Read Dante’s Girl for Free Online Page B

so that I can get into your pants later” manners like the boys do back home.  I grip his elbow lightly and we wind our way through the Old Palace.  I try not to act overwhelmed at its size and fanciness again today. 
    I’m casually aloof. 
    I think.
    As we spill out onto the cobblestone sidewalk in front of the palace, I look around for a car. 
    “Did you lose something?” Dante asks in concern.
    I shake my head. “I was just wondering where your car is.”
    He stares at me for a second, then smiles.  “We don’t need a car today.  The beach isn’t far.  But first, I thought we’d stop and get a gelato on the way.  It’s the best in the world here, better than even Italy.  You’re going to die.”
    “Gelato for breakfast?” I quickly scan my memory for what gelato actually is. It’s clearly something Italian.
    “Why not?” Dante shrugs.  “I think we should always eat dessert first.”
    So gelato is dessert.  Got it.  I make a mental note.
    We wind our way casually along the busy sidewalks of Valese.  I can’t help but notice that women literally stop what they are doing to gawk at Dante.  Then they stare at me curiously, probably wondering who the heck I am.  I can hear pictures being snapped and I realize that Dante is a celebrity here. 
    Gulp. I slightly tighten my hold on his arm.
    So, to recap, Dante is a gorgeous, beautiful son of a Prime Minister who happens to be a billionaire.  And these things combine to make him a local celebrity.  He’s like the Caberran version of Princess William or Harry. 
    Good Lord. 
    I am so over my head here.
    Breathe , I silently instruct my lungs.  I suck in a mouthful of sea air.  It smells really good here.  Like salt, sun and…something else.  I can’t put my finger on it.
    “Have you ever been clam digging?” Dante asks conversationally as we cross the street.  Traffic literally stops for him.  We don’t even have to watch where we’re going.  They are watching for us.  I shake my head. 
    “No.  I’m from the heartland of America.  There are no oceans where I’m from, trust me. Just fields and fields of wheat and some sunflowers.  They’re the only things hearty enough to survive the soul-sucking heat.”
    “That sounds charming,” Dante laughs. “You paint a lovely picture of your home.”  He speaks in Caberran to a street vendor, who scoops two scoops of fluorescent fuchsia-colored gelato into two bowls and hands them to us. 
    I study mine. 
    “I’m pretty sure ice cream isn’t supposed to be this color,” I announce to Dante. 
    He rolls his eyes again.  “It’s gelato, not ice cream.  Try it.  You might faint from the sheer deliciousness. Trust me.  Prepare yourself.” 
    He scoops a huge spoonful into his mouth and I hear more pictures being snapped of him.  Dante seems oblivious to it as he stares at me, waiting for me to try the unnaturally colored ice cream.
    I will never let it be said that I am a chicken so I take a tentative bite.  And Dante was right.  I almost swoon from the sheer deliciousness. 
    “Holy cow,” I breathe as I stick another huge bite into my mouth and savor the explosion of cold flavor as it melts on my tongue.  It’s like a little frozen piece of fruity heaven.  In my mouth. 
    “How have I lived seventeen years without gelato?”
    Dante laughs and we continue walking, looking into quaint shop windows and dodging the people who keep stopping directly in our path to stare.
    “Do you ever get tired of that?” I ask quietly as we round the side of a store and walk down a worn path toward the beautiful sandy beach.  The ocean yawns huge and blue in front of us.  I kneel for a quick second to pick up a perfect white seashell.
    “Get tired of what?” Dante glances at me as he scrapes the bottom of his bowl with his spoon already, before tossing it into a nearby receptacle. 
    “That,” I motion behind us at the people still clustered in groups watching our backs.