Read Online Dante’s Girl by Courtney Cole - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Courtney Cole
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and honestly, I can’t like like someone who knows every single thing about me. There needs to be some mystery there. I only want the best for him, though. Connor is a really good guy. He’s away at college right now. He comes home on the weekends.”
“I see.” Dante says. Does he see? “What does your farm look like? I want to picture it in my head.”
“Well, it’s an old farm house. Not old by Caberran standards, but old. Two story, with white siding. My mom and I live there with my grandparents. My grandma is a big fan of your olives, by the way. Sunflowers grow like crazy in Kansas and my mom has a small field of them behind one of our barns just because she likes them. We always seem to have a vase of them sitting on the kitchen table. We have horses, cows, goats. My horse’s name is Mischief.”
“I’ve always wanted to learn to ride,” Dante muses.
“Then why haven’t you?”
“There aren’t any horses in Caberra,” he tells me. “I suppose my father could have one shipped in for me, but I’ve never asked.”
“Well, if you ever come to the States, you’ll have to come visit me and I’ll give you a riding lesson,” I tell him.
“I’d like that,” he answers. And he sounds really sincere. I try to picture him on a horse. But I keep picturing him in his suit, or a set of linen trousers and I just can’t see him on a farm.
“Look,” Dante points. “We’re almost there.”
A bonfire glows in the distance in what appears to be a little inlet.
“We’re really out here,” I observe. “Surely the media can’t find you here.”
“Even if they could,” Dante says, “They would be trespassing. This is a private beach now. And in this particular spot, it’s hidden from public view. Even with zoom lenses, they can’t see us.”
For a second, I ponder this. Dante has to live his entire life thinking about how he can go places without getting his picture taken, how to not get followed, how to not get hounded by photographers. It must get really tiring.
“Do you ever get tired of having to be so careful?” I ask. “Isn’t it exhausting? I mean, you didn’t ask for this. It’s your father’s job. Not yours.”
“That’s true,” Dante answers thoughtfully. “But I would never ask him to not do it. Apparently, ever since my mother died, he hasn’t been the same. This job gives him something to focus on. It makes him happy.”
“How old were you when your mother died?” I ask. “Do you mind talking about it?”
He shakes his head. “No. I don’t mind. She died giving birth to me, so I don’t remember her at all. I have pictures of her so I know that I look like her. My father tells me that I act like her. But I never knew her.”
“She died giving birth?” I’m appalled. “I didn’t know that happened these days.”
“It doesn’t usually,” he agrees. “But apparently, the placenta detached during the birthing process. She hemorrhaged internally and there wasn’t anything they could do. It happened very fast. My father was devastated. My grandmother helped him raise me until I was five and then she died, too.”
“You grew up with your grandmother?” Then we have one thing in common, at least. My grandparents are a huge part of my life.
Dante nods. “Yes. She was like a mother to me.”
My heart is happy that he had the experience of having a mother-like figure. I can’t imagine growing up without a maternal influence of some sort. And his entire situation tugs at my heart strings. Here he is… so beautiful and the son of such an important person and a billionaire to boot, yet he experienced tragedy at such a young age. It just goes to show that money really can’t buy everything.
I reach over and grab his hand. I find that I want to offer him comfort, even though his injury happened so long ago. He squeezes my fingers and then all of a
“I see.” Dante says. Does he see? “What does your farm look like? I want to picture it in my head.”
“Well, it’s an old farm house. Not old by Caberran standards, but old. Two story, with white siding. My mom and I live there with my grandparents. My grandma is a big fan of your olives, by the way. Sunflowers grow like crazy in Kansas and my mom has a small field of them behind one of our barns just because she likes them. We always seem to have a vase of them sitting on the kitchen table. We have horses, cows, goats. My horse’s name is Mischief.”
“I’ve always wanted to learn to ride,” Dante muses.
“Then why haven’t you?”
“There aren’t any horses in Caberra,” he tells me. “I suppose my father could have one shipped in for me, but I’ve never asked.”
“Well, if you ever come to the States, you’ll have to come visit me and I’ll give you a riding lesson,” I tell him.
“I’d like that,” he answers. And he sounds really sincere. I try to picture him on a horse. But I keep picturing him in his suit, or a set of linen trousers and I just can’t see him on a farm.
“Look,” Dante points. “We’re almost there.”
A bonfire glows in the distance in what appears to be a little inlet.
“We’re really out here,” I observe. “Surely the media can’t find you here.”
“Even if they could,” Dante says, “They would be trespassing. This is a private beach now. And in this particular spot, it’s hidden from public view. Even with zoom lenses, they can’t see us.”
For a second, I ponder this. Dante has to live his entire life thinking about how he can go places without getting his picture taken, how to not get followed, how to not get hounded by photographers. It must get really tiring.
“Do you ever get tired of having to be so careful?” I ask. “Isn’t it exhausting? I mean, you didn’t ask for this. It’s your father’s job. Not yours.”
“That’s true,” Dante answers thoughtfully. “But I would never ask him to not do it. Apparently, ever since my mother died, he hasn’t been the same. This job gives him something to focus on. It makes him happy.”
“How old were you when your mother died?” I ask. “Do you mind talking about it?”
He shakes his head. “No. I don’t mind. She died giving birth to me, so I don’t remember her at all. I have pictures of her so I know that I look like her. My father tells me that I act like her. But I never knew her.”
“She died giving birth?” I’m appalled. “I didn’t know that happened these days.”
“It doesn’t usually,” he agrees. “But apparently, the placenta detached during the birthing process. She hemorrhaged internally and there wasn’t anything they could do. It happened very fast. My father was devastated. My grandmother helped him raise me until I was five and then she died, too.”
“You grew up with your grandmother?” Then we have one thing in common, at least. My grandparents are a huge part of my life.
Dante nods. “Yes. She was like a mother to me.”
My heart is happy that he had the experience of having a mother-like figure. I can’t imagine growing up without a maternal influence of some sort. And his entire situation tugs at my heart strings. Here he is… so beautiful and the son of such an important person and a billionaire to boot, yet he experienced tragedy at such a young age. It just goes to show that money really can’t buy everything.
I reach over and grab his hand. I find that I want to offer him comfort, even though his injury happened so long ago. He squeezes my fingers and then all of a
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