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I have spent every summer since I was ten years old with my father in London. Every summer, since I was ten years old, has been uneventful and boring.
Until this year.
And this year, after a freak volcanic eruption strands me far from home, I have learned these things:
1. I can make do with one outfit for three days before I buy new clothes.
2. If I hear the phrase, “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto,” even one more time, I might become a homicidal maniac.
3. I am horribly and embarrassingly allergic to jellyfish.
4. I am in love with Dante Giliberti, who just happens to be the beautiful, sophisticated son of the Prime Minister of a Mediterranean paradise.
5. See number four above. Because it brings with it a whole slew of problems and I’ve learned something from every one of them.
Let’s start with the fact that Dante’s world is five light-years away from mine. He goes to black-tie functions and knows the Prime Minister of England on a first name basis. I was born and raised on a farm in Kansas and wear cut-off jeans paired with cowboy boots. See the difference?
But hearts don’t care about differences. Hearts want what they want. And mine just wants to be Dante’s girl.
My heart just might be crazy.
There are rose bushes everywhere. And peonies, which are my favorites. And lots of white marble statues of Greek gods. And one of Napoleon. Why in the world is this country so obsessed with Napoleon?
I am just wondering if the small statue is life-sized when Dante interrupts any coherent thought process that I might have by striding across the lawns with a racquet in hand and wearing short-short tennis shorts.
It’s like a slow-motion scene from a movie. Dante shakes his blond bangs out of his eyes and the sun catches every glint of gold in his hair. His legs are long, lean, tanned and muscled and HolyCowThereIsAGod. If I were a man, I would totally be wolf-whistling right now. But then again, if I were a man, I guess I wouldn’t be wolf-whistling at Dante.I’m such a weirdo.
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Until the next time,