He had told me once that he didn't know when it started for him, but I know exactly when it started for me.

Tired and jetlagged, I was escorted into a grand old villa by a welcoming middle-aged couple. Ready to collapse onto the couch they led me to, instead I found myself being introduced to a tall, lean boy with a strikingly delicate face framed by dark curls. Elio, did they say? This was their son? I knew in an instant that this summer was going to be trickier for me than I could ever have foreseen.

I followed Elio upstairs, passing a girl of around the same age as him coming down. Boyfriend and girlfriend, I guessed, with a tinge of both relief and disappointment. That would simplify things a bit. She pecked me on the cheeks in that delightful European manner of greeting people and went on her way. The boy led me into a large room with two single beds, where he dumped my bags on the floor and murmured something about him moving next door and sharing a bathroom. I was tongue-tied, my brain too fuzzy to overcome my shyness and say anything sensible, so instead I dropped face first onto one of the beds, using my drowsiness as a cover until soon enough genuine sleep overtook me.

I awoke in the morning to sunlight streaming through tall windows and birds twittering in the heavily laden fruit trees outside. Rolling over with a groan, I took a few minutes to recalibrate to my surrounds. Italy. That's right. Upstairs bedroom. Yes. I had almost rolled off the edge onto the floor – these narrow European single beds, not enough room for me alone, never mind sharing with anyone. Not that I'd be sharing it with anyone, more's the pity. I pulled myself up to lean back against the headboard, gazing around to take in the room. Had Elio said it was his room? Poor guy, evicted to make space for a bumbling stranger. However, much more interesting for me than a sterile guest room. It had always fascinated me trying to ascertain people's personalities through interpretation of the things they accumulated in their intimate living areas, often revealing different versions of themselves in the choice of items on display for private viewing compared with those exhibited for the benefit of others.

It did not take any effort to figure out that Elio was interested in music. There were posters of bands on the walls, but that was surely the case for all young men. The large stack of scores, handwritten as well as printed, left on the desk in the corner alongside row upon row of cassette tapes, indicated a more serious interest. Curiosity piqued, I moved over to the desk and riffled through the pile. Had he written those in pencil himself? If so, he must be a fairly accomplished musician. I moved on to the bookshelf. There was something tantalising about beginning the process of discovering who he was without the inconvenience of having him actually there to confuse the issue. Good taste in books. Obviously well-read. Damn it. It would have been easier if he read nothing but mindless trash novels.

Quietly and deliberately I turned to the closet. A handful of shirts neatly hanging, nothing particularly stylish. Not a show pony, but not a slob either. I went into our shared bathroom to splash cold water on my face before returning to firmly shove the two single beds together. Better. I opened the windows to let the fresh sweetly-scented air rush in and replenish the room, then took a shower.

Having found my way through the maze of a house to the outdoor breakfast table where my hosts, the Perlman family, sat, I slipped into charming houseguest mode as easily as one pulls on a slipper. He was there at the far corner of the table, his face unreadable with his sunglasses on. Mr and Mrs Perlman chatted easily as another lady – a maid? – handed me an egg in an eggcup. Trying to converse casually and crack the egg open in a civilised manner proved too difficult for this morning, the first of what would no doubt be many humorous interludes at the expense of the Americano in their midst. "Lasci fare a me, Signore." The maid kindly came to my rescue and flicked the top of the egg off, expertly baring its rich golden interior for me.

Elio spoke up, offering to show me around. Perfect. I thanked him, digging hungrily into my egg as Elio discussed with his father which of the nearby towns would best meet my needs. The yolk erupted lavishly over the shell's edge, oozing down onto the plate beneath. I looked up to find everyone's eyes on me. Had I just made a fool of myself? Big greedy American. You know what to do. Brush it off breezily and laugh, like it is all just nothing to you. Works every time. Mrs Perlman indicated that I should have another. I declined. "No thank you. I know myself - if I have two, I'll have three, four and more and you'll have to roll me out of here" I joked, my voice the epitome of ease and carefree self-mockery.

Biking into Crema later on, wind in my hair, sun on my back and Elio leading the way, I felt I had found heaven on earth. Once we'd done the round tour we ended up at a table in the piazzetta, making casual small talk, the kind of conversation that I was worst at although no-one who met me was likely to suspect it. Give me a thorough interrogation on an obscure subject any day, just not this lightweight chitchat that, despite much practicing, was one of the chinks in my armour. I stood up, gathering my things to move on. He too climbed onto his bike, but must have lost his balance as he tipped into me. Instinctively I reached out and caught his shoulder with my hand to steady him. My fingers burned. Contact. Shit. I had to leave. Keep it casual. "Later" I said over my shoulder and pedalled off, feeling an embarrassingly strong sense of relief as the space between us increased and the intensity of being face-to-face with his lovely eyes dissipated. What was wrong with me? He was just a boy, get a grip.

Later, having finished my town errands, I made my way back to the villa to let Dr Perlman know I was ready and willing to assist him with the archiving that was part of the deal for being welcomed into his fabulous house for the summer. I liked Samuel very much – intelligent, obviously, but not the self-important type. Rather, he was effusive over his work and keen to share his vast knowledge with anyone who showed an interest. I intended to learn as much as I could from him. At some point Elio wandered in and slumped down into an armchair. My hands full, I acknowledged him with just a tilt of my head, to which he responded in much the same way, only briefly making eye contact before turning away to stare into space. I hoped he hadn't taken my abrupt departure from the piazzetta too personally.

A little later, Mrs Perlman also joined us in the room, bringing with her a pitcher of thick apricot juice and a tray of empty glasses. She filled a glass and handed it to me. I'd never drunk apricot juice before. It was thick and velvety, sliding lazily past my tongue and down my throat like those tongues of lava one sees on Hawai'i, slowly but inexorably heading for the sea. Delicious. I downed my glass in one go, only realising when Annella offered me another that I'd done it again – me and my lack of self-restraint. Once started, I couldn't stop, whether it be the consumption of soft-boiled eggs, apricot juice, or other pleasures that many would consider better savoured slowly.

Elio's father took this moment to describe the etymological origins of the word 'apricot' as fascinating, proceeding to elucidate how it was that the word had reached its present form. I smiled to myself when I realised that he had fallen into the common trap of presuming the word was of Arabic origin, and couldn't help myself but correct him - politely of course. Etymology just happened to be one of my favourite subjects. As I finished my own spiel, I took a seat beside Annella on the couch, my hands still full of stuffed envelopes, only to hear Samuel announce that I'd passed "with flying colours". Curious. I glanced up at Elio, questioningly, and felt a spark of warmth in my stomach when I saw he was looking at me with a mixture of merriment and admiration. "He does this every year" he said with a smile. I felt myself about to blush, and looked down, busying myself with the envelopes. Had Elio thought I was showing off to him? Was I?

At dinner we were joined by a lively couple of visiting architects who drove an animated conversation that happily required little input from me to keep them talking. Afterwards we all moved into the lounge, where Elio's father beseeched him to play for us on the piano. With everybody's eyes on him, and his attention elsewhere, I felt I could allow myself to really look at him for the first time without appearing suspiciously fixated. He perched on the stool, all lean limbs and smooth skin, draping his long elegant fingers over the ivory keys to draw a glorious melody from the antique instrument. I leaned back into the couch, blown away, letting my mind wander in the music and wondering about this captivating young man.

The following nine days I only remember as a haze of long days working on my thesis under the blazing sun down by the pool in the backyard, Elio lying nearby either reading, transcribing music or playing guitar. Occasionally we talked, he continually impressing me with his knowledge of literature, the arts, history, practically everything, but more often we simply co-existed in silence. Elio seemed reluctant to enter into conversation, yet was usually nearby. Part of me wanted to get to know him better, but another part of me was trying its hardest to not pay him any attention at all. He was too young. I didn't know exactly how old he was, but certainly at least five years younger than me. He shouldn't be messed with. Don't go there. Sometimes when I chanced to look at him and did my best to hold his gaze, his expression seemed so indifferent that I felt chastened and confirmed in my assessment that there was nothing between us, which was a reprieve of a kind. Yet other times I could have sworn I felt his eyes on me when I was head-down concentrating on my texts. I couldn't work out his thoughts, which was unfortunately far more alluring than if he had been an open book. I tried to convince myself that he was just an intellectually stimulating person, that having him nearby for occasional conversation was all that I really wanted, nothing more. Yet I seemed incapable of preventing my eyes from wandering to him, roaming over his slender form, trying to make out the contours of those parts of him that were masked from my view by clothing. Thank god for sunglasses.

I met many of his friends as they came by to play tennis, swim in the pool, play volleyball, loiter and chat. It appeared that the Perlmans' summer house was a bit of an open feast where everyone was welcome to show up at any time of day and just hang out. I loved it. I loved the artlessness of these Italians and part-Italians, how publicly affectionate they were to all and sundry. Rolling out my usual free-wheeling friend-to-all act that had never yet failed to charm, they embraced me into their group and I was soon fielding invitations from left, right and centre to visit for dinner, go for a swim, go dancing at night. Particularly from several of the girls, sweet young things and probably good-looking too, if one was that way inclined. Occasionally I accepted - after all, one of the purposes of me being here was to improve my Italian and what better way to do that than surround yourself with garrulous young people and their families?

I also received requests from local scholars to attend dinners at their homes in much the same way as others were hosted by the Perlmans. These invitations I always accepted. On the mornings after I'd been out late dining with another family I always scanned Elio's face to look for any sign that he had missed me the previous evening, but I was always met with careful neutrality. Too careful. I had long ago mastered the art of reading between the lines of the stories people told with words by interpreting their faces, their body language. I was pretty sure Elio enjoyed being in my company as much as I enjoyed being in his. I needed to be certain.