The hot shower I took when I returned to Luca's house wasn't enough to soothe my aching body. My muscles and joints were screaming at me. The webbed skin in between my fingers was rubbed raw by the gloves I had worn Good luck trying to hold a paint brush for the next few days, I told myself.
I knew that I wouldn't be able to lift my arms over my head for a week. But, despite the major soreness and discomfort, I felt satisfied. I had done something for myself and it felt rewarding.
It was this feeling of accomplishment that drove me to the kitchen for lunch instead of Luca's bed for a nap. I cut up strips of chicken breast and sautéed them in a frying pan, then I moved on to cutting up a head of lettuce for my salad.
When I sat down at the countertop after pouring the dressing over the chicken and caesar salad that I had prepared, I heard a door open and turned to see Luca strolling in.
"Did you make lunch?" He asked, nose in the air.
I dropped the fork in my hand back down into the bo
