leans toward him territorially. Possessively. Almost as if the man’s her date instead of her father.

  Uncle Marco speaks up. “Patience, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Antonia Stefani, the daughter of our hosts for the evening.” I force a smile on my face in greeting. She doesn’t return it. “And this,” Uncle Marco continues, indicating the older man beside Antonia, “is Signor Niccolo de Rialto.”