“Because you’ve had a stick in your ass and never wanted to leave Boston?” Fiona chirped, stealing a glance at Daisy, who nodded her head vigorously.
“Oh. Right,” I said, sipping my Campari and soda. “That.”
“And the fact that we’re never in the same place at the same time,” Daisy added, waving the waiter over and ordering another round of drinks.
“There’s also that,” Fiona agreed, leaning across the table toward me, resting her chin in her hands. “I was kidding about the stick in your ass. Mostly.”
“Your Botox looks really good, I can barely notice it.” I smiled prettily at her as she cracked up.
“Good goddamn have I missed you, Bardot!” She pointed at Daisy. “Not this one, though, this one I see too often.”
“You see me maybe three times a year,” Daisy replied, shaking her head.
“That’s too often,” Fiona said, as Daisy mouthed it. The three of us had pledged the same sorority freshman year at Boston College, and became instantly joined at the hip. Fiona was a different sort of gal, and without being a legacy in the sorority (two older sisters, her mother, and her grandmother, not to mention her cousin, who was president when we were rushing), she likely would have become just a face in the crowd. Independent, free spirited, extremely political, she was brash and loud and we loved it.
There was something about the three of us that clicked, and we’d remained fast friends throughout the years. Though I was in more regular contact with Daisy, Fiona was one of those friends you didn’t have to talk to very often, didn’t need to check in with more than a few times a year . . . but you knew she’d drop everything and be there the second you needed anything.
“Speaking of three times a year, I heard Daniel’s putting it to his secretary instead of you; what the hell is up with that?”
“Dear God,” I moaned, apologizing to the people at the nearby table who’d suddenly become way more interested in our conversation than their own. “Also, Daisy? I could kill you.”
“What, you think I wouldn’t find out on my own? My mother told me all about it; you’re the talk of the needlepoint circuit, kiddo,” Fiona responded, crunching a breadstick between her teeth. “And for the record, I’m glad you dumped his sorry ass. Daniel was too pretty. You just know that guy wasn’t ever going to be up for some serious fucking.”
“Dear. God,” I said again, this time a bit more quietly. I reached for my glass. An afternoon with Fiona was like a crash course in all things obvious. She called it like she saw it, never held anything back, and at times offered information that no one had even asked for. “For the record, he was up for some serious fucking. I saw him doing it, just not to me.”
“Just be glad you’re getting out while you’ve still got all those great sex years ahead,” she said, nodding wisely. “You should never waste good sex years with a weenie. And no offense, but Daniel is a weenie.”
“Agreed, now can we change the subject?” I begged. “Where are you off to now?”
Lately everyone I knew was coming back from or running off to a grand adventure, and Fiona was no exception. She actually got paid to go on grand adventures. A field producer for the Travel Channel, she literally went around the world and back to seek out and uncover the most interesting places in the world . . . and then make her television audience want to book a trip immediately. She spent more than nine months on the road each year, was rarely home, and gladly suffered an extreme case of wanderlust.
She was a road warrior, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I’m off to Ireland, a little place called Dingle, can you imagine? I can’t tell you how many bad jokes I’m already writing in my head about a place called Dingle. I was just location scouting down in Sicily, so I had to stop by and see my girl here, and how great that you’re here, too!”
“How long are you in town?” Daisy asked.
“Leaving tonight, can you believe it?”
“What?” I sputtered. “You just got here!”
“I know, I know, but Dingle is calling. I’ll try and get back here in a few months, or will you be back in Boston by then, Miss Thing?” She looked at me expectantly, no doubt thinking I’d be back home any day now.
Daisy also looked at me, full of the same questions.
“A few months, huh?” I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ll still be here.”
Fiona thumped her fist on the table. “Fuck yes!”
“Dear God,” I said, slinking down in my seat.
“Do you think they sing ‘Dingle Bells’ at Christmas?” Daisy asked.
AFTER WE GOT FIONA OFF to dingle, I spent a good portion of the night—and early morning—tucked away in my bedroom with the Italian phrase book that Daisy gave me when I first arrived.
I needed to beef up my Italian vocabulary—I was meeting Marcello’s parents, for goodness’ sake. People who were important to him, and I wanted to show them that I wasn’t just some American floozy who was only interested in a summer fling. It was more than that. We were more than that.
My heart sped up as I rehearsed in front of the mirror, practicing common phrases in what I hoped was perfectly accented Italian. The harder I tried, the more ridiculous I sounded. When Daisy casually asked why I was speaking Italian with a Russian accent, I decided to call it a night and give it another go in the morning when I was more rested and relaxed . . . and decidedly less nervous.
By morning, the nerves quadrupled.
My bags were packed and waiting by the door while I sat on the couch, bouncing my legs anxiously. Then I moved to the chair. Before long I was pacing. I stared out the window before moving back to sit next to my luggage on the small iron chair that Daisy hung her purse on every day. I glanced down at my stuff and smiled.
I had consolidated everything I needed into my large duffel and oversized slouchy leather purse that I bought one afternoon at La Sella, a family-run store that I stumbled upon after taking a wrong turn on the way to work. Camel colored and buttery soft.
“Stop petting your pretty purse,” Daisy said, strolling into the living room.
“I’m not petting it,” I replied, absently stroking the handle.
“Where’s all your stuff?”
“That is all my stuff,” I replied, crossing my arms over my linen dress.
“You’re kidding. Just one?” She picked up the large bag. “It’s light, too. Are you running a fever?”
I shook my head.
“Ah, you plan on being naked most of the time?” she marveled. “If so, my hat’s off to you.”
I laughed, rubbing at the erratic thumping in my chest. “Not sure naked is the best first impression. You’re forgetting that I’m meeting the family for the first time.”
“Wait, so you think you and Marcello will go the entire weekend without trying to throw a leg around? I don’t believe it, lemme see what’s in here. There’s no way you packed this light.” She laughed, unzipping the bag to peer inside.
I shrugged. “Not having to pack all of my hair products and tools means I don’t need a separate bag just for that. I brought flats, which are rolled up to save space, plus the pair I have on. Every outfit I packed is light with interchangeable separates—”
“Barring any sex or sauce accidents that you may have that’d throw a wrench in your interchangeable separates,” Daisy said, interrupting.
Standing, I jabbed a finger into her arm. “If you jinxed me, I’m coming home and kicking your ass, Daisy Miller!”
My phone beeped, alerting me to an incoming text from Marcello.
I am here.
“Holy shit, he’s here. I’m so nervous. How do I look? What if they hate me? What if they know I’m divorced? Well, practically divorced. Can a Catholic sense that sort of thing? Isn’t that a sin? What if they know we’ve already had sex! Like really dirty, curl-your-toes-and-scream-about-God sex! Oh my God. Is that a sin, too? Yelling God during sex?”
“Oh for Christ sake, calm yourself, woman,” s
he said, snapping her fingers to break me out of my nervous rant. “Yes, this is a big deal, but they’re going to love you. Who wouldn’t? You make him happy and that’s what they’ll care about. Not that you’re American or divorced or that you play with Marcello’s breadstick. But that you’re obnoxiously in love with him. Just don’t get caught doing the hanky-panky.”
She scooped me in for a hug before pulling me out the door. I stepped onto the small landing and ran into her, dropping my duffel on my feet.
“Hey! What the hell—oh,” I muttered when I saw what she was focused on.
There was Marcello, my Marcello, leaning against a sexy cherry-red convertible. The sun was hitting him just so, and that sight of him took my breath away. He was dressed in light-colored pants and a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tan arms crossed over his chest, and my heart flipped.
How could I ever have thought this was a fling? There wasn’t any doubt in my mind that I was full-blown, hopelessly back in love with him. Actually, I don’t think I ever fell out of love. As much as I wanted to believe that I got over him the first time, I hadn’t.
Seeing him here, I knew that if this second chance somehow went south, I’d never get over him. “Holy—”
“—shit,” Daisy finished, and I was sure she wiped a bit of drool from her chin.
He smiled and looked down in a boyish way. He pushed off from the car and stepped to the side enough to open the passenger door.
Daisy was rolling her tongue back into her mouth when she insisted, “I’m not attracted to him.” She finished by giving him a very thorough once-over. “You have to know that.”
“That’s good.”
“But, my God.”
“I know,” I agreed, fanning myself in the late-summer heat.
“How long is the drive?”
“About two hours.”
“You’re lucky if you make it in three,” she said, turning me toward her. “Between that man, that car, and you in that dress? You’re not going to make it out of the city without him stopping for a quickie somewhere.” She laughed, swatting my butt before disappearing back into the apartment.
He was up the stairs before the front door clicked shut. Suppressing a grin, I took tiny steps back as he stalked forward on the small landing.
“Hi,” I said, standing a bit taller and pushing my boobs out just enough to catch his eyes.
They flickered down and his nostrils flared at the tight bodice and squared neckline that was highlighting my sun-kissed cleavage.
“You look . . .” he began, before scooping me up into his arms to pin me against the door.
Between kisses, he murmured, “Gorgeous. Stunning. Breathtaking.” He kissed me again and again, each kiss getting more frantic. “We need twenty minutes.”
His hips thrust forward and Daisy’s words echoed in my mind. Quickie.
“You’re going to make us late,” I panted, my head thudding back against the door while he kissed and licked a path from my neck to the strap of my dress. Slowly, he began pulling it to the side, baring my shoulder to his kisses. His fingers were hot as he nipped at my skin and I could feel the smile against my body.
“They will understand. Let us inside. I can be quick. Ten minutes.”
“But we’ve got . . . Jesus that feels good . . . a two-hour drive ahead and—”
“I will speed.”
“Daisy’s home.”
“She won’t mind.”
“Marcello,” I admonished, gently pushing against him and laughing.
“Mannaggia,” he groaned, resting his forehead to my shoulder.
We were both breathing heavily, his hands tightening around my waist. His lips swept up for one more heated kiss before he backed away.
I looked down to see tiny red marks scattered across my chest from his beard. “I hope these fade before we get there.”
“I will just make new ones,” he said, swinging my bag over his shoulder. With his free hand, he held on to mine as we walked down to the car.
“You like?” he asked, resting my duffel and purse next to his on the backseat of the sports car. “I borrowed it from a friend for the weekend.”
I ran my finger along the door, down the front, and across, mindful of his heated gaze following me the entire time.
“Can I drive?”
He laughed, but I could see his mind was still on other things. His eyes burned with that heat that usually meant I’d be naked it thirty seconds.
“Five minutes,” he begged.
I gulped. “We’ll be late.”
“This is no longer a concern of mine, tesoro,” he murmured, beginning to push me up against the car, his hands already moving toward the straps of my dress again.
“No, no, later, I promise.” I held him literally at arm’s length. “If we can sneak away from your family and not get caught.”
He hung his head and sighed, took a moment to collect himself, then nodded. Once we were settled in the car, he handed me a small, thin box.
“What’s this?” I asked, tearing open the bow before he even answered.
He chuckled, picking up bits of flying paper and tucking them into his pocket.
Underneath a sheet of tissue paper was a large square black scarf. I pulled it out, loving the slip of the silk between my fingers.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, my breath catching when I got to the tiny embroidered AB in the corner. It was simple, thoughtful, and perfect. “Thank you.”
“It is from that shop near the office.”
“I love that shop.” I’d mentioned that to Daisy once in passing. “But how did you know?”
He looked sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “I overheard you.”
I took his hand, squeezing. “That was weeks ago.”
Shrugging, he brought my hand up to his lips. “I saw it one afternoon and went in. I thought this would suit you.”
“I love it.” I began knotting it around my neck when he stopped me. “No, tesoro. Like this.”
Folding it into a triangle, he rested it near my forehead and pulled it down, sweeping it beneath my hair. “Hold here,” he instructed, placing my hand on top of my head. Then taking the two tails, he wrapped them loosely around my neck before tying them in a small knot at the base of my skull.
He took a deep breath and grinned. Something flickered in his eyes. “What?” I said, self-consciously touching the scarf.
“Look,” he said, pointing to the small rearview mirror.
I smiled at my reflection. The scarf was covering all of my hair. Perfect for a long drive in a convertible.
“I feel like Audrey Hepburn,” I said, leaning over and kissing him soundly.
Stepping away, I slid back into my seat, pulling his hand into my lap and squeezed.
“Ah, one more thing,” he said, plucking a small felt bag from the dashboard.
Inside were a pair of oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses. “You shouldn’t have.” Slipping them on, I glanced in the mirror once more before laying another kiss on him. “I love them. Thank you.” I kissed him again, then once more, my own hands now beginning to roam across his shoulders. It was nearly impossible for me to stop touching him once I got my hands on him again.
Before I knew it he’d pulled me over the gearshift, sitting me in his lap. His hands were holding my rear, kneading and keeping me right against him.
At this rate, we’d be lucky if we made it out of Rome at all.
* * *
“ARE YOU SURE I can’t drive?”
At first I thought I’d be disappointed that I couldn’t drive, especially when he explained that it was a 1967 Alfa Romeo Duetto. But once we broke free of the crush of traffic in Rome proper, it turned out that watching Marcello drive a sexy car was better than getting to drive. I leaned back against the headrest, enjoying the sun on my face as he masterfully drove through the ribbons of roads in the Italian countryside.
“You can if you like. I cannot promise I
would keep my hands to myself, though,” he teased, slipping his hand from the gearshift to my thigh, where he pushed my hem up, up, up.
“Seems like you can’t keep your hands to yourself even while you’re driving.” Moving his hand back to my knee, I tried to keep my attention on the countryside outside of the car, rather than the dreamy Italian driving it. The landscape was a blur, zipping by in golds and greens. Now that we were out of the city, the air began to change, lighter and more fresh. Like any city, Rome had its own smell. It wasn’t always pleasant, but you learned to live with the pockets of funk in order to bask in the incredible aromas of pasta, chocolate, and cheese. But out here, I breathed deep, filling my lungs with the earth. Freshly cut grass, wildflowers, and this inexplicable smell that I couldn’t put my finger on.
“So tell me about the festival going on this weekend.”
Marcello lifted our clasped hands to his mouth and gently kissed each of my knuckles while keeping his other hand firmly on the steering wheel. “I was hoping to keep it a surprise. It is nothing fancy, but it gives my family a reason to all get together and visit.”
“And just how many lucky girls have come home with you at festival time?” I teased, turning in my seat to watch him as he drove. He was silent for a moment, then glanced over.
“Zero.”
“Zero?”
“Zero.” He nodded, kissing my hand once more. “I’ve never brought a girl home with me.”
“Ever?”
“Never.”
“But . . . why?”
He shrugged.
“But surely there have been other girls,” I said.
He was quiet for a moment. “There have been other girls, this is true.”
Hmm, maybe I didn’t want to know this.
“But no one serious?”
“I have dated women, some longer than others. I think you could say there have been a few that were serious. But that is rarely the case.”
“That seems a little lonely,” I said.
“I am rarely alone,” he replied, arching an eyebrow. “I work, Avery, I work a lot. I travel a lot. I meet women, I date women. But no one I would have considered bringing home.”