Going Hard

Carina Wilder

Contents

Foreword

1. Prologue: Lucy

2. Lucy

3. Dylan

4. Lucy

5. Dylan

6. Lucy

7. Dylan

8. Lucy

9. Dylan

10. Lucy

11. Dylan

12. Lucy

13. Lucy

14. Dylan

15. Lucy

16. Lucy

17. Lucy

18. Lucy

19. Dylan

20. Lucy

21. Lucy

22. Dylan

23. Lucy

24. Lucy

25. Lucy

26. Lucy

27. Dylan

28. Lucy

29. Lucy

30. Dylan

31. Lucy

32. Lucy

Coming Soon!

Also by Carina Wilder

Foreword

About the book:

Lucy hasn't seen Dylan in years. Not since a passionate kiss they shared one night back in college, when everything that seemed so right had somehow managed to go very wrong. So when she runs into him in Rome during a summer holiday, she wonders what fate could possibly have in store for her fragile heart.

Dylan has always thought of Lucy Horner as the one who would have gotten away. That is, if he'd ever gotten close enough to have her. Now he may just get another opportunity with her.

As long as he doesn't do something stupid again.

The most extraordinary city in the world, entrancing in its timeless beauty and romance.

When in Rome...

Don't be a bleeping idiot.

One

Prologue: Lucy

June 28 2010.

The worst date in the history of the universe.

That was the night when Dylan Emerson kissed me for the first time. The night when, at the far-too-old-to-still-be-a-virgin age of twenty years, I was supposed to lose my long-preserved flower.

Not at all coincidentally, it was also the night when I lost all faith in the half of the human population with testicles, hardened my fragile heart to stone, and decided that love was bullshit.

In retrospect, that may all sound a little melodramatic.

I guess another way to put it would be to say that I realized something profound, something that every woman must learn at some point in her life:

Men

fucking

suck.

Especially the devilishly hot ones with eyes that can power small cities with a smouldering gaze. The ones with sexy smiles and amazing physiques, with senses of humour and just enough kindness to convince you that they would never hurt you. The men who seem oh-so-trustworthy, at least until they don’t.

Dylan Emerson was just such a creature.

As far as I know, he still is.

That evening in June 2010, I was headed out to what was being called the Party To End All Parties, the great bonfire on the beach that would kick off the last summer of my college years. Everybody who was anybody was going to be there: the major fraternities, the minor ones. The sororities. The nerds, the jocks, the intellectuals, the all-around wizards of academia. Literally every human from our graduating class was invited. This party’s population was a massive slew of semi-drunk to very-drunk attendees from all walks of student life. So naturally, the college football team would also be there.

As would its star quarterback, who happened to be the boy I’d adored from afar for years, ever since I was a sophomore at Greendale High. It was in the hallowed halls of our high school that he’d first said hello to me one day, lighting my innocent, stupid heart on fire.

Dylan Emerson had it all: looks, brains, abs of steel, and the ability to turn me into a quivering bowl of jelly every time he spoke to me. We’d been friends since those high school days, which really only means that we occasionally ran in the same circles. It wasn’t as though we braided one another’s hair or confided in each other about our love lives. At most, we sometimes chatted about this or that professor or an upcoming exam.

The problem was, of course, that before we could ever get to anything good, our conversations were always interrupted by some girlfriend or other who was invariably lurking in the background, waiting for him to take her home and fuck her blue. A god like Dylan was never single. He was worshiped and adored by every female who knew him. I always thought it was a great injustice that some girls got to worship him up close, while my adoration was forced to remain a sort of distant, safe carnal lust. An I don’t have to worry about being rejected because I’ll never get close enough to have him laugh in my face sort of desire, that was really just an excuse for self-pity-laced solitude.

Over the years I dated other boys, of course. I refuse to call them men because, well, they weren’t. They thought they were, but they had a hell of a lot of growing up to do. In retrospect, so did I. Occasionally I managed to commit to someone for more than a week, but I never got serious about anyone. As long as I knew that Dylan occupied the same square mile as I did, it was impossible to bring myself to offer my pure-as-the-driven-snow body to someone else. He was the only man I’d ever really wanted. When I was kissing other men I fantasized about him. When I was alone, I fantasized about him. He was the king of my heart, the master of my arousal.

But most of all, he was unobtainable. Even so, I held out hope. I remained a virgin, holding onto my innocence like some precious gift on the off chance that maybe, just maybe I could one day bestow it upon the god of football and academics. A self-inflicted chastity belt for the man we called Dill Pickle.

Yup, was his nickname. It had nothing to do with his dick, which, of course, I’d never had the pleasure of seeing in the flesh. Rumour had it, though, that Manaconda would have been a more apt title for him. As well as everything else that made him a superhuman god-man, his impressive dick had become legend, which only cranked up my sexual fantasies to eleven.

As for me, I had a nickname, too. He and our other friends always called me Loose, their short form for Lucy. I wasn’t loose, of course; not at all. I was tightly wound, ready to explode at any moment. That’s what years of unrequited lust will do to you.

But on that fateful night in late June, things were about to unwind at last. I’d heard from friends that Dylan had broken up with his latest girlfriend, Chloe. Which meant that there was a one in a million chance that I’d finally get to be with him. Apparently those odds were sufficient to get me to drag my ass to the party, reluctant though I was to attend such a gathering on my own.

I was hopeful, wide-eyed and idealistic. And the evening couldn’t possibly have started better. The first person I saw was Dylan, standing by the fire, talking to one of his football player buddies. Aaron, I think his name was. The two of them weren’t all that different looking from a distance. Aaron, like Dylan, had thick blond hair and broad shoulders. He wasn’t nearly as handsome, of course. No one was.

Dylan looked so good, his light hair and lean, muscular frame standing out against the growing darkness. A walking, talking, breathing glass of something smooth, sexy and oh, so drinkable. His blue eyes could have captured any woman’s heart or soothed the most raging soul.

He was wearing his quarterback jersey, the number twelve highlighted in bold yellow digits on its back and front.

I walked towards him, not sure exactly what I was doing. I suppose my plan was to say an awkward hello then spend the rest of the night drooling from a healthy distance, as I’d done for the last several years. Little did I dare to hope that we could actually wind up naked together; I wasn’t exactly a seasoned seducer of men at that point in my life.

Not like I am now.

But Dylan, god that he was, immediately took the pressure off. “Loose!” he shouted as I approached. When I heard my ironic nickname I froze and smiled. Waving Aaron off, he jogged my way, a wide grin spreading across his lips. My heart leapt, both as a thanks for rescuing me from the potential of awkward solitude and because, let’s face it, I wanted to rip his jersey off and bury my face in his pecs.

Have I mentioned that he was fucking perfect?

“Hey, Dylan,” I replied, or at least I think I did. More likely it came out as “Hurdy gurdy, Dibble.” I was already drooling, my tongue swelling three sizes as I took in the sight of his gorgeous face. All I remember is hoping he couldn’t hear the crazy disco beat that my heart was pounding against my chest. “How’s it going?”

“Great, now that you’re here,” he said, laying a hand on my lower back like he was taking immediate ownership of me. Another moment I’ll never forget. Who knew that a woman’s back could become an erogenous zone in the blink of an eye? “Listen,” he said, “you want a beer?”

Oh my God. The hottest man in California, or possibly the world, was asking me if I wanted a drink. With him. Of course I said yes. I wouldn’t have said no to anything that guy offered me. I was young, stupid and horny, a trifecta that easily cancels out all reasonable brain function.

Dylan ran off and came back with two red cups in hand before escorting me to a nearby log, where we sat down to talk. I don’t know how any of that beer made it into my mouth, to be honest. I was shaking like a nervous leaf on crack the entire time, unsure of what to do. I was the dog who’d finally caught the car. What the hell do you do with a man like Dylan when you finally have him to yourself?

Thankfully, he answered the question for me. After half an hour, every fantasy I’d ever had began to come true. He and I had chatted about everything from our hopes for our future careers to our dreams about traveling. Things were going great.

And then they got even better.

“Do you want to go for a walk along the beach?” he asked. I nodded my head. God yes. A beach walk could only end one way, right? Sex. Sex. Sex. Please, God, let there be so much sex, I silently prayed.

When we were far enough away from the bonfire and the rowdy, drunken crowd, the man of my dreams made his move. He stopped, turned to me and leaned in slowly, touching his lips to mine tentatively, like he wasn’t totally sure he was welcome. His tongue searched mine out, and when he found it, I thought I would die of happiness.

“Wait here,” he said abruptly when the kiss had ended. I could see desire flashing in his eyes; I was so sure that I wasn’t imagining it. He had to know how much I wanted him, too. “I’m going to get us a blanket,” he told me. “I’ll be right back.” With another quick peck on the lips, he was off like a lightning bolt, dashing towards the bonfire.

Oh, yes, yes, yes, I thought, my lips tingling as I danced around on my tiptoes, victorious at last. Sex on the beach wasn’t just a cocktail anymore. My heart fluttered in my chest as I realized that it was really happening; I was going to lose my flower to Dylan fucking Emerson on a sultry summer night.

Everything would go my way from that moment forward. We were going to make love. It was going to be amazing. And after we’d finished, we’d skip off hand in hand, go back to his place in his little red Honda and make love again. Ten times at least.

We would become two wild beasts, crying out with pleasure as our fingernails raked along one another’s flesh. I’d call out his name as I came I’d finally let him know how I’d felt about him for so long. He’d tell me that I was the only woman he’d ever really loved. Eventually we’d get married, have beautiful blond babies and live happily ever after in a state of perpetual carnal bliss.

Yup. Just as soon as he came back with the blanket, it would all begin.

But the thing was, he never came back.

* * *

I waited for what felt like half an hour, my heart going from happy to panicked with each second that passed. To be fair, he may have been gone for no more than ten minutes. But as everyone knows, when you’re horny and alone, time passes in slow motion.

The bonfire couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes away, so I started heading back to see if Dylan might be having some kind of problem. Maybe he was at his car, looking for his massive collection of extra-large condoms, trying to pick out the perfect one for this auspicious occasion. Maybe someone had grabbed him and started a conversation that he couldn’t get out of. It had to be one of those two, because I couldn’t take the idea that he’d changed his mind.

When I got to the fire, I could see the orange glow reflected on the animated, happy faces that surrounded it. I wandered among party-goers, searching for the one face I wanted to see, frantically looking around for the blond god with the big bold twelve on his back.

When I didn’t find him, my eyes steered themselves towards the darkened parking lot in the distance. Yes, he had to be there. Maybe he was still at the car, hunting for that elusive blanket. There was still hope.

I’ll never forget the moment when I finally spotted him. He was also on his way to the parking lot. Walking away from me towards his car, that damned number twelve moving along under a head of thick, blond hair. He wasn’t going blanket-hunting, though; he was with a woman. No, not just a woman. It was Dylan’s ex-girlfriend, Chloe. Though she didn’t look much like an ex in that moment.

Apparently Mr. Sexy Quarterback was walking her to his car, her body wrapped up tight under the protection of his muscular right arm. It seemed that he’d forgotten about my existence. He’d left me on the beach alone without thinking twice.

It turned out that Dylan Emerson didn’t give a shit about me.

For some reason, I watched as they all but disappeared into the darkness of the sand-covered parking lot. When they stopped at Dylan’s red Honda Civic, his back was still facing towards me, almost like he was shunning me deliberately. That moment, it turns out, was a foreshadowing of our entire future. Never again would I look upon his face. My last sighting of him would be of his back, that evil number twelve mocking me, a grim reminder of how little he thought of me.

After Chloe kissed him on the neck, giggling, he politely held open the passenger door for her. My eyes blurring over with hot tears, I watched his silhouetted form walk around to the driver’s side, hop into the car and drive them both away.

That’s when I turned and ran.

That night I gave up on two things: Dylan Emerson and love.

Two

Lucy

Sunday July 30 2017

My name is Lucy Horner. I’m twenty-seven years old, and I’m about to die at the hands of a psychotic cab driver.

Correction: a psychotic Roman cab driver.

I’ve just arrived in the Eternal City. I’ve heard more times than I can count that Rome is the most beautiful place on earth, but I have absolutely no idea if that’s true, because for the last several minutes I’ve been covering my eyes with my trembling hands. That’s right, I’ve turned into the sort of wussy girl who avoids watching the most gruesome part of slasher movies, because I know someone’s about to die in a horrible, bloody mess.

I’ve silently dubbed my insane driver and would-be murderer Signor Smellissimo. To put it mildly, he’s a scruffy man. His aromatic scent is a potent mix of garlic, cheese, cheap cologne, and cigars, not necessarily in that order. On top of that, his stubble seems to have grown a layer of moss. Or is that mold?

The worst part is that his appearance isn’t nearly as offensive as his driving. Every time I dare a peek from between my tense fingers, I become more convinced that Signor Smellissimo is deliberately plummeting me towards an early grave along twisting streets and masses of other insane motorists. To add to it, as if to taunt me, vespa riders veer in and out of traffic around us, trying to prove that they’re even more reckless than my taxi driver. Those guys are definitely vying for the Who’s the Craziest Fucker in Italy Competition.

One person did warn me about this place, of course: my mother. The most overly protective woman who’s ever breathed air, she’s also the most paranoid. When she found out I was coming to Rome alone, she informed me in no uncertain terms that I’d be robbed, killed and left in an alleyway only to be eaten by ravens after my body had been defiled by a lengthy series of evil vagrants with rusty knives and a hunger for American woman-flesh. Of course, my mother’s pretty convinced that the same thing could happen to me on the streets of Los Angeles, so this isn’t exactly anything new.

She’s also convinced that the one and only reason my life is in constant peril is that I’m single. Single women, it seems, have targets painted on their foreheads that scream “Please murder me in the most horrible way imaginable. I am helpless and pathetic.”

As for my pending demise on the streets of Rome…frankly, I’m okay with it. If I’m going to be the victim of a grisly crime I’d rather succumb in an exotic locale like this one than on the smelly streets of summertime L.A.

I can’t help but chuckle to myself as I hear my driver throwing out curse after Italian curse at the traffic, even as he makes illegal turns, swerves in front of oncoming cars and wreaks general havoc on my nervous system.

I have to say, for all his lunacy, I sort of admire Signor Smellissimo. The man gives no fucks about anything, and some part of me aspires to his level of sociopathy. I’ve spent my whole life caring way too damned much about what others think of me, and he’s mastered not giving a shit like it’s a fine art.

Still, I wish he cared just enough to consider the fact that he’s scaring the hell out of me with his maniacal race car driving.

In an attempt to steer my mind away from my upcoming death, I tear my hand away from my eyes and pull out the sheet of paper that outlines the information about my apartment here in Rome. At the top is a company logo for the Single Ladies’ Travel Agency, the organization that set me up with this trip. Their motto is “Ladies, It’s Time To Do Something Just For You,” and that’s exactly what I intend to do on this holiday of mine. That is, if I manage to make it out of this cab alive.

I’m going to eat, walk the streets, eat some more, drink, stare at handsome men and then probably eat again. At some point I might even throw caution to the wind and have sex with a stranger. That is, if I can find a stranger who doesn’t smell like an overheated garbage can. So far I’m batting zero on that front.

After weaving his way through the maze of city towards the pretty area known as Trastevere, my pungent driver finally pulls to a stop next to a tiny little car that apparently offends him by virtue of its very existence. He’s growling at it, some deep resentment setting his face into a horrible scowl.

My head spinning with relief, I push out a long exhale, pop open the door, slide out of the back seat and step onto the dark grey cobblestones that make up the narrow street.

“Ecco undici,” the driver grunts, pointing to the number on the building next to us as he slips out his side and raises a fist at a vespa driver who’s just come perilously close to castrating him with his side mirror.

Signor S. is pointing to a small iron eleven screwed to the stucco wall. Yes, that’s my building—I guess. But all I see is a closed wrought-iron gate that looks like it leads down a dark corridor to the depths of hell. Oh, goody. It’s the alleyway where my mother warned me I’d be slaughtered like a cow on steak night. Well, I’m committed to my fate now. No way am I getting back into the cab with ol’ Smellykins; I’d rather sleep in a mound of discarded spaghettini.

“Grazie,” I reply, mustering a nauseated smile.

He dumps my luggage on the street and, after I’ve handed him a wad of euros, motors off, leaving me alone, baffled and confused. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do now. But it doesn’t matter. I’m here to have an adventure, and apparently locating my temporary home is Part Two. This bit seems less dangerous than the drive, at least.

Opening up the screenshot I took of the agency’s directions, I’m reminded that Katherine, the woman in charge of getting me here, told me to head to number thirteen to get the key. Exhausted from too much time spent in transit, I sling my pack onto my back, wheel my giant suitcase over to the next building, and press the buzzer.

“Pronto!” a voice says through the intercom. Pronto? Shit. I have no idea what that means. I hope someone here speaks English, because my Italian is limited to gelato, spaghetti, mamma mia and a pile of cab-driver curses that probably mean I’m going to have sex with your goat, you bastard.

“Uh…my name is Lucy Horner,” I say, pressing my face towards the speaker. “I’m here for the keys to unit two-oh-three.”

“Ah, si, si!” says the voice. A moment later a very wrinkled, very short woman is popping out the door with a set of two keys in hand. She’s all dressed in black, her face both stern and friendly at once. The lines on her skin tell me that she’s experienced every emotion known to humankind over the course of her long life. Her face is a topographical map of her history of love, sadness, happiness, laughter and probably a little gas, from the looks of things. Her hair is pulled back under some sort of dark scarf, and she looks like she stepped right out of 1950.

I already love her. I want to ask her to make me a home-cooked Italian meal that involves a lot of tomatoes and oregano. But apparently she’s not so in love with me. Her expression turns judgmental as she hands me the keys, looks me up and down, eyes my luggage, then unceremoniously turns away to call to someone hidden in the depths of her dark flat.

“Giancarlo! Vieni qui! Vieni, vieni!”

I have no idea what that means, but I hope she’s not asking a porter to give me a piggy-back ride up the stairs. I may be tired and desperate, but I have my pride.

My face lights up when almost immediately the most gorgeous, olive-skinned, dark haired, blue eyed, perfect Italian man is standing in front of me with a crooked smile on his face. His hair is curly and a little unkempt, his eyelashes dark, outlining bright eyes. His lips are full and a little pouty. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t speak a word of English, but damn, who the hell cares? Maybe he could teach me the language of love.

Actually, upon further inspection, he looks about twenty-one. That might just be a little too young and inexperienced for me. I’d end up teaching him new positions. I’m not really here to become a part-time sexual tutor.

Wait, who am I kidding? It would probably be awfully fun to give lessons to a guy who looks that good. Besides, in return he could teach me how to say reverse cowgirl in Italian.

Go home, brain. You’re drunk.

“Vai! Vai!” Shrieks the old lady, and without a word Giancarlo, brawny and submissive Italian god, grabs my suitcase. The thing weighs more than I do, but he carries it like it’s a tote bag full of feathers and guides me towards the iron gate that leads into the building next door.

“Keys,” he says, turning and grunting the word like Tarzan as he extends a hand towards me. Hmm. If he were Tarzan, he’d take off his shirt. He should totally do that.

As we make eye contact, his expression softens. A sexy, seductive smile spreads across his lips again. Okay, for a young, innocent man-boy, he sure knows how to make a woman’s panties melt with nothing more than his eyes. For a moment I’ve totally forgotten what he wanted or even where I am.

Oh, right. Keys.

When I’ve handed them to him, he unlocks the gate and guides me down a long stone passageway that ends in two sets of stairs; one leading to the left, the other to the right. I follow him up the stairs to the right, marvelling at the antiquity of this place. The walls are made of plaster, the stairs marble, worn down to sloping centres from hundreds of years of tired feet. My mind can’t help but envision the hundreds—no—thousands of people who’ve walked up and down these steps over the centuries. Women in corsets, men who’ve just slipped off their horses. Children who’ve long since grown up and darted away on romantic adventures.

History whispers to me from the walls. Sigh. I love this place already. I sort of want to marry Rome. I’ll live on pasta and Italian coffee and luxuriate on a brass-framed bed all day while I moan about the heat. Giancarlo can be my lover and/or fetcher of cold beverages and/or loin cloth-wearing servant man who fans me with a palm frond.

When we reach the second storey the young buck unlocks unit 203 for me and hands me the keys before carrying the suitcase inside and setting it down next to the open door. Turning to smile at me again (oh God, that smile is the nectar of the gods), he speaks, this time in a full sentence.

“What is your name?” he asks, throwing a couple of extra vowels in, as if to prove just how sexy his accent is.

“Lucy,” I tell him.

“Ah, Lucia.” Only he says it like Loo-Chee-Aaaaah. He presses his arms against the doorframe, displaying his hard, lean, young body. “La bella Lucia.”

“Si,” I reply before realizing that bella means pretty. I’ve just confirmed that yes, I am beautiful, thank you very much. “This apartment is lovely,” I blurt out, trying to mask my embarrassment.

“Si, si,” he repeats. “My family owns it. I hope you like.”

“I like very much.”

He edges towards me, the scent of some very powerful cologne hitting my nose. I guess strong scents are a thing in Italy. At least he’s not wearing Eau de Trash Can, like a certain taxi driver I know. “Lucia, would you like to have dinner with me some night?”

Wow. That was forward. And a little weird. I’m pretty sure Giancarlo and I have exactly zero in common, aside from the fact that we’re two horny adults. At least, I’m an adult. He could be fresh off the puberty boat, for all I know.

My head immediately tells me that a date with this guy is a bad idea, but my long-neglected body screams fuck yes. If by dinner he means a twenty-four hour sex fest with a slightly older woman, my lady parts are totally in.

“I…yes, maybe. I mean, I’m not sure,” I stammer, my eyes moving to everything but him. When they finally focus on his face, that smile, that body of his, leaning towards me, I blurt out, “Yes. Dinner would be great.”

“Molto bene. But not tonight,” he says. “I am working.” Oh, thank God you’re old enough to have a job. “But I will come see you soon, and I will eat you out.”

I stifle a snort. “Do you mean take me out to eat?” I ask, a little too amused at his highly suggestive choice of words.

“Si, si. Take you out. Sorry, my English…” He throws me another smile, which sets my insides on fire.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, pressing a hand to the table next to me, trying to look a little sexy, though I’m pretty sure that I just look like I need to pee.

Which I totally do.

He leaves without uttering another word. I have no idea if I was supposed to tip him, but if I had it would have been something along the lines of “Here’s a tip: next time you show up, do it without clothes, you studly young deity.”

When Giancarlo’s tight, perfect buttocks have disappeared into the stairwell I shut the door behind him, spinning around to take in the full glory of the apartment. My first stop is the bathroom, which is fitted with everything I could possibly want. Fluffy towels, a hair dryer that looks like it was designed by Versace. Every kind of body lotion and shampoo you can imagine.

When I’m done in there, I head back out to the living room. Katherine, the goddess in charge of the travel agency, did tell me during one of our chats that the apartment was exceptional, and she wasn’t lying. It’s all arches and exquisite lines, its windows looking out towards a beautiful, vine-coated courtyard. Like a crazy person in heaven I flit over to push open a tall, hinged set of windows, my heart soaring with pleasure as I stare around the amazing space. I’ve discovered a hidden treasure at Rome’s heart.

This is my home for a month. A gorgeous young man has just asked me out. What could be more perfect?

The only downside is that the courtyard is, of course, surrounded by the windows of other apartments. A long balcony wraps around this entire storey, stretching its way to each and every one of the other flats. Any one of their residents could wander by my place at any moment, which is a bit unfortunate. But it also means that I can walk out and take in the beautiful courtyard any time I want.

I’m about to turn away from the window when something in the apartment across from mine grabs my attention. The windows over there, like mine, are wide open, and someone—a man—is wandering about his living room, his back to me. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of khaki shorts that sit low on his hips, showing off a tapered waist and an ass to rival Giancarlo’s. His back is taut, muscular and definitely in desperate need of claw marks from my enthralled fingernails.

I’m beginning to think there’s something wrong with me. First Giancarlo, and now this. Rome has reawakened dormant hormones in me, reminded me that I’m a single woman at her sexual peak. I want every man I see. Well, every man except for Signor Smellissimo. I do have some standards.

I’m still staring at the hottie with the perfect physique, curious to see the face that matches that body. Please, hot man, show me your features. And please be single. And please be over twenty-one.

As though he’s heard my silent plea, the sexy creature pivots to his left and leans down to grab something off the coffee table before pulling himself up to turn in my direction. My gaze slides up his torso, taking stock of his sinewy muscles. Wow. This guy is ripped. His front is definitely as good as his back.

Nice abs.

Nice pecs.

Nice…face.

Oh, my God.

I spin back around, hoping he hasn’t recognized me, and reach for the curtains to wrench them shut. The whole time I’m mumbling Please tell me he didn’t recognize me. Please, please, please.

Hesitant, I wait a few seconds before pulling the curtain open a crack to peer across the way once again.

Big mistake.

He’s still staring. He totally recognized me; I know he did. I can feel it in the air between us.

He’s pulling on a t-shirt now and still looking this way, his expression inquisitive, searching.

Damn it, why did I look at him for so long? Why did I let him see me? Why didn’t I dive behind the couch or throw myself off the balcony like any sane person would have done?

I’m officially screwed. My month-long vacation is screwed. My head is screwed.

My heart, especially, is screwed.

Dylan Emerson is in Rome. And he’s staring at me.

Three

Dylan

Holy shit.

Lucy Horner is standing fifty feet away from me.

Okay, maybe standing is the wrong word. From what I can gather, she’s doing some sort of crouch-squat combo as she attempts to conceal herself behind a very thin set of curtains. Peeking out like a timid mouse looking for cheese in a room full of cats, those amazing eyes of hers staring at me for the first time in years. Sweet, innocent, full-lipped, amazing kisser, curvaceous beauty.

Newsflash, Lucy: I can see the entire outline of your gorgeous body. You’re not fooling anybody.

You are, however, reminding me how damn sexy and unobtainable you always were.

I’m torn up inside looking at her like this, unsure of whether I should walk over and yell at her for disappearing on me that night so long ago, or kiss her full on the lips.

To this day I still remember how amazing it felt when our lips met that night on the beach. How badly I wanted her.

I still don’t know why she left like she did. All I really know is how shitty it felt to lose her before I’d ever had her.

Well, here we are, seven years later. I’m still staring at her in wonder, and she’s still peering out at me like a frightened deer hiding in the woods. I’d be willing to bet that those big brown eyes of hers have grown two sizes out of pure shock. I guess I can’t blame her for it. I’m pretty shocked, too.

But I’m also aroused.

That’s right. My stupid, disloyal body’s betraying me. Apparently my dick doesn’t believe in holding a grudge. The unruly beast between my legs has started doing its happy dance in my shorts, even though I know perfectly well that it’s not likely to get any action tonight, or ever. At least not with Loose. She made that very clear once, and I seriously doubt if she’s changed her mind.

As if she can hear my thoughts, she’s just closed the curtains again, shutting herself off from me, just as she did so long ago. Well, guess what, Loose? I’m not the stupid kid that I once was. I’m not going to let you run away again. Not without a fight, or at least a little maturity. Fuck it, I’m going to do what I should have done when I was twenty-one and she disappeared on me. I’m going to go over and talk to her, whether she likes it or not.

Determined, I pull the French doors open and step out onto the balcony to wander along the stone balustrade towards her door. When I’ve arrived, I knock and wait, my heart pounding like it only ever does after an intense cardio workout. I’ve reverted to a young, optimistic football-playing college kid all over again. You’d hardly know that I’d grown up, been through relationships and breakups, started my own company, traveled the world.

“I know you’re in there, Lucy Horner,” I say in a deep voice, resolving not to let her play hide and seek with me. No more games. This reunion is long overdue.

Finally she surrenders and pulls the door open, revealing herself fully for the first time, silhouetted by the soft light coming from the apartment behind her. A blue skirt and cotton tank top adorn her perfect body, her dark brown hair trailing loose over her sun-kissed shoulders. She’s the essence of feminine perfection.

Except for the look on her face that tells me she’s about as happy to see me as a squirrel is to see a bald eagle swooping down to grab it in its talons and devour it whole.

“Loose.” The old nickname makes its way to my smiling lips before I realize that it’s probably unwelcome. It’s been too long to return to our old ways; I can see that in her eyes. I’m also unsure whether I should attempt a hug or not. Putting my arms around her right now would be about as sensible as patting a pit bull with anger issues. She might just rip my face off.

Well, if she’s a pit bull, I must be a ghost, because all the colour has left her face like I’m here to haunt her or drain her soul.

Great, she’s rejecting me all over again. This time with a blank stare that says Hey, Dylan. Get the fuck away from me.

Just like that, my fortified, heretofore healthy masculine ego has been clobbered with a mallet. If not shattered, then definitely chipped.

“Hi, Dylan,” she mouths after what feels like a minute of awkward silence. Her eyes pull away from mine to look me up and down, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m anything more than a horrifying hologram.

Lucy was always an enigma. A quiet, big-eyed mystery wrapped in a body that begged for my touch, or tongue, or both. She was confusing back in school just as she is now, looking up at me with those beautiful almond-shaped eyes. She looks so lost, just like she did then, yet so much more like a woman. Her body has filled out in all the best possible ways, her breasts outlined in the little top she’s wearing, which dips down just enough so that a luscious line of cleavage is calling out to my eyes and my dick, saying “Look at me!”

She keeps shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her hips mesmerizing. I always loved the way she moved, like a sexy cat slipping around stealthily among crowds, trying not to make her presence known. Apparently that hasn’t changed.

“How are you?” I ask, trying my warmest smile to see if I can possibly relax her just a little.

“Fine,” she says. “Well, tired. I flew all night, so I’m pretty jet lagged. But what are you…why are you…?” She gestures towards my apartment across the way as if to say You don’t belong there. This was supposed to be my place, you bastard.

“I’m living in Rome for several months,” I tell her. “Working with an architecture firm here, doing some research for a project.” I spin around and point to my flat. “That’s home for now.”

“Oh, that’s right, you studied architecture in college. I’d almost forgotten,” she half mutters, as though she doesn’t want to recall anything from that time.

“And you? What are you doing here?”

“Vacation,” she says, though the word comes out like something that’s repulsive rather than exciting. She may as well have told me she’s serving a prison sentence with a cell mate who collects discarded fingernails and rat carcasses. “For a month.”

“You don’t say?” I raise an eyebrow. Well, well. Things just got interesting. “Are you here alone?”

No, of course she isn’t. What woman travels to Rome alone for a month? She must have a guy with her.

That’s fine. A guy is fine. I’m not jealous at all.

My dick, on the other hand, is totally jealous. I really hope there’s no guy, says Dylan Junior, who’s been in a semi-erect state since I first set eyes on Lucy. My cock, the eternal optimist.

“I…” she glances around like she’s looking for an escape route. She’s probably trying to figure out if she should make something up to cover for herself and keep me the hell away from her. “Yes, alone for now. Though I’ve met someone here.”

“Wow, you work fast,” I chuckle. “I thought you said you just arrived.” I’m watching her, trying to sort out if she’s feeding me a line of bullshit. Is she worried that I’m going to demand that she go on a date with me to make up for giving me the shaft seven years back?

“Yes. An Italian man,” she says. “His name is Giancarlo.” She’s trying to smile as she says his name, but failing miserably. Clearly Giancarlo is not the man of her dreams. “He invited me to dinner, and I said yes. Not tonight, but…soon.”

The answer is detailed enough that I think maybe she’s telling me the truth after all. Damn it.

My dick and I both hope a piano falls on Giancarlo.

“That’s good,” I say. “I’m happy for you.” Truth: I’m totally not happy for her at all. And I’m definitely not happy for Giancarlo, that lucky fuck. That is, if he actually exists. “Listen, I’ll let you get unpacked,” I add, eyeing the large suitcase that’s sitting at the far end of the room. “Do you want me to move that to the bedroom?” I ask, taking a step towards it.

“No!” she all but shouts at me, her voice desperate.

“Whoa,” I laugh, raising my hands in surrender. “I didn’t realize you were stashing a dead body in your luggage. I’ll stay away then, shall I?”

“I…it’s just heavy,” she says.

I flex my arms, displaying my biceps. Cheap move, I know, but I’m okay with being a manipulative prick for a second. “I think I can handle it.”

“Right, of course you can. But I don’t need help,” she mumbles miserably. It seems that my muscles have made things even worse.

I step back onto the balcony, ready to make myself scarce before I ruin her life entirely, and turn to face her. The thing, is, we still haven’t talked. Not really. “Listen, we should go out and catch up at some point, yeah?”

She nods, her eyes fixed on the floor.

“Actually,” I add, “I’m heading out right now to grab a coffee. Do you want to come?”

“No,” she blurts out almost before I’ve finished the question. Her eyes meet mine, all but pleading with me. A barrage of rejection bullets shoot through the air between us, and most of them hit me square in the chest. Message received. Also possible internal bleeding.

“Wow. Okay, I can take all the hints,” I reply, smiling to hide my slightly injured pride. “Sorry if the invitation came off as aggressive.” I prop my arms against the door frame and lean forward. “I don’t mean to seem like I’m putting the moves on Giancarlo’s woman.”

“I’m not his….I mean, it’s fine,” she says, her eyes moving to the floor again as she shuffles her feet. “I just can’t, not right now.”

For a moment I just stare at her, admiring every line of her face as she avoids looking into my eyes. God, she looks good, if tense as all hell.

“Loosen up, Loose,” I tell her quietly. “You’re in Rome. Anything goes here. You should unwind, have fun. I’ll come find you tomorrow when I get home from work and take you out, okay?”

Another nod. “Yeah, okay,” she says, managing the least convincing smile ever as she pulls her eyes up to meet mine.

It may be my imagination, but she looks like she wants to ask me something. There’s plenty I’d like to ask her, too. I want to know what’s going on in that amazing head of hers after all this time.

I want to know if she has any idea how much I’d like to kiss her again.

Four

Lucy

Dylan’s gone back to his apartment and away from me. Gorgeous, perfect, infuriating, frustrating, sexy Dylan, whose abs and biceps I want to lick, even though he once crushed me like a wilted flower.

Thank God he’s gone. I can breathe again.

My knees are still shaking. I feel like I’m going to throw up. My heart’s pounding. All because of a guy I’m not supposed to give a fuck about.

Over the years, I’ve told myself more times than I can count that I’m over him, but it’s become clear in the last few minutes that I never really succeeded at pushing him out of my heart. Maybe it’s because he was the first and only man I ever loved. Maybe it’s because I was saving myself for him. I don’t know. All I do know is that the moment I set eyes on him, all those old feelings flooded back through my system like a fast-moving freight train. I don’t know whether to be happy or miserable, horny or frigid.

Or all of the above.

I throw myself onto the couch like a rag doll, grab a throw pillow and hug it tight to my chest. Right now, this pillow is my only friend in the damned world, and I’m not willing to let go of it for anything.

Dylan was so friendly, so casual just now. Not at all like a guy who crushed my soul seven years ago. Could he possibly have forgotten what happened that night? The very thought that he must have cared so little makes me want to shed bitter tears and throw things at the wall.

Of course, I’m not going to, because I’m not an immature idiot like I was in college. I’m not innocent or naive or stupid. I’m a grown-ass woman who knows how to handle herself.

With a deep inhale, I remind myself that I’m also a woman who just got asked out by a hot Italian stud-muffin. I have a date with a sexy, curly-haired, swarthy man called Giancarlo; I don’t need to lose any sleep over a guy whose only claim to fame is the time he fucked me over without actually fucking me.

That’s it, I tell myself. I’m going to take a page out of Signor Smellissimo’s book and learn to give no fucks whatsoever. Dylan has no power over me, not anymore.

What sticks in my craw is that clearly I have no power over him, either. He’s just proven that he didn’t actually give a crap about me back when we were college kids. The night we kissed I was just another potential notch on the bedpost, another conquest to mark his post-high school years—at least until he got a better offer from his skanky ex. As soon as she came along, Dylan took off for Sexville, leaving me in a trail of dust and snivelling girl-tears.

I’m sure the bastard never gave me a second thought after that.

Right. No fucks given. This is my place now. My damned holiday. No one is going to ruin this for me, not even a sexy man with a perfect smile, perfect ass, perfect abs and perfect everything else. There’s definitely no way I’m going to let myself fantasize about how good he probably is in bed by now, after seven years of post-college experience. How amazing his tongue probably is at caressing a woman’s sex. What it feels like to have his hips gyrating over mine as he thrusts his massive…

STOP IT, LUCY.

Stop thinking about the past. Dylan is old news. Just because he’s hot as hell and his smile makes you want to offer him the best blowjob of his life doesn’t mean you should. He doesn’t deserve to lick your flip flops.

As I’m staring blankly at the wall and forcing away thoughts of him, my phone starts belting out All by Myself. Shit, I really need to change that ringtone. It screams “Hello, my name’s Lucy. I’m single, my life is a pathetic abyss of loneliness and torment, and by the way, I’m still totally horny for Dylan Emerson, even if I pretend I’m not.”

When I click on my phone to answer it, a familiar name pops up. It’s Katherine from the Single Ladies’ Travel Agency.

Damn it. She’s making a video call, and I’m a frazzled mess.

Although I’ve never met her in person, I’ve already determined through a couple of Skype chats that Katherine is about the coolest chick I’ve ever known. She’s smart, funny, and always seems to have her shit utterly together. I wish she taught a master class in how not to be a total disaster. I’d pay big bucks for the premium course.

Convinced that I can at least fake it for now, I wipe my damp eyes, pinch my cheeks and click on the reply button. “Hello?” I say as the image flares to life on the screen. A beautiful, ivory-skinned woman with blue eyes and a shock of red hair is staring me in the face. I’m as aware as ever of how attractive and well put-together she is.

“Hello, Lucy?” she says. I’d almost forgotten about her accent, which is the coolest blend of English, French and something unidentifiable. It’s like a mish-mash of all the places she’s lived over the course of her far-more-interesting-than-mine life.

“Hi!” I reply, a broad smile sweeping over my face, trying to cover up any residual discomfort from my close encounter with Dylan. I’m more grateful for the sound of her voice than I’m willing to say out loud. She’s come to feel like a friend by now, and God knows I could use one of those.

I set the phone down against a pile of books on the coffee table and tuck one leg under myself as I ease back down onto the couch.

“Listen,” she says, “I wanted to make sure you’re settling in okay. Did everything go all right with check-in?”

“Oh, totally,” I chirp. “Everything’s just…great.”

“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound convincing in the least.” Her expression tells me she’s genuinely concerned. Or quite possibly psychic. “Anything the matter with the flat?”

“Oh, God no. The apartment’s amazing. It’s just—” I let out a massive sigh, like sixty tons of oxygen have been trapped inside my lungs for the last several minutes and I’ve just now managed to unleash them into the atmosphere. Should I tell her? Probably not, but I will anyhow. “There’s a man I know, or at least used to know, staying across the way in the same building.”

There’s something about Katherine that just seems so damn trustworthy that I want to open up to her. But I immediately regret mentioning Dylan. All of a sudden I’m looking down at my hands, which are fidgeting with the edge of the couch’s upholstery. Too embarrassed to look at a stupid phone screen.

Give no fucks, I mutter under my breath.

I hear a sort of chuckle on the other end of the phone that tells me she’s amused by my torment, but not maliciously so. “I take it he’s not someone you particularly wanted to see?” she asks.

“No, not particularly, to put it mildly. He’s probably the last person I wanted to see, unless you count the Angel of Death as a person.” I dare a look at the phone. Thankfully, her expression is sympathetic, her eyes full of kindness.

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry to hear it,” she says. “Is he awful?”

“No, not at all. Actually, he’s the opposite of awful.” For all my horror at seeing him, it is the honest answer. Dylan is gorgeous. Amazing. But saying it out loud might summon a demon that will possess me and make me want him all over again. It took me a long time to banish that demon the first time, and it’s not a war I’m prepared to fight again.

“So what’s worrying you?”

“Oh, nothing,” I say, not at all convinced that I mean it. “It’s not important. It was just a little bit of a shock to see him, but I think I’ll survive. There are worse things than having a gorgeous, ripped, successful man living fifty feet away, I suppose.”

Shit. I said it out loud.

Demon summoned.

“Gorgeous, you say? Uh-oh. Those are the most dangerous kinds of men, aren’t they, darling?”

I sigh, surrendering to my weakness. “You don’t know the half of it. I was…sort of, kind of in love with him a long time ago.”

“I see. And now?” She asks the question like she’s a trained therapist, opening up the floor to let me reveal everything. I don’t know where she acquired this amazing skill, but hell, I need to vent, so I’ll vent.

“And now? Well, I don’t know him anymore. It was seven years ago, and we’ve both changed since then. I’m stronger than I was; I’m not a delicate virginal flower. Besides, all we ever did was kiss once.”

“Uh-huh,” she says as she watches me babble on about how little I care about a man I obviously care about.

“Well, whatever,” I add, like I’m talking to myself more than to her. “If he’s forgotten, I guess I should too. It was just a kiss, after all. It’s not like we were married and he cheated on me.” Somehow while I’m rambling, I’m almost managing to convince myself that I mean every word.

“You said just a kiss,” scoffs Katherine. “As if there’s such a thing. You know as well as I do that there’s no simple kiss, not for a young woman. We tell ourselves that kisses mean nothing, but that’s a pile of bollocks.”

“Yeah. Why is that? What the hell is wrong with us?” I ask her, letting out a cynical laugh.

“Conditioning, my dear. We learn vey early on how important kisses are. A kiss awoke Sleeping Beauty. A kiss saved Snow White from certain death, or at least a permanent coma. A kiss changed a frog into a prince, for fuck’s sake. Kisses are life-changing events for young women. We fantasize about our first kiss from the time we’re able to walk, and convince ourselves that the meeting of lips is the most important event in a young life. It’s a sign of true love. A connection deeper than anything, and don’t fool yourself—that includes sex. So when a kiss from an important man is ruined for us, the moment sticks in our minds like a trauma that can never be erased.”

“So what do I do?” I ask, helpless. She’s just brought me back to square one.

She throws me an encouraging smile. “You embrace the memory and move on. As you said, you’ve both grown. I’m sure you’ve had lots of sex since then.”

I nod, not wanting to acknowledge just how much the nickname Loose has come to suit me over the years.

“Tell me,” she says, “is he still single?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Does it matter?”

“You tell me.” She’s giving me a sly, wicked smile, like she already knows the answer.

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” I reply. “It would be better if he’s not, actually. Easier for me.”

“Ah, but if he is, you may rekindle something that only ever sparked but never grew into an all-out flame. Maybe fate has brought you to Rome for a very good reason.”

“I’m not sure I believe in fate, Katherine.” I want to roll my eyes, but her sincerity prevents me.

“Well, if you don’t believe in fate, I hope you at least believe in fucking.”

My eyes bug out as I take in the words. “That was very…explicit,” I choke-laugh.

“Come on,” she says. “You know you’ve at least considered fucking him. You said he’s sexy.”

“Well, yeah. He’s unbelievable.”

“So open yourself up to the possibility that you can and should get naked with him. Sexy men aren’t as common as all that. And sex is very, very nice, particularly on hot Roman nights. Think of it as a long-overdue rebound romp with a man who probably wants you for all the same reasons you want him.”

I can’t say I’m not tempted to make up for lost time. I’m certainly more practised at the art of seduction than I used to be. I’ve probably had a few too many one night stands over the years. Those have become my specialty. They’re my way of controlling the male sex: seduce a guy into thinking he’s the one picking me up, when the whole time I know I’m the one in control. Go back to his place, fuck him once or twice, give him a fake number and a wink, and high-tail it out of there. I’m like a vampire who bites, sucks out my fill, then disappears off the face of the earth. A sexual vampire. That’s me.

The question is, could I detach myself enough from Dylan to use him for my own selfish desires?

Probably not. I’m not sure he’s one night stand material. He’s the man I used to love. The only man I ever loved.

The only man who ever broke me.

“I don’t know, Katherine. I think maybe I should look elsewhere to satisfy my sexual cravings.” My mind wanders over to young Giancarlo, who’s all charm and looks, and little else. He’s safe, probably a little boring, definitely hot, and best of all, there’s little to no chance of my falling in love with him.

“Whatever you do, just be sure to enjoy yourself,” she tells me. “Well, listen, darling, I was calling partly to let you know that I’ve just arrived in Rome myself. I’ll be here for a week or two, depending. What say you and I have a little nibble at some point soon and we can talk further about all this?”

“That sounds great,” I tell her, my heart doing an excited leap in my chest. “I’ll be so happy to have a familiar face around that isn’t…his.”

“Great. I’ll pop by when I get a chance. In the meantime, settle in, ignore all horrible men, accept the alluring ones into your life, and enjoy Rome. You know what they say…”

“When in Rome?” I ask.

“Do as the Romans do.”

I let out a laugh, wondering if Romans ever throw projectiles across courtyards at sexually frustrating neighbours who once spurned them mercilessly. “What exactly do Romans do?” I ask.

“Whatever the hell they want.” She winks. “You need to relax, woman. Open up, accept pleasure into your life. The Italians know how to enjoy themselves. You should figure it out as well.”

“Aren’t you wise?” I ask.

“Not wise, but I am a hedonist par excellence,” she tells me, flicking a lock of red hair behind her shoulder in mock-triumph. “I don’t believe in suffering for my past sins and I certainly don’t believe in punishing others for theirs. Whatever this man did to offend you, perhaps you should go easy on him. Time changes all things. Men grow up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

When I’ve hung up I realize that I feel better already. Good enough to mosey around the apartment and check out all its nooks and crannies with fresh eyes. By some miracle, Katherine has managed to cleanse me of my stupid worries. All of a sudden I want to jump up and down, to let out a joyful shriek.

A laugh bubbles up in my throat with the realization that after all this time, after being so frightened of what might happen if I ever saw Dylan again, I’m fine. I’m better than fine, actually. I’m good. And holy shit, I’m in Rome on my own. I’d all but forgotten that major accomplishment.

With a determined stride I head over to my suitcase, wheel it into the bedroom, toss it onto the bed on its side and unzip it. This is going to be a good month. Nothing will weigh me down, damn it. Not Dylan, not even my mother’s morbid warnings that I’ll be murdered by every man I see.

I don’t give a fuck about anything, and it feels great.

The bedroom is gorgeous. Larger than I’d anticipated, with high ceilings, a set of windows looking out onto the courtyard. Vines drape over the glass like curtains, giving me a sense of privacy that I need after finding out that Dylan is so close by.

The walls are white, uneven plaster that looks like it’s been repainted recently. Like all of Rome, I get the impression that this building could survive a bomb blast or a serious earthquake. It’s hardy, and has all sorts of stories to tell. Hopefully I’ll add to its repertoire by creating some tales of my own.

After I’ve unloaded my clothes into the closet and dresser, I decide to shower, get dressed in some clean clothes and go out for a walk. I’m going to wander the streets until I find a nice-looking restaurant, and then I am going to eat the best Italian food ever, drink a little too much wine and stare longingly but distantly at handsome Italian men as they walk by me and show off their sun-kissed bronze bodies. I’m going to celebrate the fact that I’m totally over Dylan Emerson, maybe for the first time ever.

If and when I see him again, I should probably thank him for the heartache he thrust upon me way back when. If it weren’t for the fact that he let me down, I probably wouldn’t have become the cynic that I am today. I might not have grown the balls to come to Italy on my own, either. I suppose he did me a strange, cruel sort of favour.

Thanks, Dylan, for breaking my heart.

You bastard.

Five

Dylan

I’ve still got a big grin on my face as I stride down to my local café. It was pretty weird to see Lucy, but it was good, too. She’s still beautiful, sexy, and confusing as all hell. Just knowing that she’ll be here for a month is enough to revive my excitement about being in Rome, which has been waning recently.

I don’t know if there’s any chance for us. I don’t know if this Giancarlo guy is anything serious. All I know is that I’m not letting her slip through my fingers again, not if I can help it.

I’m still pondering how good she looks when I step into the Caffe Botticelli, about a block from the apartment. As my eyes begin to glaze over with thoughts of her face and body, I hear someone bellow my name.

“Ciao, Dylan!”

My smile only widens as my vision adjusts to the slightly dark indoor space around me. As I look around, I make out my friend Paolo advancing towards me from a far corner. He works with me at the architecture firm, and he’s also the guy who found me my apartment. Simply put, he’s been about my best friend in Rome for the past five months.

“Ciao, Paolo,” I say as he wanders over and slaps me on the back. Italian men are big on touching, which is something it took me a while to get used to when I first arrived. Men kiss each other on the cheek or hug without thinking twice about it. They don’t have the hangups that males tend to have back home.

“How’s everything?” he asks. His English has always been very good. Well, aside from the fact that he tends to mix up his expressions on occasion, which cracks me up. Of course, even with his frequent screw-ups, I’ve got to say his English is way better than my Italian. He and I have a deal: I correct him when he gets his wording wrong, and he teaches me the occasional Italian phrase. Fortunately for me, Paolo has a good sense of humour about the whole thing.

“Everything is…insane, to be honest,” I laugh. “Like really insane.”

“Insane?” he raises a dark eyebrow at me. I can tell that he’s trying to read my expression and failing. “What’s going on?”

“One sec,” I say, looking over at the barista to give him a quick nod. He knows that the signal means the usual: an iced caffe americano in a take-away cup.

Paolo and I step over to his small corner table to sit for a minute. “An old friend has just shown up in Rome,” I tell him. “Coincidentally, she’s staying in the apartment across from mine.”

“An old friend,” he says, his tone full of hints that he knows the f-word is wholly inadequate to describe the subject of our conversation.

“Yes, a friend,” I repeat. “All right, she’s more of a BFW.”

“What’s a BFW?” Paolo asks.

“A beautiful fucking woman.”

“I see.” Somehow I doubt if he does. “So, you’re over Renata.”

Renata, otherwise known as the walking nightmare. She’s a woman from the architecture firm, and I recently had the incredibly poor judgment to date her. In my defence, she seemed pretty sexy at first. Flirtatious, gorgeous, you name it. But as it turns out, she’s also a total lunatic. “I was never under Renata,” I protest.

“Really?” asks Paolo, laughing at my discomfort. “She seemed to think you were.”

“Well, I suppose I was literally under her a few times. But I can’t say I was attached to her. It’s hard to have feelings for a psycho beast from hell.”

“Well, I don’t blame you. She’s a beautiful ragazza, but she is not so right in the head, that one. You’re lucky to be rid of her.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Of course, you’re not a man who gets attached to any woman. But maybe you have some desire to attach yourself to this woman you just saw? Something tells me there’s a story with her, no?”

The barista sets down my iced coffee in front of me and silently stalks off. Clearly he knows that Paolo and I have important business to discuss.

I lean toward my friend and speak quietly. “The last time I saw Lucy was at a party seven years ago,” I say. “I had feelings for her then. I suppose you could say I was attached to her, except that we weren’t together, not really.”

“Things didn’t go well at this party,” Paolo concludes before I’ve actually given him any details.

I shake my head. “No, not so much. Well, at first they went very well. I thought…well, I thought we were going to go home together, but we didn’t. She ran away just when things were getting good.”

“Ah, like Cinderella,” he says, pronouncing the C as a Ch. Chinderella.

“Yes, sort of. But instead of leaving a glass slipper behind, she stole something from me.” Something I never got back.

“Your wallet?” he asks, laughing. “Or maybe your balls.”

“Not my wallet,” I reply. “I kept my balls, too. She didn’t get anywhere near those, actually. We shared exactly one kiss that night. That was it. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about it. But I’ll admit, it’s all flooding back now.”

“What do you remember?” asks Paolo, who’s as intrigued as someone watching a murder mystery unfold.

I laugh. “Well, I was twenty-one, so naturally, I remember how horny I was. I remember wanting to fuck her so badly that I jogged off to get us a blanket when I realized there was a chance that it could happen.”

“You wanted to protect her from getting sand in her lady pieces,” he replies.

“I think you mean lady parts,” I chuckle. “Yeah. I didn’t really want to ruin the whole experience. I guess I thought I was doing something considerate, but by the time I got back to the place where I’d left her, she was gone.”

“What happened?”

I raise my shoulders in a shrug. “I never found out. I remember asking around to see if anyone knew where she was, but no one had a clue. I tried to be a decent guy, even called her place to make sure she was okay. I must have left her housemate ten messages over the following few days. But I had my damned pride. When she never called back, I gave up. I had to ask a mutual friend of ours if she was even alive, because I had no fucking clue.”

“So you’ve never seen her again until today.”

“Nope. I left California shortly after that night, and I never went back. My family lived out of state by then, and there was no reason to head back to the west coast.”

“No reason?” Paolo asks, a knowing smile on his face.

“If I couldn’t have Lucy, I didn’t see the point,” I admit.

“But you still want her. And now you have a chance again.”

Of course he’s right. Paolo has a knack for being right about stuff like this. “Yeah, I guess I do,” I tell him. “I wanted her back then, too, even though I was dating a woman—Chloe, or Zoe, or something—I actually broke up with her because I thought maybe I had a chance with Lucy. But Loose sure as shit proved me wrong when she took off on me.”

“So she ran away from you, and now she’s here. She sounds a little like a—how you say—a” Paolo scratches his chin. “A tease. What’s so special about her that she’s making you smile so big?”

“I’m not smiling big,” I say, realizing that I’m lying through my grinning teeth. It feels like a sign of weakness to admit that I’ve gotten so excited over a woman who basically ditched me with no explanation and left me with blue balls, but screw it. I’m okay with going a little weak in the knees over a woman as sexy as Lucy. “As for what’s so special about her, that’s easy: Everything. She’s amazing, beautiful, intelligent. She has the most incredible eyes. They always made me crazy back in the day.”

“You are crushing her hard,” says Paolo.

“You mean crushing on her? Yeah, I guess I am. She was what we call the one who got away. Only she didn’t, because I never actually had her.”

“Bull dung,” he says, butchering another expression. “I can read you like a newspaper. Even if you didn’t have her, she had you. By the balls.”

“You’re really obsessed with my balls, aren’t you?” I joke, and Paolo shrugs as if to say What of it? “Anyhow, she really is just a friend,” I insist, trying to convince myself that it’s true.

“But you still want her, after all this time,” says Paolo. “I can see it in your face.”

“Well, yeah.” I’ll admit that much, at least. “She’s still sexy as all hell. Any man who saw her would want her.”

“Hmm.” Paolo rubs a hand on the back of his neck as he contemplates what I’ve been saying. “There’s something you’re not telling me about all this. Why did she take off that night? Did you do something to hurt her?”

“Me? Hell no. The last thing I was interested in was hurting Lucy.”

“So maybe Lucia was scared of sex. Maybe she got cold toes.”

“Cold feet,” I correct. “Maybe. I suppose it’s possible. I’ve always figured that we were both young and stupid, and we both fucked up. But you might be right. Maybe she panicked when she realized that things were about to get serious. I’ve always wondered what would’ve happened if I hadn’t taken off to find that damned blanket.”

Paolo leans his elbows on the table and stares at me. He’s still really into this, like he’s trying to sort out a puzzle. “How did she seem when you saw her?”

“Just now?” I ask.

He nods.

“Strange,” I admit, much as I want to pretend she was happy. “Like she’d seen a ghost. I can’t say she was super pleased to see me.”

“Hmm. She’ll come around,” he tells me. “You’re a good guy.” He leans back, draping an arm over the back of his chair. “You just need to win her back. Charm her. Convince her that she wants to be with you.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible at this point,” I tell him. “I’m getting a serious friends-only vibe from her. Honestly, I’m not even sure she wants to be friends.”

“Playing hard to catch,” he says. I consider correcting his English again, but think better of it. “You should tell her how you feel,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

“So she can reject me again?” I chuckle. “I’m not sure my fragile boyish heart could take it.”

“Yeah, but you want to do it. Fuck, man, I’m Italian. I know what lust looks like better than anyone. You totally want this girl. You should go for it. So what if she rejects you? What could really go wrong?”

“She could run away and not speak to me for the next seven years?”

He shrugs. “So what? You’ve already been through that. What’s it going to hurt to go through it again?”

He’s right, of course. Worst case scenario, Lucy pushes me away. Best case scenario? Holy shit, I can’t even imagine it. My dick, on the other hand, is very, very good at imagining all of it.

Before I find myself with an embarrassing hard-on that would be difficult to explain to Paolo, I rise to my feet.

“Thanks, man,” I reply, picking up my iced coffee. “Listen, I’m going to pay up and head back to my apartment.”

“Of course you are,” Paolo replies with a knowing grin. “La bella donna Lucia might be nearby. You should stay close to her in case she changes her brain.”

“Mind. Changes her mind. And yeah, she might. She might not. What do I care?” I shrug as I move towards the cash register.

“Denial isn’t attractive on you, Dylan,” he responds. “Enjoy your evening, Casanova.”

“I will.”

“By that, I mean go have some sex,” he all but yells, drawing stares from other patrons in the café. “You know. Bunga bunga. Bouncy bouncy. The dirty nasty.”

I turn back to give him the finger as the rest of the café’s inhabitants glare at us both.

Paolo is right about one thing. It’s time to head back towards Lucy. I want her, and I need to win her back before some young Italian buck named Giancarlo charms her pants off.

Six

Lucy

Once I’ve dressed and pulled my brown hair back into a high ponytail, I throw on a pair of sunglasses, grab my purse and flit down the stairs like I’m Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. If I’m lucky, maybe a Gregory Peck lookalike will come along and sweep me off my feet and drive me around on a vespa—safely, of course—while my boobs dig into his back. I could be a loose floozy, at least for the next week.

Not that Audrey Hepburn was ever a floozy. She was a goddess. Those eyebrows. Those eyes. She was a beautiful doe, innocent and sexy at once. She always played women who seemed kind of shy and awkward, but you could tell that deep down, they knew exactly who and what they were. I want to learn how to play one of those women, even if I can’t be one.

After I’ve trotted down the arched tunnel towards the street, I turn right, striding along the sidewalk, confident, collected, convinced that I give absolutely no fucks about anything. It only takes me a few seconds to spot what looks like a row of restaurants in the distance, green vines trailing down their red and ochre façades. Keeping up my quick, smooth, Hepburn-like pace, I try to push my shoulders back, my chin high. I am the queen goddess of the universe in my white shirt and polka dot skirt. I am Audrey reincarnated. I am unstoppable. I am impervious to memories of Dylan Emerson’s lips and thoughts of his perfect body. I am…

“Shit!” I yell as ice-cold brown liquid splashes over my chest.

Wet. I am soaking wet.

Someone—a man—has just slammed into me, his iced coffee in hand. I leap backwards, staring down at my very cold brown boobs before pulling my eyes up to my clumsy assailant’s face.

Well, it turns out that I’m not Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday.

I’m Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca.

Of all the cafés in all the towns in all the world, you had to walk out of this one…and douse my breasts in iced coffee.

Dylan. Fucking. Emerson.

Seven

Dylan

I just poured my drink all over Lucy Horner’s tits.

I mean breasts.

I mean succulent.

I mean nipples.

I mean holy shit, I want to eat her alive.

Somehow I never quite noticed how amazing her breasts were. Of course, it’s entirely possible that they’re even more spectacular now than when she was twenty. She’s patting herself down. Her nipples have gone hard and tight under her thin little (formerly) white shirt and bra, and I’m suddenly sporting such a raging hard-on that I wish I were the kind of man who carried around a purse so I could cover it up. For the second time in an hour, she’s made my body charge head-first into Lustville.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell her, trying my best to tear my eyes away from her chest. “I didn’t see you there…”

She’s got sunglasses on, but I’m pretty sure she’s glaring at me right now like someone who’s out for blood. Or at least fantasizing about giving me a swift kick to the cluster.

“It’s fine,” she growls. “I’ll just go home and change. It’s fine.”

I’ve been around the block once or twice with the ladies. I know that it’s fine generally means I hate you, you fucking bastard. I think I read that in a book called “A Total Dickhead’s Guide to Never Getting Laid Again.”

“Can you wait a minute?” I ask, but she’s already turning around, ready to high-tail it back to the apartment. Damn it, Lucy, don’t take those miraculous breasts away from me. Or the rest of you, for that matter.

“What for?” she replies over her shoulder. “Did you have some minestrone soup that you wanted to dump over my head to complete the look?”

I almost want to laugh. This isn’t the Lucy I remember, the meek, shy quasi-teenager who was turning into a woman in front of my eyes during high school and college. This Lucy has developed a serious backbone, and I have to say, I like it. A lot.

“I’ll come with you and help get you cleaned up,” I say, jogging after her to catch up. “Look, I’m sure you’re hungry. Let me take you out for something to eat once you’ve changed your clothes. I’ll make it up to you.”

Her shoulders hunch for a moment like she’s giving in to defeat, then she thrusts them back again, apparently unwilling to show any sign of weakness. “Fine,” she says.

I sidle over next to her, and together, we start walking back to the building.

“As long as you promise not to pour a vat of alfredo sauce on me, I suppose I can tolerate your presence for a little while,” she snarls, though her lips are betraying a shallow smile. Okay, we’re making progress.

“I can’t promise anything,” I reply. “But I’ve got to say, the coffee suits you really well.” Another glare. “C’mon, Loose. Again I’m sorry. I was just saying good-bye to a friend, and stupidly didn’t watch where I was going…” I’m staring sideways at her tits again, and I’ve got to admit that it’s really, really hard to focus on any sort of apology when all I want to do is lick the iced coffee off her nipples.

“Again, it’s okay. We don’t need to dwell on it.” She thrusts her chin up in the air proudly. I get the distinct impression that she hasn’t noticed my hungry eyes.

“I have a washing machine in my apartment,” I tell her. “We can throw your shirt in, if you’d like. It’ll be good as new by the time we get back from dinner. You’ll never remember that I poured frozen brown stuff all over your chest.”

“I guess wet t-shirt contests are something altogether different in Italy,” she says as a young man passes by us. I notice him staring at her breasts, too. Part of me wants to punch him for it, but another part wants to shake his hand and say, “Dude, I get it. They’re incredible, right?”

“Wet t-shirts are the same the world over,” I tell her. “Delightful entertainment.”

“Hmph.” There goes her chin again, reaching for the sky.

“Have I done something to offend you?” I ask, immediately realizing what a stupid question that is. “Other than assaulting you with a delicious cold beverage, I mean.”

“I’m probably just tired,” she responds. Nice non-answer, Loose.

“Okay. Well, I’ll help you get a second wind. We’ll get you cleaned up, I’ll buy you some dinner and soon enough, Rome will start making you happy instead of miserable.”

“Does it make you happy?” she asks, turning my way as we open the iron gate to our building and proceed along the passage towards the stairs that lead to my apartment.

“It does, actually. Yeah, I love it here,” I tell her. “It’s a nice change.”

“From L.A, you mean?”

“L.A.?” I ask as we start to climb the left set of stairs. “I haven’t been there in ages. But yeah, this place is sure as hell different from L.A. But then, every place is. I have some weird memories there.”

“As do I.”

She throws me another sideways glare along with that retort. What the hell? She seems to be implying that I was the guilty party way back when. Damn it, I’m not the one who deserted her that night. She left me behind, in case she doesn’t remember. Besides, it was almost a decade ago. I can’t imagine that it’s that important to her after all this time.

“I have some good memories, too,” I tell her, stopping at my door to turn her way. She’s pulled off the sunglasses and she’s staring up into my eyes. Trying to figure me out, I suppose.

“Oh yeah?” she asks. “Like what?”

“I remember a particular night, years ago, that started off really well,” I tell her. Immediately her cheeks flush. Okay, so she does know exactly what I’m talking about.

“Me too,” she replies. “I remember it all too well.”

“What happened to you, Lucy?” I ask quietly, leaning towards her as I press my arm to the wall, raising it over my head. “What happened to you that night?”

She stares at me, shock and confusion permeating her features. “You’re really telling me you don’t know?” she asks. “You don’t remember?”

I shake my head, curious. “Tell me.”

She grinds her jaw for a moment, then blurts out, “I guess I realized I’d made a stupid mistake, so I left.”

She’s hiding something, I can tell. Even after all this time I know her face, her eyes. I know when she’s hurting. I knew back then, too. I just wish she’d explained it to me. Hell, I wish she’d explain it to me now, instead of holding all her cards so close to her beautiful chest.

“Look,” I reply, “if it’s something I did, I just want you to know that I’m officially sorry. All I remember is that I thought we were getting along really well….”

“So did I.” The sharpness of her words slices through the air like a blade.

“So why did you…” I begin, but I cut myself off, shaking my head. “You know what? Never mind. There’s no point in rehashing the stupid things we did years ago. You’re here now, and so am I. Maybe we should start over from scratch.” I extend my right hand towards her. “Hi, I’m Dylan Emerson. It’s nice to meet you.”

She hesitates, wincing a little before finally accepting my offer. “Lucy Horner,” she replies, taking my hand. “And you know what? Starting over would be great.”

“Good,” I say, my eyes exploring her for a moment before I open the door. I hope she means it.

Once we’ve slipped inside, I dart to the bedroom to grab her one of my t-shirts. I bring it back out and dangle it in front of her face. “I’ll make you a deal: If you hand me your dirty shirt, you can have this one.” When she reaches for it, I yank it backwards.

She’s glaring at me, not so amused by my attempt to get her to strip down to her bra. Slowly she crosses her arms over her chest, wincing as she remembers how cold and wet her gorgeous tits still are.

“Okay, I can see that you’re not going to accept my generous offer. Bedroom’s behind you and to the right,” I tell her, nodding in the direction of the door. “Don’t go flattering yourself by thinking I was actually trying to get your clothes off. I’m a perfect gentleman, and not at all interested in your breasts.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, tearing the shirt out of my hands as she narrows her eyes at me. Wow. If looks could kill, I’d hit the floor like a bag of rocks.

“Besides, I’m fresh off a relationship,” I call out to her back as I watch her storm into my room. “Well, a sort of relationship. The point is, I’m quasi-safe territory.”

“A relationship?” she asks, her voice carrying out to my ears from the bedroom. She sounds slightly less hostile all of a sudden, like the thought’s put her at ease. “With whom?”

I sidle over towards the wall to speak through the bedroom doorway. “A woman called Renata. I met her at the architecture firm where I’m doing my research. We only went out for a few weeks; she’s…a bit of a nightmare. But the point is…”

Looking towards the door as I’m speaking, I realize that she hasn’t closed it entirely. Oh, damn. I can see her reflected in the mirror over the dresser. She’s turned sideways, facing away from me. She’s wearing nothing but her bra, which she’s slipping off as well. Of course she is; it’s wet and stained, too. And God help me, I’m still looking as she peels it off and drops it to the floor.

Her breasts are even better than I’d suspected. Pert, beautiful pink nipples, no doubt still cold. Pale skin that’s never seen the sun. Wow. She doesn’t even need a bra, does she?

My dick is going nuts right now, and my brain has shut itself down completely. I don’t even remember what I was talking about. I can’t talk. I can’t move. I just want to get my mouth on her.

The Lucy addiction I developed so long ago is still deep in my blood, still telling me that I never got my fill.

I probably never will.

“The point is?” she calls out, turning towards the mirror as she speaks the words. For a second, her reflected eyes meet mine. She’s still topless, and I’m standing here like an asshole, staring at her perfect hourglass shape.

I leap the other way, throwing myself onto the couch on the other side of the room, as if she doesn’t know perfectly well that I saw her.

“The point is, it’s over now,” I call out. “So over.”

It’s true.

My hard-on can testify that I am definitely not interested in anyone but you, Lucy Horner.

Eight

Lucy

Dylan just saw me in the mirror. I caught him red-handed. Or blue-balled. Either way, he was totally sneaking a peek at the girls.

Well, who cares? No fucks given, right? Let him look if it gives him pleasure. Actually, I kind of like the idea. Despite the fact that I’m supposed to be indifferent towards him now, I’ll admit that some part of me is aroused by the thought of him eyeing my semi-naked body.

I’m not naive enough to think any woman is ever a hundred percent satisfied with what the good lord gave her, but I have to admit, I do like my breasts. And if Dylan wants to get an eyeful of what he’ll never have, I’m okay with torturing him. We can call it payback for what he did to me. He teased me years ago with the promise of a night with him; I’ll tease him with nipples that he’ll never get to suck.

Quid pro quo.

By the time I head back into the living room, I’m wearing a t-shirt that smells of laundry detergent, but also vaguely of him. I always loved his scent when we were younger; it reminded me of the beach, of home. I suppose it’s been long enough now that I don’t associate it entirely with the heartbreak of youth and dreams that have exploded in a nauseating mess of stupid girl-emotions.

Besides, he did apologize for what happened that night, and even if he didn’t get into specifics, it’s high time I let it go. I don’t particularly want to let him know how much it hurt me. I never want to admit that I was in love with him all those years ago. Besides, it’s all in the past, in the days when my emotions were amplified and ridiculous. Maybe I didn’t really know what love was, anyhow. Maybe Dylan was a fantasy, nothing more. A guy I wanted because deep down, I knew I could never have him.

Seeing him again has taught me how different we both are now, how much we’ve evolved. I know I’ve changed. I’ve moved on, and so has he. That’s not to say that he’s not the same handsome, smooth-talking guy as he always was, but he’s not a child anymore, either. Chances are pretty good that he wouldn’t pull the same crap on me or anyone that he did then. I get the sense that he’s more open, more honest. More grown up.

It doesn’t matter, anyhow, because I’m not in love with him anymore, right? We’re not dating, nor will we ever. He’s nothing more to me than someone I vaguely know in a city full of strangers. He’s a convenience. A friend who might take me around to see some sights one day, before we each return to our respective abodes and part ways.

Maybe my mother was right. A young woman alone in a strange city could use a male companion, even if he’s to be a purely platonic one.

I walk out of the bedroom, triumphant in my resolve not to be attracted to the most attractive man I’ve ever known. I’m totally aware of my lack of a bra as I make my way across the floor towards him; aware, too, of his fascination with my breasts. For some reason I’m intent on making him want me, even if I don’t want anything to happen between us.

“Drink?” he asks me, his hands cupped over his groin region, possibly to conceal a hard-on. Okay, he definitely saw the girls, and I’m loving how infatuated he seems with them. I am the Torture Queen, and I’m enjoying every second of it.

Of course, the thought of it gets me aroused too, even though I’d never admit it. It’s not that I’m attracted to him, of course. It’s just my hormones going nuts again.

Damn you, sexual peak.

“No thanks,” I say as I hand him my damp garments. “I’m going to head over and get some clean clothes from my place.”

“Okay. But then I’m taking you out, right?”

“Yes, fine,” I reply, chancing a smile. For some reason I feel liberated from my former crankiness. Maybe it’s that I have the upper hand now. I know he wants me, which means that I have all the power.

She who controls erections controls the world.

“Good.” He puts the clothes on the counter and steps towards me. For a moment it looks like he might put his hands on my waist, but at the last second he thinks better of it. Good. I’m not sure I could handle his touch; it might set off old feelings and make me go weak again. It’s best to keep our distance. We’re friends. Buddies. Chums. Pals. Even though I totally want to have sex with him so badly that it’s making my core ache with the thought of it.

Okay, fine. I guess I’m not as over him as I thought.

“I’ll be right back,” I blurt out, pulling away as the word sex springs cruelly into my mind.

“Okay.”

I head out onto the balcony that edges around to my apartment and dash around to unlock my door, slipping inside with a smile on my face. The ugliness that’s been lingering on my soul for years has finally begun to wash itself away. I feel like the world is starting over again. Rome, me, Dylan. Everything is new again.

This is good.

I slide into my bedroom and pick out a nice little dress, something dark green with spaghetti straps. After throwing it on over a clean strapless bra, I’m sorted and ready to go. I’ll even admit that I’m excited to have someone show me around the city.

I tell myself that I’m not excited that the someone I’m about to spend time with is Dylan. But it’s possible that I’m lying to myself just a little bit. The truth is that somewhere inside me, old feelings have begun sprouting like weeds and I’m not entirely sure that I want to fight them back. Katherine was right about a lot of things, but maybe the most important one was what she said about not holding the past against someone.

She also said something about fucking, and I have to admit that I’m starting to see her point. Every time I set eyes on Dylan I go weak and horny at the same time. I want him. I want to make up for everything that went wrong between us.

Only I’m torn. It’s not like he’s just some guy I met at a bar. He’s a guy I used to care about so much that it nearly ruined me.

I’m still staring at myself in the mirror when I remember that he’s waiting for me, which means that I need to get back to his place, whether I know what I’m doing or not.

A moment later I’m hopping over to his flat again, a manufactured smile on my face. I don’t want him to see how confused I am.

“Ready,” I tell him as I slip in through the door. He’s changed too, into a white cotton shirt and a slightly dressier pair of shorts.

“Yes, you are,” he says, eyeing me up and down. I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but he looks a little like he wants to eat me. “God, Lucy, you really look great,” he breathes, and I’m not sure if he’s even aware of how much sex there is in his voice.

“Thanks. You look good too,” I reply.

Bullshit. He looks amazing, but I’m not going to flatter him. Some part of me still wants to punish him for everything. I’m enjoying being just slightly cruel, playing femme fatale to this horny, sexy, desirable man.

The only problem is that there’s something I’d enjoy even more. A sudden urge to kiss him has assaulted me. My lips are tingling, as are other bits of my body. It would be the easiest thing right now to step forward, slip a hand around his neck and press my lips to his. To take up exactly where we left off that night seven years ago. I’ll bet I could get everything I wanted and then some. I may be a little shy, a little insecure, but do I know how to seduce a man.

Fuck, no. Don’t even think about it.

The thing is, I don’t want to seduce Dylan. I want to get to know him again. To spend time with him, develop a friendship, if that’s even possible for us. The last thing I want is to lose him again the moment one of us does something dumb.

I pull my eyes away from his and look towards the door, clenching my hands into fists at my sides, my determination forcing my fingernails to dig into my palms.

“Now, as for dinner…?” I ask. If I can’t eat him, we’d better find something else to satisfy me, stat.

“There’s a little restaurant around the corner that serves up some great wild boar bolognese,” he tells me, though I get the distinct impression from his tone of voice that it’s not food he wants to eat, either.

“You had me at wild boar,” I reply.

Except you can’t have me. Ever. That would be seriously bad. Or seriously good.

Which is even worse.

“Good. Let’s go, then,” he replies. His voice is still tight, and I can all but see him trying to be a gentleman despite the sexual tension between us. I get it. If I had any less self-control, I’d be straddling his gorgeous face by now.

Damn, that would be amazing.

But it’s not going to happen. Our relationship is too fucked up. We might find our way to being friends—if he’s lucky.

If he’s not so lucky, he might end up with a hard slap across the face. That is, if I don’t run away again.

Nine

Dylan

“So, what have you been doing with yourself all this time?” I ask as I guide Lucy down the stairwell, trying like hell to get my mind off the parts of me that go erect when stimulated.

As soon as I turn her way she slips a strand of hair behind her ear. That small act is enough to make my dick roar to life all over again. She’s a seductress who doesn’t even need to try.

“I finished my Master’s degree in Art History a couple of years ago,” she tells me. “But then I changed my course of action.”

“What did you change it to?”

“I ended up in fashion design, actually,” she says timidly, like she’s afraid I’ll judge her.

“Really?” I ask, admiration flooding through me. It’s no wonder she always looks so damn good. She’s got an eye for clothing, textiles, how to fit her body perfectly.

She nods. “I’ve been working in the industry ever since I graduated, doing design work for theatre companies. Part of the reason I came here was to do what you’re doing; study Italian designers so I can go home and rip them off. Oops, I mean be inspired by their genius.” She laughs. “Eventually I want to set up my own clothing line. If I had my way, I’d open a little shop somewhere.”

“That’s amazing, Loose,” I tell her, pulling the gate open at the end of the corridor. We step out into the late-day Roman sunshine. “I’d love to see some of your designs.”

“Well, this is your lucky day. I’m wearing one,” she replies, gesturing down to the dress that I’ve grown very quickly to appreciate, the one that hugs her curves so well that I can imagine what it would feel like to stroke my fingers over each subtle nuance of her body.

“Wow,” I say, admiring both the dress and what’s under it. “That’s incredible.”

“Thanks,” she says, beaming. “I’m sort of excited to see what the next few weeks will bring. Though I’m starting to wish I’d spent some time studying Italian before I came. There’s only so much I can learn without understanding the language.”

“You’ll pick it up quickly.” I leap in front of her and turn to face her, walking slowly backwards. “Repeat after me: vino bianco.”

“Vino bianco,” she says, her lips moving in the most seductive way as they caress the consonants.

“Very good. Now try ‘vorrei andare alla cattedrale.’”

“Um, that’s a mouthful,” she says. My dick twitches at the very thought of her mouth.

She starts to repeat the sentence. “Vorrei,” she says. “What does that mean?”

“Let’s see if you can figure it out,” I tease, stopping and pressing my palm against the wall, blocking her way. “Vorrei passare una sera con la bella Lucia.”

She raises an eyebrow playfully at me. “If you’re saying something dirty, I…”

“Not dirty,” I assure her, turning away. “Not at all. You’ll know when I’m saying something dirty.”

She chuckles. “I’m sure I will.”

“Come on, bella Lucia, let’s go eat.”

* * *

I’m officially a breast man.

In a matter of minutes, Lucy has turned me into one. I was never one before, not really. I mean, don’t get me wrong; I’m a red-blooded, heterosexual male. I like breasts. I like nipples. I like pursing my lips around them, hearing a woman moan while I make her squirm under my touch. And those moments before I slip down and get my mouth between a woman’s legs are heaven.

But right now, no other woman exists. Even memories of others have faded, replaced by Lucy’s beautiful face, her sensual body, the sexy way she moves. She’s complex, interesting, intriguing. She’s everything.

But all I’m thinking about right this second is what it might be like to have her sweet pink nipples in my mouth. All my hard-on is thinking about is whether or not those amazing full lips of hers might like to come over for a playdate sometime.

Of course, that’s just sex. Just my body reacting to hers like it always did. She used to turn me on with the shy looks I’d catch her giving me. I remember how she used to keep her chin down, her eyes slipping over my body when she thought I wasn’t looking. She’d tuck a loose strand of hair behind an ear, and the second she knew I was looking she’d glance away, concealing her interest. She still does that. Still stares at me in the few moments when my eyes aren’t on her. She thinks I don’t notice, but I do. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she wants me.

But I do know better, of course. I know her by now. She proved in June 2010 that she never wanted anything more from me than one passionate kiss.

Since that night I’ve never gotten really close to any woman. I’ve had plenty of sex, of course. A man has his needs. I’ll date someone for a little while, use her to satisfy my cravings, then push her away. It’s how I roll, and cold though it may be, it works for me.

The woman I dated briefly, Renata, she was a prime example. She’s attractive and flirtatious, and I figured out pretty quickly that I could have some easy sex with her for a few days. But she became attached, so I high-tailed it out of there faster than the Roadrunner when it meets up with Wile E. Coyote. I didn’t care much about her; she’s not someone I’d ever fall in love with. But the truth is, I’ve never been in love with anyone.

I came close with Lucy a long time ago. I always wanted to be close to her. I wanted inside her mind, her soul, to know what makes her tick. I wanted her to trust me enough to open up, but I was too young, too stupid to know how to talk to a woman back then. I was too stupid to understand how much I had to open myself up in order to let a woman like her close to me.

Maybe I still haven’t figured it out. But I’d be willing to try, if she’d give me a chance.

The restaurant is literally a hundred feet from our building, and in a matter of seconds we’re sitting at an outdoor table. A hot Roman breeze has started up, blowing loose bits of hair around Lucy’s face. She laughs as she tries in vain to tame it, yanking it back into a renewed ponytail. I’ve missed the sound of her laughter. I’ve missed Happy Lucy, from the days when everything was hope and excitement about a future that neither of us could really foresee.

“Would you rather go inside?” I ask. “The wind and your hair probably aren’t a fun combination.”

“No. I like it out here.” She leans back in her chair, watching cars and vespas motor by down the narrow street. “This place is special, isn’t it?” she asks. “Rome, I mean.”

“Special how?” I can’t help but smile as I watch her. She has this cute little look of excitement on her face that I haven’t seen in such a long time. “I’m not disagreeing, but I want to hear your take.”

“Like, special in the way that the buildings speak to you.” The words come out with no irony, no apology. Like she just knows exactly what she’s saying, because she does. And so do I.

I’m full-on grinning at her now, raising an eyebrow as I await further explanation. As her eyes meet mine she looks away in that old shy way, her chin tucking itself in, eyes looking at the world around her like Bambi studying a flower. She’s finally lost that air of haughtiness that she was putting on earlier, and I’m glad. I want her to be just the tiniest bit vulnerable. I want the traces of the old Loose to blend with the new.

“Oh, I know it sounds insane,” she says. “I just feel like there’s something in this place that speaks volumes. These buildings are what, hundreds of years old?”

“Some of them, yeah.”

“Don’t you think they’ve seen things? Secret love affairs, deaths, births, the whole nine yards?”

“No doubt. They do call it the Eternal City for a reason,” I reply. “There have been a lot of shenanigans gone down in this place.”

“And you?” she asks, raising her chin to level me with a gaze that tells me she’s getting serious. A waiter has come out to pour us each a glass of water, but he makes quick work of it and leaves. “What shenanigans have you gotten up to since you arrived? When did you get here, anyhow?”

“I’ve been here five months,” I tell her. “As for shenanigans, I told you already, I did get myself entangled in something a little foolish. Or maybe I should say, with someone a little foolish. I shouldn’t have, but I guess I was lonely.”

Her eyes peel away from mine and she looks at something across the street. “Ah, that,” she replies. “Renata, is it?”

“Sorry,” I add. “I don’t have to talk about her.”

“No, it’s fine,” she says, offering up a thin smile. “Who is she?”

“A co-worker. It ended a couple of weeks back. Hell, it only lasted a few days, really. Turns out she’s a little…clingy.” Clingy like a suction cup on my soul.

“So, you mentioned that it’s over?” she asks. I’m not sure if I detect a hint of strain in her voice.

“Yes, completely,” I tell her, studying her face for a reaction. “I’m as single as ever. But of course, you and the famous Giancarlo, or Signor Squidgypants, or whatever his name is…”

“Hmmm?” she replies. She looks confused for a moment, then a light seems to go on, like she’s remembering what she told me earlier. “Oh yeah, Giancarlo. Oh, you know. It’s nothing serious. Just a date I’m supposed to go on.”

“Well, I’m not surprised he’s snatched you up already. You’re so…” Shit. I was about to tell her how sexy she is. How desirable. Stop talking, I tell myself. Don’t let yourself get close to her. Shields up.

“I’m what?” she asks, leaning towards me. I feel like she’s teasing me now. Of course she is. She knows what I’m thinking. She knows I want her. Lucy’s no idiot.

“You’re an attractive woman,” I say in a restrained tone as my eyes veer to the soft white cleavage above her dress’s neckline. Attractive isn’t the word for it. More like holy shit, if I were any more of a pig I’d tear that dress off of you right now, press your back to this table and fuck you senseless. That’s so far beyond attractive that there isn’t even a word for it. Boner-inducing, maybe.

“Thanks, Dill Pickle,” she replies, staring into my eyes, which have slyly moved back to meet hers.

A smile creeps over my lips and I lean towards her, setting my elbows on the table to mirror her pose. “Dill Pickle. Wow, I haven’t heard that one in a long time.”

“I haven’t said it in a long time.” She’s gotten very good at confronting me with those incredible eyes of hers. Sexy Lucy is pulling me in right now, and I’m letting her.

Maybe after everything, it’s good that nothing happened with us seven years ago.

Maybe we were waiting for this moment.

Ten

Lucy

It feels like no time has passed since we were sitting together on that beach in California. Staring into one another’s eyes, just like we’re doing now. Only this time, it’s even better.

I want him as badly as I did then. Maybe more, if that’s even possible.

I want to throw caution to the wind and ask him to come back to my place with me. I want to make love at long last with Dylan Emerson, not just once but over and over again. I want to drag my fingertips over his eight-pack, sweep my tongue over his muscular chest. I want to know if he likes having his neck kissed. I want to hear him moan deep as I wrap my lips around his dick.

These totally insane thoughts are flying through my mind as I stare at him. Every word he utters is sex. Every movement of his hands, every twitch of his lips into that seductive smile of his. Every little thing he does makes me want him more.

But then I remember that we’re just supposed to be friends. Nothing more.

Stupid rules.

“How’s your food?” he asks after I’ve taken a few greedy mouthfuls to distract myself from the unending stream of lustful thoughts. I’d hardly realized how hungry I was, and damn, this pasta is good.

In response to Dylan’s question, I let out a little moan of pleasure, and he laughs. When I’ve swallowed, I reply, “Really damn good. Is all Italian food this delicious?”

“Most of it,” he says, nodding.

“I’m starting to think Italy is just perfection,” I tell him, looking around us at our surroundings. “This place is another universe. The smells, the sights. I feel like a naive, wide-eyed tourist.”

“Well, it’s what you are,” he says. “So am I, really. Even though I’ve been here for a while I feel like someone’s hit refresh on the Rome page. I’d forgotten what an amazing city it was. I guess my mind was immersed in my work.”

“Oh? So what’s changed?” I’m staring at him, trying to deduce his meaning. I feel like I’ve been doing that all along. Always trying to figure him out, like I want to keep one step ahead, in case he says something that stings.

“You, Loose,” he replies. “You’re here, and you just seem taken with Rome. Your energy is infectious.” He presses his elbows to the table and leans forward. “I’d forgotten how amazing you are too, you know.”

Ouch. That stung. It shouldn’t have, of course; it was a compliment, and a good one, at that. But if he thought I was amazing, why did he take off that night with…

Nope. I promised myself I wouldn’t think about the past, and I’m not going to.

“I’m not so amazing,” I tell him, gesturing to a woman who’s walking by, a red leather purse slung over one shoulder. “Now, that chick is amazing. Look at her clothes.” She’s wearing long, striped palazzo pants and a linen top that’s tied at the waist. In the States she’d draw stares for looking like a supermodel, but here she’s just another Italian woman walking home. “That’s sort of why I came here, the fashion, the style. It’s like Italians are just on another level from the rest of us. More highly evolved or something.”

Dylan smiles and turns his gaze to take in people passing us by. “You’re trying to distract me by pointing at other women,” he says.

“Yes, I am.”

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s play your game and people-watch. You tell me what clothes look good and which are awful.”

“Challenge accepted,” I reply.

“What about that one?” He points to a woman who must be seventy, wearing a low-cut khaki jumpsuit and leather sandals.

“Are you kidding?” I laugh. “She’s awesome. Not self-conscious in the least about her age. That’s how every woman should be, but we’re all tightly-wound idiots who worry that we’ll be judged. Hell, back home there are TV shows dedicated to teaching women to dress for their age, like there’s some kind of stupid rule about it.”

“You don’t think there is?” He asks the question, but I don’t get the impression that he’s judgmental about it.

I shake my head. “No. It’s all societal pressure that we thrust upon women to control them. It’s crazy, really. When I’m old I want to wear heels and colourful outfits and say fuck it to everything and everyone.”

“You’ll be a spitfire,” he laughs, sitting back. “I can see it now.”

“Maybe. I do find that I get less tolerant with age. Not that I’m so old yet.”

“Less tolerant? Yeah, I sort of noticed that earlier when you looked like you might castrate me with your fingernails.”

I chuckle as I swallow a sip of water. “Did I really? Oopsie. I guess I should apologize for that.”

“It’s okay. I think you’ve figured out by now that I’m not actually the devil.”

I narrow my eyes at him, pretending to study him for signs of pure evil. “No, maybe not. You’re going to have to work pretty hard to convince me once and for all, though.”

“I’ll get right on that. So, speaking of devilish men, have you had any major relationships since I last saw you, Loose?”

I look away for a moment. I’m not sure how much to tell him. Do I let him know that I’ve been a little fucked up, afraid of commitment, and basically a stupid girl all my adult life?

“I was dating someone a while back,” I tell him. It’s the truth. “A lawyer. For about two minutes I thought it might get serious.”

“And then?”

“He proved to me that he wasn’t worth it by being a total grade-A douche,” I say, smirking. “Which seems to be the story of my life. I get together with guys who aren’t good for me, knowing I’ll eventually end up breaking up with them. It’s my way of making sure my heart never gets broken by a guy who’s actually nice.”

I’ve never laid it out that way before, but what I just said was true. On the rare occasions that I get involved with a man for more than one night, I tend to pull him in for a quick intimacy fix, then push him away at the first sign of trouble. I’m always relieved when I can rid myself of the burden of commitment.

“I see,” says Dylan, studying me again. His amazing lips are twitching into the most gorgeous smile that I can hardly stand to look at him. To think I kissed those lips once. I remember perfectly how good it felt. I remember wondering what they’d feel like on my nipples. On my…

Stop it.

“What about you?” I ask, surprised that I’m able to pose such an intimate question without wincing. “Have you had any serious relationships?”

He shakes his head, his eyes locked on mine. “Nope,” he says. “No one appealed to me enough. No one ever held a candle to…” Fortunately, he stops himself before giving away the name on his lips. No doubt he was about to bring up some goddess, and I’m not sure I want to hear about her. “What about that one?” he asks, pointing to a guy who looks like he must be an American tourist, walking along in plaid shorts, a striped shirt and flip flops.

“Awful,” I say. “If I want to see guys who look like that I can just hang around Los Angeles.”

“Fair enough.”

A moment of silence passes between us before either of us speaks again.

“I don’t know much about fashion, but I like your clothes,” he adds, his voice a little soft, a little smooth. “If I had to pick, I’d definitely give you the title of Best-Dressed Woman in Rome.”

I look down at my outfit. “This old thing?” I say, all too aware of how much boob is showing.

“Yes, that old thing,” he nods. “You make the locals pale in comparison to your beauty.”

I allow myself a little smile. “Well, you’re being awfully complimentary, Pickle. Are you trying to make up for…” I stop myself yet again. Damn it, Lucy. The matter is supposed to be officially closed.

He looks confused again, like he has no idea what I’m talking about. I guess I should be grateful for his conveniently forgetful male brain. At least he’s not as neurotic as I am.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I was about to say something stupid.” That’s it. From this moment on I’m going to follow Katherine’s advice. I won’t judge Dylan, or anyone else, by their past. Only by their present and future. At least I’ll try.

“So you said you’re working in Rome?” I ask. “What can you tell me about that?”

“Ah. Well, long story. I guess you don’t know that I started up my own firm a few years back, in New York City.”

“New York?” my voice chokes with shock. There may be a little sadness in there, too. “I had no idea you’d moved so…far away. When did that happen?”

He pulls his eyes away and stares off into space, like he’s recalling something from the distant past. “I planned on staying around L.A. back in the day, for grad school,” he says, “but things didn’t go as I’d hoped, so I took off.” He turns back to me and gives me the strangest look, as if I was somehow involved in his decision to leave. Okay, now I’m the confused one. “I moved as far away as I could without leaving the country,” he continues. “Anyhow, getting my own firm up and running is something I’ve worked on for years. I’ve got fifty employees and counting working for Emerson Design.”

“Wow. So you can afford to pay that many people?” Some part of my chest swells with pride and admiration. “Good for you.”

“Thanks.” He’s smiling, looking so cute. Almost embarrassed, like he doesn’t want to boast about what an incredible achievement it is. “Anyhow, I’m here on a sort of work sabbatical, getting together with some Italian firms to study integrating classical design into modern buildings. I want to bring elements of Italian architecture back to New York. Everything’s gotten so damned big and modern, I miss the days when buildings were hard stone, strong and durable.”

“I do too,” I tell him. Again, my eyes move about, this time looking up at the buildings surrounding us. None of them is more than four storeys high, and I like it. We could just as easily be sitting in the middle of a medieval village as the centre of a bustling metropolis. “Maybe that’s why this place feels so good to me. There’s none of the new style of architecture. Rome has staying power. It’s so old, but somehow it’s just right.”

“Right, exactly,” says Dylan. His features are growing animated, like he’s excited to get to talk about his work. He leans in, and so do I. It’s possible that I’m enjoying this a little too much. Suddenly I feel close to him emotionally as well as physically. That can’t be good. “Don’t you wish you could wake up every morning in a place that looks like Trastevere?” he asks, looking around at the buildings that surround us. “Vines dripping down the walls, beautiful open windows, the smell of delicious food cooking?”

“Totally,” I say, allowing myself to be temporarily taken in by his fantasy.

“That’s what I want to create. A place to live that doesn’t feel oppressive or closed in. I want to live in a quiet, beautiful place that feels as relaxing as an Italian villa.”

My heart’s beating hard. What he just described is what I want, too. Well, maybe not in New York. But the idea of a peaceful oasis is perfection. It’s how everyone should live. Stress-free, beautiful surroundings.

“I get it,” I say, staring into his eyes. “I understand. I suppose that’s why I love the style here, the clothes, the everything. It’s so laid back but sort of…I don’t know, dreamy.”

“Loose,” he replies, leaning even closer. His blue eyes are penetrating me and pulling me in at once. Dangerous man alert. “I’ve really missed you, you know.”

Oh damn. Even more dangerous man.

Like a lever’s been pulled I draw myself backwards, smashing into the back of the chair as a sharp wave of pleasure passes over me. This is a little too good, too pleasant. Too near perfection. Which means that it can’t be good for me. Nope, I can’t let myself go back to that place. I’m not getting my heart hurt by him again. He seems different now, more grown up, more responsible. But so am I, and that means I’ve learned from my past mistakes. I know not to make them again, no matter how tempting it might be.

I’m here for me. For pleasure. For a vacation, alone and untethered to past hurts.

“I’ve missed you too,” I say quietly. But I don’t expand on the thought. I can’t. Because then he’d know how much I once cared for him.

We sit in silence for a moment before Dylan speaks up again. “Do you remember the time when we were in high school and we all went down to that ravine? The one that Jake Billings fell into?”

Lifting my water glass to my mouth, I laugh. “Jeez, I’d almost forgotten. We were teenagers then,” I say, taking a sip. I study his face. “I didn’t realize you even knew I was there. There must have been fifteen of us.”

“Oh, I knew. I always knew when you were around.”

“You did?”

Oh, God. He’s staring into me now with that same hungry look I saw in his apartment. The look that makes me want to pull my clothes off and tell him to take me in any way that he wants. “Always,” he says, his voice deepening. “I had the biggest crush on you. I can’t believe you didn’t know that. The only reason I never acted on it until…that night…was because you seemed so reserved. Aloof, even. I gave up on you and went out with girls I didn’t like that much.”

“I had a crush on you for a long time, too,” I lie. Crush, ha. I was madly in love with you like only a teenage girl can be. I had hopes and dreams pinned on you. I wanted you. I’d saved my virginity for you.

As the memory of the pain hits me again, I feel myself tensing up, my fingers curling into fists. I don’t want to revisit heartbreak when we’re having such a nice time.

Maybe we should quit while we’re ahead.

“Listen, I’m pretty tired,” I tell him. “Do you think we could maybe settle up and head back?”

He nods, drawing his body away as though to signal that it’s okay, he’s not going to make a move. He throws a hand up and gestures for the bill. “I’ve got this,” he tells me.

“Oh, no,” I reply, inadvertently reaching across the table to stop him. I don’t want to be in debt to Dylan Emerson.

“Please,” he says, reaching a hand out abruptly to land on my own. This is the first time he’s touched me, if you don’t count his slamming into me at the coffee shop or our handshake. Shocks drive through me, sending a mad, wonderful pulse to my core, reminding me what effect this man has on my very excited body. “Lucy, let me pay,” he says. His voice is as strained as mine feels.

“Okay,” I reply reluctantly. I feel like a turtle retreating into its hard shell, fear and excitement flooding through my veins like alcohol. I want him so badly, but I’m so damned frightened of what it means.

He strokes a thumb along my skin before pulling his hand away, as though he’s reluctant to let me go. “Listen, I want to see you again,” he murmurs. His voice has gone very deep, very low, its masculinity swirling like smoke around my mind. If I didn’t know better I’d say that he was making a demand. “I want to spend time with you, Lucy.”

I shake my head, unwilling to negotiate with emotional terrorists who take my heart hostage and don’t give it back. “I don’t think…” I begin.

“So don’t think,” he tells me. His voice is all but a growl. My eyes meet his, and he looks so sexy that I want to throw caution to the wind and give in. I want to take him back to my place and breeze my hands over his muscles, straddle him, dominate him, claim him for myself, just for one night.

I want that night I lost so long ago.

“You’re telling me not to think?” I ask. “All I ever do is think. It’s my downfall. It’s why…it’s why I’m so fucked up, Dylan.”

“You’re not fucked up,” he says with a crooked smile, the dimple in his right cheek springing to life. “You’re perfect, Loose. The only thing that would make you more perfect is if you tell me you’ll spend some time with me here, in Rome.”

“I’ll spend some time with you,” I say. His smile is now evening out confidently, his teeth making an appearance.

“Excellent,” he says. “Was that so hard?”

I swallow hard. “I mean I’ll spend time with you as a friend.”

Bye-bye, smile. You were nice while you lasted.

Still, he keeps his chin up. Tearing his eyes away, he says, “Well, that’s better than nothing. As a friend then. Tomorrow after I’ve finished working, let me take you out and show you the sights. By then you’ll have gotten some rest, and we can go for a good long walk.”

“Sounds good.” A wander through the streets would be okay. As long as he doesn’t touch me again. If he puts his hands on me, I’ll lose my mind and my resolve. All resistance will melt away, and I’ll lick him, or kiss him, or bite him. Or all three at once.

They say that every woman has one man in her life that she just can’t resist. The bad boy who’s just too attractive to give up. The problem is, I’m beginning to think Dylan isn’t bad.

I’m not so sure he ever was.

Eleven

Dylan

Lucy Horner just shut me down like an undesirable lightbulb.

Or, what’s worse, an undesirable man.

I thought we were making strides. She seemed to be relaxing, laughing, smiling like in the old days. I guess I was a little foolish to assume that it meant that we might be able to pick up where we left off. We’re not there yet. I’m not sure we’ll ever be, even if we spend the next few weeks together.

But the thing is, I’m there. I’ve been there since I first set eyes on her a few hours ago. I want her so badly that my tongue is tingling, begging me to strip her down to nothing, bury my face between her thighs and draw its tip over her clit.

I feel like no time has passed since that night. I’m still the guy who ran off to get that blanket. Excited, optimistic, ready to finally be with the girl I’ve wanted for so long.

But she’s not ready. I’m not sure she’ll ever be.

I’m not a total asshole. I’m not going to disrespect the wishes of a woman I hold in such high esteem by making a move on her, when clearly she doesn’t want me. If she’s willing to spend time with me as friends, so be it. At least she hasn’t run away this time. We’re talking to each other like adults, and that’s more than I’ve gotten from her in a long time.

After I’ve settled up, I walk her back towards our building. She’s silent all the way there, and so am I.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I say after a time.

She looks sideways at me, that sly expression in her eyes that tells me there’s a lot going on in that head of hers. “I’m not thinking anything,” she insists.

“Yes, you are. You know how I can tell?”

“How?”

“Because you’re breathing, Loose. You were always thinking, always over-analyzing everything. I remember that well about you. You even said it yourself.”

She laughs. “Okay, fine. If you insist, I was just thinking it’s pretty weird how things turn out, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” I ask her as we reach the front gate. When I’ve unlocked it, we both walk into the cobblestone corridor that leads towards the stairwell.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” she replies. “And I certainly never expected to have dinner with you in an Italian restaurant—in Italy.”

“Me neither,” I tell her, “but I’m really damned glad that fate made it happen.”

At the stairs I have a choice: follow her to the right or go up to the left, to my place. I know exactly what I need to do; I just don’t want to do it. So I stop at the base of the stairs and turn her way, delaying the inevitable. “Listen, you know where to find me if you want me, need me, want to talk,” I tell her. I’m not smiling anymore. I’m dead serious, and a little sad. “Thanks for coming out to dinner.”

“Thank you,” she says, throwing me a quick, laboured grin. But her eyes contradict her upturned lips; they’re questioning, like she wants to understand something. Thing is, I can’t read her mind, damn it. I can’t know what she wants from me unless she says it.

I wish she’d open up to me, say something. Anything.

“Dylan, the thing is, I…” she says in a voice so low it’s nearly a whisper.

“Yes?”

She looks down at her hands, which are fiddling with the keys twisted among her fingers. “Nothing. I’ll see you around. Good night.”

As she heads up the stairs, I watch her for a few seconds. She still has no real idea how sexy she is, or how much I want her. If she knew, there was no way that she’d be so cruel as to deny me her presence tonight.

“Good night, Loose,” I whisper as she disappears around the corner.

Twelve

Lucy

After I’ve hiked up the stairs and made my way inside my apartment, I run over to the other side of the living room to shut the curtains before Dylan gets a chance to turn his light on across the courtyard. I need to cut myself off from any evidence of that too-gorgeous man before I get even more hooked on whatever it is that he’s selling. I need to distance myself, need to keep myself from falling into the abyss again.

How is it that a guy who was the captain of the college football team—the sexy, smart, impossibly handsome blond god who dominated the halls and every girl’s heart in high school and university—has actually managed to get even hotter over the years? More baffling still, how the fuck is he still single?

It’s killing me to resist him. I want to open the curtains and yell across that I was wrong to tell him I just wanted to be friends. I want to shout, “Dylan! I made a mistake! Now get over here and take off your damn clothes!”

I want to spend the next four weeks in Rome walking the streets during the day, taking in the sights, and coming home at night to make love with him in a creaky old brass-framed bed until we can’t even walk anymore. I want him to kiss me on the Spanish Steps, by the Trevi Fountain, under the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I want him to whisper lascivious words to me in St. Peter’s, to secretly push his hand up my skirt under the table of a five-star restaurant. I want all the things we never had.

But more than anything, I want to feel again. I want to let my heart open just a little and see what’s in there.

The thing is, I do feel. I feel for myself, I feel for him. He’s still all the things I loved back in the days before he broke my heart. Only now he’s better, wiser.

Of course, so am I.

Wise enough to know that maybe it’s better like this. A good male friend is a rare find, and maybe it’s smart to keep him at arm’s length.

I’m pondering the entire stupid dilemma when a gentle knock sounds at my door. If it’s Dylan, I have no idea how I’ll resist grabbing him by the waist of his shorts and dragging him into the apartment so I can have my way with him. My resistance is seriously compromised.

But I have to resist. I have to control myself. I can’t fall hard all over again, or I’ll end up crashing into the ground and shattering into a million pieces.

When I pull the door open, I’m already saying, “Listen, Dylan,” but when my eyes find my visitor’s, I slam my mouth shut. Oh, my. It’s Giancarlo, the handsome young man from downstairs.

Shit. I told him I’d go on a date with him.

Shit. I’m not sure I want to anymore.

“Mi scusi,” he says. The words flit to my ears like music in the air. “I don’t mean to disturb, bella, but this message was left for you.” He hands me a slip of paper, which I grasp in a tense fist.

“Thank you—I mean grazie,” I reply, smiling at him, relieved. Relieved that instead of a man whose attractiveness scares me half to death, I’m looking at a man whose attractiveness just makes me slightly horny. Harmless Giancarlo is almost a breath of fresh air after an evening spent resisting Dylan’s charms.

“Okay, good night,” I add, ready to seal myself off from humanity. I don’t feel like acknowledging the date that may never happen. I just want to forget that men exist, for a little while at least.

“Bella Lucia,” Giancarlo says before I have a chance to close the door. Those were Dylan’s words earlier, too. He lays his palms on the frame and leans towards me, those blue eyes of his narrowing as he looks me up and down. “It turns out that I don’t have to work this evening. Would you like to have a drink with me?”

“Tonight?” I reply, anxiety forcing my brow into a state of wrinkled tension. Right now I’m way too screwed up to think about a drink with this guy. “I…I can’t, not tonight.”

I’m about to say, “or ever” when it occurs to me that I’m being stupid. Why shouldn’t I, after all? “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m really tired,” I add sheepishly. “But maybe another evening soon?”

He looks like a dismayed puppy dog. “Okay then,” he replies. “But soon, si?”

He’s smiling at me, his curly black hair dipping over one blue eye. This guy is like a walking sex toy designed for the frivolous pleasure of randy single chicks. I could make a killing if I learned how to produce Giancarlo clones for the masses.

“Yes, yes, soon,” I say, smiling to myself as much as to him. Somehow Giancarlo makes me feel so worldly and mature. “I’ll tell you what: come by some other day and ask me out again. I promise I’ll say yes.”

The smile that erupts on his face looks practiced, like he’s studied exactly how to take on the appearance of a wicked young sex fiend. Maybe there’s a course at a local Roman university called Seducing Tourists 101. I suspect that he got an A+.

“All right. But if you say no,” he says, “I will pound on your door until you agree to go out with me.” He says the words emphatically, like he’s taking charge of my life. For a moment I balk at his tone. I want to say, “Listen buddy. Fuck you,” but the wide smile that spreads over his features tells me he’s kidding. Thank God.

As I shut the door behind him, I marvel for the second time tonight at how weird life is. A gorgeous man has just demanded—again—that I go out with him. And I’ve said yes. The problem, I realize as I heave a deep sigh, is that he’s not the man I really want to go out with.

Turning to face the apartment, I realize that the crunched-up note is still in my hand. Unfolding it, I see that it’s from Katherine, who’s apparently already popped by to say hello. She wants to meet tomorrow. Well, well. My social calendar is filling up.

Relieved to get to hang out with someone who doesn’t have testicles, I pull out my phone and shoot a text to the number that she wrote down for me.

“Katherine—yes, I would love to meet up somewhere. Am free tomorrow morning.” Some part of me wants to keep the evening free. Despite my resolve, I know perfectly well that it’s because the evening is when there’s a chance to see Dylan.

Dylan, who’s just a friend.

Dylan, whose body I want to claim with my mouth, my pussy, my everything.

Dylan, who has set my emotions reeling into a tailspin.

Dylan, who broke my heart.

I’m such an idiot.

“Great!” she writes back. “Meet me in the Campo de’ Fiori at ten, by Bruno.”

Bruno? I think, but I figure if she’s saying it, it has to make sense. Surely I’m resourceful enough to locate a guy with that name.

“Will see you then.”

When I’ve set the phone down, I remember that I’m supposed to call my mother and let her know I haven’t been murdered yet. It’s nine o’clock here by now, so according to my calculations, it’s noon in California. So naturally I procrastinate, heading to the bathroom to undress and hop into the shower for the second time to wash the sweat off my body. When I’m out, I feel refreshed and ready to take on the world.

Or at least the mother from hell.

I throw on the robe supplied by the travel agency and bounce over to the bed, my hair wrapped in a towel. Within seconds I’ve set up my laptop. It’s cheaper to make overseas calls online, so I poke in my parents’ contact number. My mother’s never gotten very good at using technology, and her ineptitude amuses me quite a lot. I’d be lying if I said I’ve never seen her try to use the TV’s remote control as a phone.

After a few seconds I see the top of her head on my screen, her dyed blond hair in wild disarray as I stare at her ceiling fan. No sign of her face, of course. Camera angles and Mom don’t mix.

“Oh, hello, dear!” she calls out. Apparently she can see me. Well, that’s something. “Good to see that you’re alive. I tried calling you last night, but when you didn’t answer your phone, I thought the worst.”

“I was in a taxi, Mom,” I reply, strategically neglecting to tell her about the driver who tried his damnedest to give me a heart attack.

“When I didn’t hear from you, I looked up the Roman police,” she continues as if she hasn’t heard me. “I was about ready to file a missing person’s report.”

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “Everything’s just fine.”

“Glad to hear it, dear. You should know, I was watching the news this morning to see if any planes had crashed into the Atlantic.”

“And had they?”

“None.” She almost sounds disappointed. “What’s that thing on your head?” she adds, noticing the towel for the first time. “Is that the new Roman style?” Mom has always been good at jumping between topics without a care in the world.

“It’s a towel, Mom.”

“A towel? You had a shower before you called your mother?” Actually, I had two showers and a sort-of-almost-date. But who’s counting?

“I wanted to look and smell nice for you.”

“You do realize I can’t smell you, don’t you? Computers aren’t that advanced yet, dear.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“So, is Rome nice?”

“I just got here, so I haven’t seen much of it. But the parts I have seen are very nice.” I’m debating about whether to tell her about Dylan, but I don’t think it would be a good idea, somehow. I’m sure she met him when I was in high school, but even if she thought he was a nice boy then, she’ll probably assume he’s some sort of sexual predator now, like all men.

“Well, don’t talk to any strangers when you’re off wandering alone,” she says, like I’m four and incredibly stupid.

“Everyone here is a stranger, Mom. I don’t really have a choice, at least if I ever want to order food or, say, do anything whatsoever.”

“At least don’t talk to strange men. Unless they’re handsome. And rich.”

I snort. “You know, it’s the weirdest thing; I’m not so good at discerning a man’s wealth based on his appearance, Mother. But I’ll be sure to keep my wealth-sensor app running at all times.”

“There’s such a thing? Well, isn’t that something,” she replies. Oh my God, my mother is insane.

“Listen,” I say, trying hard not to laugh, “I’m going to get settled in. I’ll call or email you soon and let you know how I am, okay?”

“Okay, dear. Oh! I nearly forgot. Your father and I are going to come visit you.”

My head all but explodes. How the hell did she neglect to tell me this horrible piece of information?

“Wait—what?” I ask, suddenly wishing to God that she couldn’t see my face, which is wearing the same expression as it would if rotating blades were approaching my head. “Why would you do that? I’ll be home in a few weeks.” I promise not to talk to strange men or do anything bad. Just, please, don’t come visit. Please.

“We were talking about it, and we don’t think it’s appropriate for a lovely young woman like you to be wandering around a strange city alone for a whole month. You know what happens to women in cities like Rome.”

They have a great time, drink tons of wine and have so much sex that they can’t walk properly?

I press out a huge sigh. “What happens?”

“They get raped.”

“Mother,” I say, looking straight into the camera, “you say that all the time. And I’ve got to tell you, it’s bullshit.”

“Don’t curse at your mother, dear. And it’s true. I read it somewhere.”

“In one of your tabloids,” I reply. “I’m not going to get raped. Besides…” Here it comes. “There’s someone I know staying in this same building.”

“Really?” asks the top of her head. “Who is it?”

“Dylan Emerson. You remember him—he’s an old friend from high school.” It feels so weird to describe him that way. When she fails to respond, I add, “He was the captain of the football team in college. He’s an architect now.”

“Oh, that sounds all right,” she replies. “Is he handsome?”

“Very,” I tell her. All this is, of course, in the hopes that she’ll change her mind about visiting.

“Well, we’ll meet him when we come.”

My heart sinks. “You’re really coming? Have you even booked a room? It’s hard to find hotels here in the summer…”

“Yes, we’re coming,” she tells me. “And don’t worry about the hotel. We thought that since you have your own place, we’d just stay with you. We’ll be flying in next Sunday.”

You’re seriously inviting yourself to stay in my one-bedroom apartment for a week? Kill me.

“Mom, this is only a one-bedroom…”

“No matter. I can see your bed. It’s obviously a double. That will do nicely for us.”

“A week, you said?”

“Yes. We’re coming on Monday the fourteenth. Then onto Florence for another week. Isn’t it exciting? I’ve always wanted to go to Italy.”

“You’ve never wanted to come to Italy, Mom.”

“Yes, I have.”

“You told me I’d get raped by literally ever man in this country. Why would you want to come here?”

“It looks pretty. Besides, I won’t get raped, dear. I have your father to protect me from Italian perverts. It’s only single women who wander the streets alone who are asking for it.”

Holy shit. Kill me again.

My teeth grind together as I force out a smile. So much for my solitary adventure. So much for my sanity.

So much for Dylan.

A heavy exhale of surrender escapes from my chest. “Well, the apartment is very nice, Mom. I think you’ll like it.” Especially after I’ve run away to live in a cardboard box down by the Tiber River and developed a heroin addiction because my mother is a demented stalker.

“Good. Okay, well, I’ll leave you to your fun. Be sure to eat a caesar salad for me.”

“I’m not sure they make those here.”

“But wasn’t Caesar Roman?”

“He was, but—oh, forget it. You know what? I’ll eat a salad and report back.”

“Great. Bye, dear. Don’t get raped.”

“I’ll be sure to douse myself in anti-rape spray, Mother,” I growl as I hang up.

Kill me.

Thirteen

Lucy

Monday

By 9:45 in the morning, after a very long sleep, I’ve found my way to the famous Campo de’ Fiori, a large, open square surrounded by typical flat-fronted Roman buildings of varying sizes and colours ranging from lemon yellow to dark red. Shuttered windows dot their façades, creating an even, pleasing patchwork that ties them all together into an idyllic vista.

I’ll admit that on my way through the winding streets that led me here, I wanted to stop about eighteen times in various little hole-in-the-wall shops that displayed the most gorgeous linen sweaters, pants that might just make my ass look fabulous and perfect Italian leather purses. Both the designer in me and my girly-girl side are intrigued, but I have weeks here yet, so I make a note to return and explore when I have a bit of time.

The streets lead into the campo like spokes of a bicycle wheel; there have to be about twenty of them coming at it from all directions. I could see getting lost for hours, weary feet treading on the uneven cobblestones. I can’t think of a better way to spend a morning. The expression All Roads Lead to Rome has begun to make more sense to me than ever, although a more accurate version might be All roads in Rome lead to another part of Rome, and good luck ever finding your way out. This city was not designed for ease of navigation, but that’s one of the things I love about it.

When I arrive at the square, I spot Bruno immediately. He’s a dark, brooding, hooded statue of a man standing towards one end of the campo. I wander over, mesmerized by his mystery. His handsome face is mostly in shadow, thanks to the hood that makes him look like a monk. But as I read the template that describes him, I learn that he was a philosopher and mathematician who was burned by the catholic church for heresy.

A naughty man after my own heart.

When I’ve finished examining him, I perch on the steps at his feet to stare out at the people wandering by. Mostly tourists, I think, though the odd Italian saunters past me. You can tell the locals by the fact that they pay attention to each other rather than to their surroundings. In my limited experience, it’s impossible for a tourist to walk through the city without risk of death, because their eyes are constantly drawn upwards. There’s so much to stare at here, so much beauty, that it’s impossible to ignore. The city is breathtaking, mysterious, open and closed at once, its stories told on the very stones that make up its buildings’ foundations.

“Lucy.”

The feminine voice pulls me out of my reverie and I jump to my feet, trying to figure out where it came from. I spin around until I come face to face with a redhead who’s got a big smile on her lips, a leather bag slung over one shoulder. She’s wearing a pale linen jumpsuit tied at the waist, and looks like she just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine.

“Katherine!” I say, wanting to throw my arms around her. She feels so much like an old friend by now, and it’s damn good to see a face other than Dylan’s.

She steps forward and kisses me on each cheek before saying, “Let’s grab a coffee, shall we?”

I nod and she guides me over to a café, slipping elegantly into a chair at one of the tables that are protected from the sun by large umbrellas covered in advertisements for Cinzano and various other alcoholic beverages.

“I trust you’re doing well?” she asks before I can say anything.

“Yes, very well,” I reply. “Well, fairly well.”

“That’s the same answer you gave me yesterday. You’d mentioned that you ran into a man you know—tell me, how’s that working out?”

I look away and sigh heavily. “It’s a little crazy,” I reply, not knowing what else to tell her.

The waiter steps over, and Katherine order us two cappuccinos, looking my way to make sure I approve. I do.

“Crazy can be fun,” she says.

I pull my gaze back to her face to see that she’s smiling, this sly little expression in her eyes, like she understands but she’s enjoying this just a little too much.

“Not this kind of crazy. I guess I haven’t told you that I used to be in love with him.” Immediately I clam up, realizing that it was probably a bad idea to offer so much information out loud.

“I see,” she replies. “And how do you feel about him now?”

She asks a lot of questions, but something in them manages not to feel intrusive. I’m not sure how she manages it.

“Conflicted,” I laugh. “I was a kid then; it was a long time ago. But I think we’ve both changed. And I get the distinct impression that he’d like to go on a date with me.”

“But you don’t want to because you’re afraid the old feelings would crop up.”

“Yes, something like that.”

“You’re afraid that you’ll walk away feeling foolish and he’ll walk away clean as a whistle.”

“Bingo.”

The waiter lays our drinks in front of us. I’m now wishing I’d asked for a margarita.

“But you said he’s not a scoundrel?” Katherine asks, leaning her elbows on the table and placing her chin in her hands.

“No. Not a scoundrel. But that doesn’t mean I can bring myself to trust him.”

“All right,” Katherine says, leaning back as though to take in all the information I’ve given her over the last day.

“There’s one more complication,” I throw her. “There’s another man, one I just met. I think he lives in the building next door.”

“Ah,” says, Katherine, pulling her hands into her lap. “Giancarlo.”

“You know him?”

“He took the note from me yesterday. I met him, yes.”

“Well, he asked me out.”

Katherine’s smiling again, entertained by my dilemma. There’s something really sexy about her. I mean, I’m not into women, but I could see how men must fall all over her. I half expect her to tell me that Giancarlo asked her out, too. “He’s a very handsome man,” she says, “and he knows it.”

“Yes, I think he does. So tell me, would you advise against a date with him?”

“Oh, hell no,” she tells me. “You should absolutely go out with him. Good lord, if that man asked me out I’d strip naked and straddle his face before even bothering to say yes.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be straddling any part of him, but it would certainly take my mind off Dylan for a few hours.” I take a sip of my cappuccino, which is freaking amazing. “Wait a minute,” I say, dabbing my mouth with the small napkin that was tucked under my saucer. “How did you become my relationship advice go-to woman? I feel like we’ve only talked about me and my stupid girl problems since I arrived.”

“It’s my own fault,” she laughs. “I love hearing about this sort of thing. Besides, I don’t have a love interest in Rome these days, so I appreciate the chance to live vicariously. Anyhow, I advise you to open yourself up to any and all opportunities. You only live once and all that.”

“So you’re advising me to go full-slut.”

Katherine laughs again. “Such an ugly word. Let’s say that you’d be a woman in charge of her own destiny. Live a little. Enjoy the world around you.”

“I don’t think I can be open to too many experiences or my brain will explode. Either that or my heart will melt.”

Giancarlo = explosive brain.

Dylan = melting heart.

“That sounds lovely, actually,” she replies. “Whatever you choose to do, even if it’s neither man, I’m sure it’ll be right for you.” She lets out a soft, contented sigh as her eyes scan the campo. “I once had a romantic adventure in this city, years ago now. I’ll never forget it.”

“What happened?” I ask, grateful to get a chance to hear about someone else’s entanglements.

Katherine looks at me. “We met, we became addicted to one another. Then there was a lot of sex. And then more sex. Then we went our separate ways,” she says. “As it had to be.”

“Did you love him?”

She looks away again, her eyes staring into the distance at the statue of Bruno. “Actually, yes,” she says. “I did. Very much. But we had different ideas of what the future should hold. And things turned out for the best for us both, I think. He has a family now, and I have my independence.” She turns back to me, her expression serious. “It’s okay to love someone and to hurt, you know. The heart isn’t meant to be shut off like a faucet with a limited supply. It’s meant to bend and suffer and then rejuvenate. Our hearts recharge, Lucy. That’s the beauty of being human.”

She’s so smart, and so right. But I know how I am. I know how long it takes my poor stupid heart to recover from damage: forever and a day. It’s still working on healing from the wound it suffered seven freaking years ago.

“Tell me something, Katherine, why did you start the travel agency?” I ask, curious about what makes her tick.

She doesn’t need to contemplate the answer for a second. “For women like you and me. Women who grew up with pressure on them to end up with a permanent partner, who think they’ve failed if they don’t have that life. Women who are waiting for the right man to come along to make them whole. I want women to be able to walk the streets of Rome alone, without feeling like a part of them is missing. Hell, if you want to fuck a gorgeous man, I say by all means fuck him. But don’t tell yourself that he’s the thing that will fix you. The only one who can make you whole is you. And once you’re whole, guess what? Then you can work on the next step. It’s far easier to give yourself to another person when you’re complete than as a broken entity.”

I stare at her, my mind kind of blown. She’s just laid out everything that I’ve spent years trying to figure out. She’s right, of course; I’ve spent my entire adult existence thinking that someday, someone would come around and fix the cracks in my shell.

But I’m realizing that I need to repair myself. I need to accept who I am, how I am.

In the meantime, I think that maybe it’s time for me to go on a date.

Fourteen

Dylan

When I get home after work on Monday, I can see that Lucy’s home. For once her curtains are open, and she’s wandering around her living room, drinking a glass of water. She actually looks relaxed and happy, like she’s just enjoyed a quiet day in Rome without a care in the world.

I know that I should leave her be, let her enjoy her holiday alone, unperturbed by the likes of me. But damn it, I want to talk to her again. Want to get to the bottom what’s going through that gorgeous head of hers. I want to be part of whatever it is that’s making her look so content.

Besides, she said we could do friend things together, and I’m not willing to let her back down on that promise. So I slip outside onto the balcony and make my way over. When I’ve arrived, I knock hard enough on her door to let her know I mean business.

“Loose?” I call out. A moment later she’s poking her head out through an open window. When she smiles, it’s like angels are singing. Hallelujah, Lucy has stopped staring at me like I’m here to kill her and eat her head.

“Hey, Dill Pickle,” she says. Her tone is friendly, even bubbly. Okay, she might be on drugs. But what do I care? She’s in a good mood, that’s all that matters. Unless they’re the bad sort of drugs. The kind that get you hooked, eat away at your liver then drop you dead.

“You’re sober, right?” I ask.

“Totally. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. Just—I haven’t really seen that particular smile out of you in years. It’s good to see you looking happy.”

She slips over, opens the door and reveals herself fully. She’s wearing a yellow dress that hugs all those curves that I want to lick, lucky dress. “I’m in Rome,” she says, gesturing to me to come in. “What’s not to be happy about?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” I deliberately neglect to mention how miserable she looked only a day ago.

Once I’ve slipped inside I stare at her, maybe a little too intensely. I can’t help it; she’s so damned beautiful. “What were you up to today?” I ask, still half-convinced that she’s found some back-alley pharmaceuticals.

“I went and met a friend, did some wandering, shopping, you name it. Now I’m back, contemplating what to do with myself next.”

“Well, I have a suggestion,” I say, pulling out my phone to assess the time. “It’ll be light for hours yet. Are you up for a little more walking?”

She nods. “I’m a little hungry, though.”

“I can fix that,” I say. “Wait here.”

In a flash I run over to my apartment and thrown a couple of things into a plastic bag, which I then insert into a small canvas pack and toss the strap over my shoulder. I’m back at Lucy’s within a minute.

“What say I show you the Janiculum Hill? We can grab a bite on the way.”

“The what now?” she asks.

“I’ll explain as we go.”

“Fair enough. I’m in,” she says.

When we’re out of the building we walk through Trastevere until we reach a favourite street of mine, where I stop in front of a narrow restaurant whose sign simply says Casa di Pietro.

“It’s a serious cliché, but is pizza okay?” I ask.

“Are you kidding? So much more than okay,” she replies. “It’s like you read my mind.” She’s smiling again, and it’s contagious. I want to kiss her mouth just to ensure that her happiness spreads to me and sticks. Of course, that would sort of break the rules of friendship, so I guess it’s not on the table for tonight.

“Let’s grab a slice and keep walking,” I say. We pop into the pizzeria. She gets a slice of margherita, I order the prosciutto, and then as promised, we head towards the hill, our makeshift dinner in hand.

“Any new insights on Italian fashion today?” I ask.

“I have to admit that I bought a couple of things in the shops around the Campo de’ Fiori,” she replies. “It’s hard to resist Italian clothing.”

“So they tell me. By the way, there’s one person who’s sense of style you haven’t assessed yet.”

“Who’s that?”

“Me. What does my fashion sense tell you?” I sweep a hand over my torso, showing off my very casual outfit.

“Hmm,” she says, stopping to press her index finger to her lips and look me up and down. “That you have no money or self-respect?”

I freeze and look down, slightly offended. I’m wearing khaki cargo shorts, an oldish grey t-shirt and sandals. Okay, fair enough. I look like a bum.

“At least I don’t have any strategically placed mustard stains,” I retort.

“True. You’re a veritable bastion of aesthetic perfection,” she laughs.

We start walking again. “Seriously, would you take me shopping sometime? It’s not often I get to take advantage of the services of a clothing expert.”

She allows herself another smile as she looks me up and down. “Sure. But I was kidding about the slob thing, you know. You look very nice, actually. Your t-shirt fits, and your shorts are the right length. They show off your…muscular…legs.”

As soon as she utters the words, her eyes start looking everywhere but at me, like she’s hesitant to assess me any further. It seems that Lucy’s allergic to complimenting me.

“Oh my God,” I gasp. “I think the seventh circle of Hell just froze over. Did you just say something nice about me?”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Crazy,” she says. “I meant it purely objectively.” She tosses her hair behind her right shoulder, which is bare, bronzed from the sun and smooth. A sudden urge slugs me in the gut. I want to kiss that shoulder. I want to trail my lips all the way up her neck, to hear a small moan emerge from that mouth of hers.

Once again, I want to make love to Lucy Horner so badly that it’s going to kill me.

Nope. You’re in the friend zone, Dylan. There’s no escape from this hell.

“I promise not to let anything go to my head,” I tell her. We’re making our way to the summit of the hill now. Once we’re there, I guide her over to the thick stone wall that divides us from the city of Rome below. I perch on its edge and look out at the vista. “There it is. Rome in all its glory. This is just about the best view in the city.”

Lucy steps forward and presses the tops of her thighs into the wall as she leans forward. She’s got that look in her eyes again, that wide-eyed innocent doe look that turns my brain on so much. “Wow,” she breathes. “It’s so gorgeous that I can hardly stand it. There’s so much history here. I can see the dome of the Pantheon, St. Peter’s, the Palatine Hill…” She turns to face my way. “You’re so lucky to have been here for so long. I’d kill for six months in this city.”

“I know. I don’t really want to leave, to be honest.”

A split-second look of disappointment flickers across her face as she registers the words.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” I ask.

“Nothing. You just reminded me that at some point I’ll have to leave, too. I like it here, it’s like an escape from reality. I feel like Rome has cleansed my soul or something.”

“This is reality,” I tell her. “Rome is real. And someday it’ll make a nice, real memory for you. You can always come back, you know. It’ll be here for a while. Eternal City and all that.”

“True.”

I flip open my backpack and extract a few plastic containers, popping them open. “Dessert,” I tell her, handing one her way along with a plastic spoon.

“What is it?” she asks, looking down at the slightly mushy-looking brownish goo inside the container.

“Tiramisú. It’s an Italian dessert. Homemade by yours truly. Go on, you’ll like it. As I recall, you like chocolate and booze, and this has both, so no excuses not to taste it, Loose.”

“My kind of dessert,” she says, chancing her first bite. “Mmm, it’s delicious,” she says, before taking a second spoonful. In true Lucy nature she manages to get a dollop of cream on the tip of her nose. Fuck, I want to lick it off so badly that unseemly things are happening in my shorts again.

Quick, Loose. Drip some on your cleavage. I’ll clean you up with my tongue.

I let out a chuckle as I look at her with that bit of off-white froth perched on her face. She’s oblivious, even more innocent looking than before.

“What’s funny?” she asks.

“Oh, just a little…” I stroke the tip of my index finger over the cream and pull it to my lips, licking it off. “I seem to remember that you and food always made for a potent combination.”

“Yes, I was always a pretty bad eater,” she laughs, wiping her nose with the back of her wrist. For a moment she stares at me, her eyes revealing all sorts of secrets. I see affection, happiness, humour.

“What are you thinking?” she asks. “I mean, aside from the fact that I’m a total doofus?”

“I’m thinking it’s really, really nice to see you,” I tell her. “I feel like we’re making up for way too much lost time. This friendship thing’s actually pretty nice.”

“Agreed,” she says quietly. I’m not sure if it’s just my imagination, or if she actually pulls a little closer to me.

I turn and stare out at Rome’s landscape below, trying to distract myself from the fact that we’re almost touching. It’s a little hard to stay in the friend zone when the friend is so arousing. “I have a lot to show you, so I hope you’re okay to do more walking over the next few weeks.”

“I like walking,” she says. Something in her voice has changed, as though a nervous excitement has crept in.

“Good,” I say. I don’t want to look at her, because I’m afraid that if I did I’d give in to my desire to grab hold of her, and I might never let her go. “So.”

“So.” She turns to face Rome as I’m doing, pressing her hands to the top of the wall. I look down to see tension in those fingers of hers. And there it is. More secrets, more words that she won’t allow herself to speak.

“Your friend—the one you met with today,” I say. “Was it someone you know from home?”

“No,” she replies. “Her name is Katherine. She’s the woman who runs the travel agency. It was the first time we’ve met in person, though I’ve talked to her a bunch of times.”

“Ah. Is she nice?”

“She is.” I steer my gaze up to Lucy’s profile. The sun is hitting her in that amazing golden way that it does late in the day in Rome, her features as lovely as any of Michelangelo’s statues. “She’s very…confident.”

“You say that like it’s an illness,” I laugh. “Do you mean she’s arrogant?”

“No,” she says, turning to look me in the eye. “Not at all; I didn’t mean it as a negative. Actually, I like her a lot. I envy her.”

“Why’s that?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. She just seems to have her shit together. Like she’s figured the world out. She seems like this wise sage, but she’s only in her thirties, I think. Something about her reminds me of a man, funnily enough.”

“So, she’s a lumberjack.”

Lucy laughs. “No, she’s super sexy and feminine, actually. It’s just that I get the impression that she can have an experience, even a bad one, then just let it slip off her back like it’s nothing. Men seem good at that.”

I let out a scoffing huff. “Men aren’t good at it. They’re good at pretending they are. There’s a big difference.”

“Really?” She turns around and slips her ass onto the wall, seating herself with her legs hanging down. “Do you pretend not to care about things?”

I nod. “All the time,” I say. “I’m pretending right now.”

“Pretending what?”

Pretending that I don’t regret losing track of you all those years ago. Pretending that I’m okay with this just-friends thing. Pretending I don’t want to kiss you.

“Pretending you don’t still have cream on your nose.”

She smacks her hand into her face so hard that there’s a high risk that she’ll end up with a black eye. “Shit, really?” she says.

“No, not at all. But it was fun to watch you punch yourself.” I can’t help but let out a laugh, and she clobbers me in the stomach with the back of her hand.

“Hey! Abusive woman!” I mock-yell, laughing some more. “Someone help me!”

“Not abusive. I was just testing your abs to see how rock-hard they get when confronted with womanly fury.”

“And?”

“Not bad at all.”

Fifteen

Lucy

His abs are made of corrugated steel. I’m sure of it.

I remember watching him on the beach one time years ago, throwing a football around with friends. I was, as usual, wearing a boy-short tankini. Something that covered enough of me that I didn’t need a Brazilian wax or to worry about my slightly waffly butt hanging out. Back in those days I was so insecure about my body, like all young women are. I wish I could go back in time and throttle myself.

But Dylan—he was always perfect. He’s kept in shape over the years, his arms still roped with muscle, his chest broad, his shoulders amazing. I wasn’t lying to him earlier when I said his clothes look good. The way his shirt fits him makes his muscular chest and back look like those of a marble statue. His shorts are loose, but that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of the enticing bulge in the front, or his gorgeous, tight ass. And now that he’s sitting down, I’m getting an eyeful of his thigh muscles, which are out of this world.

As I’m staring at him he turns towards me. The light hits him in the most amazing way, making his eyes glow bright as he looks into mine.

I’ve wanted to kiss him so many times in the last hour. Wanted to touch him, to do the things I’ve been craving since I first laid eyes on him. I want to take Katherine’s advice and forget about the past.

But this is good, too. Sitting here like this with him, talking like old friends. This is better than some ill-conceived fling that I might regret. We shouldn’t do something stupid, anyhow. He’s just broken up with someone and me, I’m probably just a little lonely. I keep reminding myself that I really need is a friend, and he’s turned out to be exactly that. A good friend. Someone who listens to me, who jokes with me. He’s considerate and kind, and I really like this thing we have going.

So no, I’m not going to kiss him, regardless of how much my body’s begging me to.

Okay, this is the most frustrating friendship in history.

“I guess I should head home,” I tell him, protecting myself from further fantasies. “I’m still a little tired from the time change.”

“Sure,” he replies. But he’s not moving; he’s still looking into my eyes.

Risking everything, his right hand slips up and pushes a strand of my hair away from my shoulder. My strap falls down, revealing bare skin.

I hear him inhale a gasp that sounds an awful lot like pleasure, and I know I’m in trouble, so I turn away and pull the strap up. My core pulses with need as I stare into the distance, juggling all the reasons that I shouldn’t have sex with Dylan. But I don’t need to juggle. I know why I can’t do it. Things have been going so well. I want to like him, but I also want him to prove that he’s changed. Or at least to prove that I have.

I need to know that I’m not scared of being hurt anymore.

“Walk me home?” I ask, finally gaining the courage to look at him again.

“Of course,” he replies. His lips move in slow motion as those two words come out, and somewhere under a couple of layers of cotton, my nipples turn into rock-hard beacons. Damn, those lips of his are magic.

I hop off the wall, landing on the pathway, and he pulls himself down next to me. For the briefest moment he brushes his hand over the small of my back and a surge of electricity shocks its way through my system. As he pulls away, his fingers slip down over my ass, and I swear that I hear another sigh from his chest as he pulls away. Damn it, Dylan, you’re not helping the cause.

Our walk lasts about half an hour, during which he points out the sights as we head down the tall hill. The Forum, far in the distance. Mussolini’s Palace. The Colosseum. He hasn’t touched me again. He’s trying, at least. Trying to give me the platonic relationship that I need from him, and I appreciate it.

An outdoor museum, that’s what Rome is, I think as I look around. The daylight is waning; clouds of red, orange and pink thinning themselves against the sky like a canvas. Underneath them lies the exquisite Eternal City. “It’s like a postcard,” I say softly. “The best postcard I’ve ever seen.”

“Isn’t it?” he replies. “I’ve always thought so, too.”

“I feel like photographing this and sending it to someone with the ‘Wish you were here’ message on it.”

“Oh yeah? Who would you send it to?” he asks.

“No one,” I tell him. The truth is that everyone I want is right here already. “Anyhow, it’s perfect. Well, aside from the heat. I think I need another shower,” I pretend to sniff my armpit in a very unladylike way.

“Nah. You’re perfect too,” he says.

“You’re just saying that because you haven’t smelled me yet.”

Dylan stops in his tracks, grabbing my arm as he turns to face me. His features have gone so serious, almost stern, and he’s staring at me like he’s about to chastise me. “When we were younger, Lucy, you didn’t see yourself like everyone else did. You never knew how beautiful you were. I’m still not sure that you get it.”

I find myself tensing from both fear and excitement. I’ve wanted to hear those words from his lips so many times over the years. I always wanted Dylan to think I was beautiful. Even now, even though I keep him at a distance, it fills me with indescribable bliss to hear him say it.

“I…” I begin.

“I’m serious,” he says. For a moment I think he’ll reach for me, take my hand, something. But he drops his hand to his side, resisting whatever temptation he might have to touch me again. Part of me wishes he’d stop resisting. If he makes the first move, then I can blame him when I give in to my desire. “I hope you understand, now that we’re older,” he says. “I hope you look at yourself like you’re looking at Rome and marvel at how beautiful you are.”

“Of course I don’t,” I say almost defensively. “That would be…”

“It would be perfectly reasonable, given that you make Rome look like a pile of dirt and rocks,” he growls. “Lucy, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

“Dylan…” I blurt out, but the truth is, I don’t know what to say. I want to tell him to stop saying nice things to me. But I also want to tell him to keep going, because it feels so good.

“Don’t,” he says. “I didn’t say it to make you respond. I said it because it’s true. You’re beautiful, and any man who gets to be with you is a lucky fucking bastard.” With that he turns away to guide me home.

We spend most of the walk in tense silence. I almost want to ask him what he’s thinking, but I suspect that I know perfectly well, because I’m thinking the same thing. Screw friendship. I want to take you to bed.

When we finally arrive at the staircases that lead up to our respective apartments, Dylan turns my way and takes my hand. Oh shit, I think, it’s happening. He’s going to ask me to come up to his place, and I’m going to say yes because I’m fucking stupid and because I want him so, so badly. His blue eyes are narrowed, hungry. For a moment he chews on the inside of his lip, assessing what he’s about to ask me.

“Loose,” he finally says quietly.

“Yes?” I reply, steeling my resolve and doing an awful job. I’m yours, Dylan, I’ll do anything you want.

“Would you come to a cooking class with me on Thursday?”

He’s still got that super-serious look on his face. Is he messing with my mind on purpose?

“What?” I sputter.

Finally his lips turn upwards and he chuckles. “A cooking class. With me. Well, me and an Italian chef. I’ve been wanting to do it since I got here but haven’t had anyone to take with me. Are you up for it?”

“Um…I…sure, what time?” I ask. I’m slightly pissed off at him for getting me going like that, but hell, a cooking class sounds fun.

“10:30.”

“Don’t you have to work?”

He nods. “But I’m skipping out. I’m my own boss, remember?”

“Oh yeah. Mr. Big Architect. I’d almost forgotten. Fine, then. Come by and knock on my door, would you?”

“Sure. Oh, and there’s one other thing,” he says. I realize he’s still holding my hand, and he moves towards me, putting his other hand on my waist.

“What is it?” I ask, ready to melt through the marble floor.

“Would you reconsider the friends-only thing? Because I really, really want to kiss you right now.”

Yes. Yes. Oh, God, yes.

He slips a hand up and pushes my hair back over my shoulder again, sliding the backs of his fingers along my skin. Fuck, that feels good. My strap falls down again as if by command, baring the top of my left breast, and it’s all I can do to stay upright.

This is a crossroads. I could pull my dress down and ask him to suck my nipple right here, right now. I could slip one of his hands under my skirt and show him how wet I am. I could unzip his shorts and cup a hand around his hard-on.

I’m breathing hard, my heart is beating fast, and I need this so badly that it hurts.

It hurts.

I shake my head. “No. I can’t.”

“That’s what I suspected,” he replies, shooting me a wicked smile before he turns away. “G’night, Loose,” he says as his amazing ass disappears up the stairwell.

He was testing me. The bastard was seeing if I’d cave, just for fun.

Okay, I have to admit, it was fun.

Sixteen

Lucy

Wednesday

After my usual daily jaunt through the streets of Rome, I return to the apartment around 4:30, hoping to spot Dylan.

When there’s still no sign of him at 6:00, I find myself staring across the courtyard at his apartment. This must be how sad dogs feel when they’re waiting for their owners to return. Somehow I’ve turned back into the little teenage girl I once was, my heart stolen away reluctantly by the dreamy football player who doesn’t know I exist.

The difference is that I’m too fucking stubborn to admit it. Back then I was just scared. Now it’s something else. Pride, maybe. Pride and self-preservation. There’s a reason I keep my heart under lock and key. It’s my equivalent of wrapping sixteen layers of bubble wrap around it; I don’t want it getting hammered by the cruel fist of a man.

The problem, I realize as I find myself glancing towards Dylan’s apartment again, is that he might already have broken through the bubble wrap. I can’t remember the last time I was so eager to see someone. The truth is that I missed him today. I wanted him with me while I wandered over to the Villa Sciarra and took in its architecture, its lush green gardens, and carved stone fountains. I wanted him to tell me about the building, to explain what this and that curve over the window was all about. I wanted to hear more about his own designs, his architecture firm, his plans for the future.

I want him to let me into his world. But I suppose I should probably reciprocate and let him in just a little, too.

His light doesn’t come on until after nine p.m. I have no idea where he’s been, and something inside me aches a little with an emotion too closely approaching envy. I envy the person or place that got to spend time with him, even if it was only the desk in his office.

For someone who’s just my friend, he sure manages to draw a lot of intense feelings out of me.

At about 9:30 a quiet knock sounds at my back door. My heart leaps, knowing it’s got to be him. But I pull myself up off the couch slowly, not wanting to appear overly eager to see him.

“Hey,” I say casually when I’ve opened the door to see his gorgeous face staring down at mine. He’s wearing an old, worn out white t-shirt that hangs just right on his muscular body, and cotton pyjama bottoms. From the enticing bulge in the front, I’d say he’s not wearing underwear. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I want to get my mouth on that bulge.

Some shitty friend I am.

“Hey, Loosy Goosy,” he says, grinning as my eyes slip over his everything. “I just realized I don’t have your number, email address, any of that.”

“Number…” I stammer. I think a spoonful of drool is about to slip out the side of my mouth. “Oh, yeah. Phone number.”

I turn and dash over to the coffee table, jot down the information on a piece of paper and hand it over when I’m standing in front of Dylan again. “What’s this for?” I ask.

“Just to keep in touch. I want to be able to text you if I need to.” He holds up the paper. “Thanks for this. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Mmm hmm,” I reply, nodding.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’m okay.”

“Okay.” He smiles and turns away to walk back around the balcony.

No, I’m not okay. Not okay at all.

I’m in lust.

* * *

It’s Thursday morning. As promised, Dylan shows up at my place shortly after ten to bring me to our cooking class. He’s wearing khaki linen pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Basically, he looks like walking sex, as usual. We haven’t even cooked anything yet and I’m already salivating.

Today I’ve thrown on a short, strapless little white dress and a pair of red sandals. The dress should look cute under an apron. Maybe if I look sexy enough, I’ll get payback for his tormenting me last night with his too-thin pyjama bottoms and his very enticing lack of underpants.

“Where are we headed?” I ask as we jog down the stairs into the alleyway. The outside air smells fresh, cool and clean. A faint breeze is making its way to us, a nice change from the usual stifling heat of Rome’s streets.

“The restaurant is only a few blocks away,” he tells me. “A colleague of mine from work recommended it when I told him I had a friend visiting from the U.S.”

“Restaurant? We’re not cooking for paying customers, I hope.” I can just imagine how foul whatever I make is going to taste. Cooking was never my strong suit.

“No. This is purely for us, Loose,” Dylan says, throwing me one an amused smile. I think he likes it when I get frazzled.

“Do you know what we’re going to make?”

“Something Italian, I assume,” he tells me. “All I know is that I can’t wait to eat whatever it is.”

The kitchen where we’re actually going to cook, it turns out, is in a house next door to a little restaurant with an open front and small, intimate patio. The outer walls are covered in green ivy, and like so many buildings in Trastevere, it’s exquisitely beautiful.

And from the smell of things, we’re going to be in good hands.

“Why’s this area called Trastevere, anyhow?” I ask Dylan as I take in the idyllic setting.

“Tras—across, Tevere—Tiber. It literally means across the Tiber River.”

“That’s actually pretty boring,” I tell him, laughing. “I was sure it had something to do with poetry, or Caesar, or orgies, or something.”

“No, that’s a few blocks away, in Orgy Central,” he jokes. “The Italians call it Il Orgissimo.”

“If there’s such a place, I totally want to go there,” I reply, chuckling.

“I’ll bet you do, you naughty little vixen.”

As I’m laughing, a man comes out to greet us. He’s dressed all in white cotton, and his stubbled face lights up when he sees us.

“You must be Signor Capone. Paolo sent me—I’m…” Dylan says.

“Signor Emerson,” says the chef. “My name is Luigi,” he tells us before shaking our hands.

Dylan and I exchange a quick look of approval. A chef called Luigi. What could be better?

“Come, come,” Luigi orders, guiding us inside. “I’ll take you to the kitchen.”

“What are we making?” I ask.

“Pizza,” he replies. “Italian pizza. From…how do you say…scratch.” He rolls the R in the word, making it sound freaking delicious.

When we arrive in the enormous, well-equipped kitchen, I realize we’re the only ones there. Luigi immediately darts out of the room to get something or other. Hopefully he’s grabbing a Cooking for Morons book just for me. “Is this a private class?” I whisper to Dylan. “I thought we’d be part of a group or something.”

He nods. “We’re alone today. I hope that’s all right; I figured we’d learn more this way. Luigi doesn’t usually teach, but Paolo said he’s happy to oblige on occasion.”

With that, the chef pops back into the kitchen. “Mi scusi,” he says, “I’ll be leaving from time to time to look after things next door.”

“That’s okay,” I reply. “I figure that pizza is a pretty safe bet. I don’t suppose we can screw it up too badly if left unsupervised.”

He starts us each off with a bowl and a pile of ingredients: eggs, flour, water, tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, and a bundle of herbs.

As I mix the ingredients for the dough together, the flour explodes in small clouds around the bowl, floating through the air like a small blizzard. But eventually I’ve managed to combine everything, and I’m ready to knead my messy creation. Luigi leads us through the process, teaching us how important it is to work the dough exactly the right amount so that it comes to life but isn’t overworked. He even demonstrates how to throw it into the air above our heads, which is something I never thought people did in real life.

“That’s amazing,” I tell him as I watch him in action. “I always thought this was just for cartoons.”

“No, no. It’s molto importante. Now you,” he says, turning my way.

“Oh, no. I can’t,” I reply, looking sideways at Dylan, who’s grinning mischievously as he watches me. “I’ll screw it up. It’ll probably end up in the ventilation system or something.”

“No, signorina, it’s fine,” Luigi says. “Just try.”

I pick up my dough and toss it up in the air, just barely managing to catch it before it goes crashing to the floor. It’s now a stretched out, mutated blob in my hands.

“It’s a start,” says Luigi, who then commands Dylan to follow suit. Naturally, Mr. Football star kicks ass, throwing and catching exactly perfectly.

“You’re a natural,” I tell him as he spins the dough back up into the air.

“Yeah,” he replies, his tone cocky, “there are maybe two or three guys in the world who can fling a naked raw pizza like I can.”

“Showoff.” I’m laughing as he hurls it almost to the ceiling and catches it behind his back, winking at me. There’s something very sexy about a man who’s so gifted with his hands.

“The oven is ready,” Luigi tells us. “Just slide the pizzas onto the tray when it’s time. Keep your eyes on them, and you will succeed. With many apologies, I need to go down and check on the ristorante.”

“Of course,” I reply, wiping the back of my hand across my slightly sweaty brow. “Thanks so much for everything.”

Dylan thanks him as well, and then suddenly we’re alone again. We each spread tomato sauce over our pizzas in silence for a moment before he says quietly, “Loose, there was another reason I wanted to take today off work, you know.”

Oh, God. Is he going to suggest that we get rid of the friends-only rule again? There’s only so much a girl can take. “Yeah?” I ask, my tone innocent. “What is it?”

“It’s Renata,” he replies.

Okay, that was not what I was expecting. My heart sinks. Our perfect morning just got less perfect. Envy has set in again.

“Renata? As in the woman you were dating?”

He nods. “She took a week off work after our breakup. Said she was going to visit her sick grandmother. She was supposed to be back today, and I can’t say I’m too thrilled about seeing her.”

“Ah.” I swallow hard. If he doesn’t want to see her, does that mean he still has feelings for her? Wait, why do I even care? I’m the one who relegated Dylan to friendship status. I should be perfectly happy that he’s going to spend time with a woman he’s had sex with. It would simplify my life.

Wouldn’t it?

“It’s just…she’s pretty obsessive,” he tells me. “I don’t think she accepted our breakup very well. I have no idea how she’s going to be, and I have to admit that I’m sort of avoiding her. She can be really clingy. Anyhow, I wanted to tell you about it, because you and I are supposed to be friends and whatnot. I didn’t want to keep secrets from you.”

“I see.” I’m doing it again. Clenching my jaw, my heart racing as I try to convince myself that I don’t care about any of this. But the truth is that I’m feeling slightly sick.

Well, crap.

“Does it bother you to hear about her?” he asks as he sweeps a second layer of sauce over his dough.

“No,” I reply, lying my ass off like a coward. In my defence, I’m trying to be brave. Supportive. A good buddy. “It’s fine. We’re friends, like you said. We should be able to talk about these things.”

“Right. I just wanted to be honest and up front with you,” he tells me. “I feel like maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe if we’d been more honest seven years ago, things wouldn’t have gotten so messed up.”

“Right,” I reply.

“Anyhow, we’re friends now. Good friends,” he says, throwing me a smile that’s enough to take my mind off any painful reminders of the past. I grab a handful of flour, a grin of my own crossing my lips. “Good friends who cook together.” I step towards him, the menacing powder in my hand.

“Wait a minute,” he says, staring at my fist. “What exactly are you doing with that, woman?”

“Things have gotten too serious,” I tell him. “It’s time to lighten the mood.”

With one quick step I leap towards him and throw the flour, coating his face in white powder. A moment later he’s laughing, wiping his cheeks and forehead off. He puts down the wooden spoon he’s been holding and sticks his index finger in a bowl of tomato sauce, then pulls it out and moves threateningly towards me.

“I’m wearing white under my apron,” I protest, knowing it won’t do anything to dissuade him. “Dylan, be nice…”

He pokes his finger towards my face. As I try every evasive manoeuvre I know, he slips it over my cheek, laughing. I grab him by the wrist, pulling his hand away. He’s still got his index finger sticking up in front of my face. Hesitant, I stare at it for a moment, my mind racing.

Then, as if something’s possessed me, I slip my lips over the tip and suck the sauce clean off.

“Jesus,” he gasps as his eyes lock on the sight of my mouth wrapped around his finger. When I’ve finished I release his hand, and he grabs my face. He’s going to kiss me, I know he is. The way he’s looking at me, the desire in his eyes. I’ve seen that look before.

He moves closer, and for once I don’t back away. I want to feel those lips of his on mine.

But at the last second, his face swerves around mine and he slips his tongue along my cheek, licking off the tomato sauce that I’d forgotten was even there.

I let out a surprised laugh, and so does he. For a moment we back away from one another, staring into each other’s eyes. But then, possessed by desire, I step forward and press my hands to his chest.

His smile has faded, and so has mine. I’m looking at his lips now. The lower one is so biteable that I just want to take it between my teeth and suck on it. I want to tell him that I don’t like hearing about Renata. That I never want to hear about his relationship with any woman, ever.

I want to tell him that I should be the only woman in his life.

His heart is beating hard under my palm. I want to hear it, so I press my ear to his chest. The next thing I know, his arms are around me, holding me tight, and mine have slipped around his waist.

I don’t know how long we hold onto each other, but it feels like we’re standing there locked together for hours. Neither of us wants to let the other one go. Neither of us wants this moment to end.

But it has to, for too many reasons to count.

It’s Dylan who finally pulls away.

“We should get them into the oven,” he says, turning to face his not-quite-finished pizza as he wipes his hands over his apron, his eyes avoiding mine.

“Yeah,” I reply as I turn back to my own table. “I guess we should.”

While they bake, we do our best to return to banal topics. His day-to-day work, my plans for the future.

“What are you going to do when you get back to L.A.?” he asks me.

“Ideally I’d like to open that little clothing shop that I mentioned,” I tell him. “Something all my own, with designs for real women and not stick-thin models. But I can’t imagine I’ll ever be able to afford the lease on a storefront in a big city. I was thinking about moving to one of the little towns along the coast. Or maybe the Napa Valley. I’ve always loved it there.”

“Me too,” he says. “I think Italy’s reminded me how much I love that part of California.”

“But you’re going to be stuck in New York. Far from vineyards.”

“Far from vineyards,” he repeats, his eyes meeting mine. “Far from you.”

I open my mouth to reply, but the timer buzzes, cutting off my train of thought. We spring to our feet, no doubt both relieved to find that the pizza’s keeping us from getting too intimate.

Dylan slides both of our creations out of the oven and lays them on our wooden countertops. “Shall we?” he says. I nod, eager to fill my mouth with something—anything—that might curb my perpetual appetite for him.

* * *

That afternoon, Dylan guides me towards the famous Trastevere cathedral known as Santa Maria. We stop for gelato on the way, which I’ve quickly discovered is a daily necessity when dealing with the hot Italian sun. When we arrive at our destination, I’ve got a chocolate cone in my hand and am trying desperately to keep it from dripping all over my white dress.

The church isn’t so remarkable from the outside, but it’s situated on the edge of a picturesque cobbled Roman piazza, complete with a beautiful carved stone fountain.

“There are over two thousand fountains in Rome,” Dylan tells me as we approach. “More than any other city in the world.”

I look at him sideways and grin, which causes him to chuckle. “What?” he says. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No, I’m just laughing because you’re such a Rome nerd,” I tell him. “Like a walking trivia book.”

“Ask me anything about this city,” he says, turning my way as we both seat ourselves on the hexagonal platform that surrounds the fountain.

“Okay. When was this thing built?”

“1471. Easy.”

I raise my eyebrows, impressed, and take another lick of my gelato. “All right. What’s your favourite thing about Rome?”

“Also easy,” he replies, but he stops there. I turn to look at him only to realize that he’s staring at me, a sly smile on his lips.

“No, but seriously,” I say. “What is it?”

“You. Sitting here, eating gelato in your white dress,” he tells me. “That’s my favourite thing.”

He doesn’t add “in Rome,” and a tremor of pleasure overtakes me.

I’m falling in love with Dylan all over again, and it scares me to death.

Seventeen

Lucy

When I return to my apartment at five p.m., I say good-bye to Dylan then follow my usual routine of showering the Roman funk off my body and throwing on a cotton robe. For a few minutes I recline on the couch, resting my tired feet and contemplating the day I just spent with a man who’s quickly become the biggest puzzle in my life.

Part of me wonders what would have happened over at Luigi’s if we’d kissed. Would I be over at his place now, naked with his head between my thighs? Or would it just have ruined everything that’s been building up slowly between us?

All I know is that it was as close to a perfect day as I’ve had in a long time. I was happy today, relaxed. Okay, at some points I was shaking, nervous, terrified. But I felt at home with Dylan in a way that I never did when we were younger. It turns out that he’s a good friend. No—a great friend. He gets excited when I talk about my plans, and he genuinely wants to know what’s going on with me. He’s not some self-centred, egotistical douche-canoe looking to spend time with people who’ll sing his praises all day long. For a guy as talented, good-looking and clever as he is, he’s the most modest person on earth.

It’s been all of fifteen minutes since I last saw him, and I already miss him.

I’m seriously considering popping over to his place to see about using his washing machine again when a knock sounds at my door. Maybe that’s him. I guess it’s possible that he feels the same way, that he misses me, too, and wants to have dinner together.

As I walk over to see who’s here, I remind myself that dinner with Dylan might not be a great idea. Maybe we’re getting just a little too close.

But when I pull the door open, I see that I have nothing to worry about. It’s not Dylan.

It’s Giancarlo.

Holy bruschetta, I’d almost forgotten that the Italian stallion existed. And I’d definitely forgotten that I promised to have dinner with him.

Oh, shit.

He’s standing there, his body a loose web of sinewy muscle. Linen shirt, stylish jeans, his dark hair dangling in front of his forehead like something that Michelangelo designed. He throws his head back like a horse and the curls go flying. Suddenly he looks like something out a commercial for shampoo.

Dog shampoo.

Okay, that’s not fair. He’s gorgeous. But as Katherine said, he knows it. He’s the polar opposite of Dylan, this guy. He thinks he’s god’s gift to women, to clothes, to cologne.

Yet I have to admit that the idea of a roll in the hay with him still appeals to me a little. Maybe I could vent a little of the pent-up desire I’ve been building for a certain other man’s body…

“Lucia,” he says, and I realize I’ve just been staring at him for about ten seconds. The Italian pronunciation of my name does just a little something to my insides, both good and bad at once.

“Hi, Giancarlo,” I reply.

“I saw you come in a little while ago, with a man. Is he gone?” He pokes his head into the apartment and glances around. Meddlesome, mischievous Giancarlo. I can’t help but laugh. He’s so oddly innocent; the kind of guy who thinks he knows everything but actually knows nothing.

“He’s a friend of mine,” I reply, “and yes, he’s gone.”

“Good. Then you will come to dinner with me tonight.”

I’m not sure if it’s a language issue or a Giancarlo issue, but where I come from, a man usually asks instead of commanding.

“Excuse me?” I blurt out.

“Mi scusi,” he apologizes, “I did that poorly. May I try again?” He straightens himself up, clasping his hands over his heart. “Please, per favore, bella Lucia, would you come to dinner with me this evening?”

I don’t quite know what to say. I’ve just said good-bye to Dylan. Dylan, my platonic buddy. My pal. My good friend who’s supposed to mean nothing more to me than a cooking companion.

A man who’s told me I’m more beautiful than Rome itself, who makes me so crazy with lust that I’ve come close to tearing his clothes off about a thousand times in the last few days.

The man I’ve promised myself I’d never get involved with again.

“Dinner…” I repeat.

“Si, dinner. Just a quick dinner. That is all.” Giancarlo flashes me his perfect, white teeth, no doubt bleached by the mediterranean sun.

“Okay,” I say. “Just give me a minute, would you? I just have to put on some clothes.”

“Of course,” he replies, eyeing my robe. “I will wait downstairs for you.”

As soon as he’s gone, I run to the bedroom and throw on a little red dress, check my hair and makeup and slip out the back door to jog around the balcony and knock on Dylan’s door. He opens it a moment later, a giant smile on his lips.

“Well, well, Loose couldn’t get enough of me,” he says, his tone jokingly cocky as he thrusts out his chest like a preening peacock. “I knew you’d come back for more of Big D.”

“Big D? Ha!” I reply. I’m about to tell him why I’ve really come when I realize my mouth doesn’t actually want to utter the words.

“What’s up?” he asks, pressing his forearm to the doorframe as he looks down at my face. Suddenly he looks concerned.

“I…Giancarlo just asked me to dinner tonight,” I tell him. “I wanted to tell you. I said yes.”

“Ah. I see.”

It’s amazing how three syllables can hold so much meaning. I hear pain in his voice. Envy, sadness. Everything but joy.

“I just…for some reason I thought I should tell you.”

“You’re going now?” he asks.

I nod. “It’s just dinner,” I tell him, my tone a little too insistent, too apologetic. “That’s all it is.”

“If it isn’t, it’s okay, Lucy,” he says. “You do what you need to do. What you want to do. I know that I don’t own you. I’m not even sure I deserve you.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I’m not sure any man deserves you,” he says, taking my chin in his hand and staring into my eyes. He looks broken up, somehow, like we’re saying good-bye forever, and it’s killing me.

“I’m not his,” I blurt out. “I’m not Giancarlo’s.”

“No?”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. “No,” I tell him.

“Well, you’re not mine either, are you?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

“Just do one thing for me,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“Tell me about your date afterwards. Unless there’s sex. I don’t want to hear about the sex, okay?”

“I doubt if there’ll be sex, Dill Pickle.” A minute ago it was a possibility. But now, standing here looking into his eyes, I can’t imagine how I could have sex with any man but him.

He raises an eyebrow and musters a smile. “Yeah? We’ll see what Giancarlo has to say about that.”

“Listen, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I reply. “Promise.”

Under any other circumstance I might run back to my apartment, spritz a little perfume on my wrists and hope to get laid tonight. But that’s not really what I need.

All I really need is someone who’ll take my mind off Dylan for a few minutes.

Because I want him way too much.

Eighteen

Lucy

As promised, Giancarlo is still waiting outside when I walk out through the wrought iron gate. He’s leaning against the wall of the building next door, a cigarillo in hand, looking the other way. As I step outside I see that he’s ogling a young woman who’s walking by. He mutters something quietly to her, and she turns around and smiles at him before continuing on her way.

It’s just hit me that I really don’t want to go out on this date. At all.

There was a time on my first day in Rome when Giancarlo was appealing. He represented the potential to be a little naughty, to indulge in pleasure that might not be good for me. But now I’ve got that feeling that comes when I consider eating a burger before realizing that filet mignon is also on the menu.

Giancarlo is a cheap fucking burger, slathered in greasy cheese.

Dylan is filet mignon. Rare. Delicious.

If I had any doubts about what kind of guy Giancarlo is, they’re pretty well gone now. Seeing him hitting on another woman is almost enough to make me turn around and pop back into my apartment, fly over to Dylan’s place and tell him that I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather spend the evening reading the Roman phone book out loud with him than hang out with a skeezy bastard like Mr. Curly. Ironically, Giancarlo’s exactly the kind of guy I use for my one-night stands. Someone I’d never fall for. Someone safe, but attractive enough to want to see naked. Somehow, I’ve lost my taste for his type over the last few days.

He turns my way and spots me, letting out a low whistle before dropping his smoke to the ground to squish it under his sandal. I’d almost forgotten that I’d changed into this dress, and suddenly I’m hoping it doesn’t make him think I’m looking for attention.

“Che bella,” he says, stepping towards me. His breath smells foul, which is a perfect excuse to keep my distance.

“Where are we going?” I ask, hoping it’s in a neighbourhood I know, in case I need to make a quick escape.

“A favourite ristorante of mine. Very close by. It’s the place where I work.”

“Oh? Are you a chef?” I ask.

He laughs. “I’m a waiter,” he replies.

“Ah.” I have no problem with waiters whatsoever, but judging by the tone of his voice, Giancarlo doesn’t think too highly of chefs. I get the impression that he’s not exactly ambitious. Not like some architects I know.

For the entire duration of our walk, he talks about himself, never once asking me about my life. Another stark difference between him and Dylan.

“I went to school here in Roma,” he tells me. “For five years.”

“Oh? What did you study?”

He turns my way. “My mother wanted me to be a doctor. So I studied anatomy.” With the utterance of the word he rakes his eyes over my body. “But it wasn’t for me.”

“Ah. You’re not into science, then,” I say, but it falls on deaf ears.

“Now I spend my time at the gym. Heavy lifting,” he tells me, flexing his muscles, which pale in comparison to Dylan’s. Wow, the guy is convinced that he’s super-charming. I almost want to take him under my more experienced wing and give him a quick lesson in how not to talk to women, but it’s actually sort of amusing to watch him do his thing. It’s like a study in douchebaggery.

“Here we are,” he says when we’ve arrived at the restaurant he was talking about. A few seconds later he’s got his hand on my lower back, and he’s guiding me inside. Somehow, his touch feels lecherous. Unlike Dylan’s, which feels sexy, seductive, and…right.

Giancarlo’s hand’s already sliding down, ready to make first contact with my butt when I leap forward to pull myself away from his fingertips. Too aggressive, asshole. Maybe he’s too young to know better. He’s like an overly eager puppy who’s trying to sink his teeth into a squeaky toy, not realizing that the toy bites back.

“Tell me, how old are you?” I ask as we sit down at a table covered in a white linen tablecloth. A candle sits at its centre, illuminating Giancarlo’s face in a slightly diabolical way. He doesn’t look quite so handsome anymore, and I’m glad for it. I’d like to find his face as repugnant as I’m finding his personality.

“Twenty-one,” he tells me. “And you?”

Oh, he finally asked a question about me. How novel and exciting.

“Twenty-seven,” I reply, watching his face for a reaction.

Sure enough, he raises his eyebrows, surprised. “So you are a…what do they call them in America? A…cougar.”

I let out a laugh that’s probably a little too loud. “Not exactly. Most people think I’m still a kid.” Though you’re making me feel like the most mature adult who ever lived.

“No,” he says, “you are not a kid. You are definitely a woman.” His eyes veer to my chest, a smile stretching over his lips. “Una bella donna.”

“Thank you.” I look around at the restaurant, curious to see who else is here, but mostly I’m just eager to get my eyes away from him. Couples sit at other tables, chatting away about their food. I can tell the tourists by their shorts, tank tops, and sneakers. Italians don’t seem to wear sneakers, unless they’re very expensive-looking, very clean and very stylish.

“Have you always lived in Rome?” I ask, turning my eyes back to Giancarlo’s, which are focused on my breasts again. Surprise, surprise. Maybe I should write my questions on my boobs; he’d be more likely to pay attention to what I’m asking.

“Yes,” he says. “Always in Roma.”

“I see,” I say. “And have you always made a habit of staring at women’s tits?”

“Always,” he mutters, before snapping out of his breast-trance, his gaze meeting mine with a shocked expression. His eyes narrow for a moment as though he realizes I was mocking him. Poor horny kid. He has no idea how attractive he could be, if he’d just behave with a little respect.

Well, I suspect that my appeal has just vanished as well. Now that I’ve called him on his sleaze, I seriously doubt if he’ll want to go home with me and do the horizontal pelvic dance.

Thankfully for both of us, a waiter pops over after a moment. As soon as he sees Giancarlo, he erupts into rapid-fire Italian. My pseudo-date responds to him, and I swear that they converse for five minutes while I sit there, completely invisible. They obviously know each other but Giancarlo makes no move to introduce me or even to acknowledge my existence.

After what feels like an eternity of discomfort spent watching Giancarlo and his buddy chuckle about mysterious topics, the waiter finally leaves. Damn, I wish I understood Italian.

“He’s not going to take our order?” I ask.

“I already ordered for us,” Giancarlo says, gesturing with his hand in a way that says how stupid are you to think I was going to let you pick your own food?

“Um, okay,” I say. Wow. This date will easily go down in history as the worst ever. For a moment I chastise myself, wondering if I’m only letting it go badly because I want an excuse to tell myself that Dylan is way better for me than this little asshat.

But it’s true. Dylan is respectful. He asks me about myself. He has a sense of humour. He’s…Dylan.

Of course, that doesn’t mean Giancarlo is so bad as all that. Maybe there’s hope for him yet. If I could just engage him in a proper conversation, maybe we could start over.

“One minute,” he says, rising to his feet as though trying to prove to me that he’s nothing more than a rude jerk-off. I watch as he strides towards the back of the restaurant where a young woman is standing in a white, fitted dress, her hip pressed against the wall. She smiles as he approaches, twining her fingers in her dark hair.

Giancarlo puts a hand on her waist and draws her to him, kissing each of her cheeks for a little longer than seems appropriate. He doesn’t let go of her, but to my amazement, slips his hand up her side and over her chest, then plays with a chain around her neck. While he fondles her jewelry he whispers in her ear, and she looks my way and giggles. It would seem that he’s telling her an amusing anecdote about me. Well, this is pleasant.

For a moment I feel absolutely mortified. Rejected. Stupid. Insecure. He’s making an ass of me, belittling me to some beautiful young woman, and he doesn’t even have enough respect for me to hide his disdain.

It would be so easy to cry right now, to erupt in a flood of self-pitying tears. But then I remember what Dylan told me earlier; that he’s not sure any man deserves me. That was probably one of the nicest things any man’s ever said to me.

At the moment I can think of one man who does deserve me, but he’s not in this restaurant. The good news is that he’s not far away.

With a smile on my face and my chin held high, I rise to my feet, grab my purse and walk out onto the street, letting the restaurant’s door slam shut behind me.

Bye bye, Giancarlo. I’m going home.

Nineteen

Dylan

The knock comes at my back door.

The only person who uses that entrance is Lucy, but it can’t possibly be her. She only left twenty minutes ago for her date with the famous Giancarlo, that lucky bastard. There’s no way she’s back already.

But sure enough when I open the door, she’s standing there, a funny little grin on her face. Still wearing that little red dress that plunges in the front, still looking like a goddess.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, leaning against the frame. Maybe she hasn’t left for the date yet, I tell myself. I sure as hell don’t want to get my damned hopes up.

“Can I come in?” she asks, looking past me into my apartment.

“Of course.” When I get out of the way she strides in, lighter on her feet than I’ve seen her. “What’s going on? What happened to your dinner date?”

Lucy throws herself down on the couch, crossing one leg over the other and stretching her arms out across the back cushions. “My date, it turns out, was a little shit. So I ditched him,” she says, still with that funny, indefinable expression on her face.

A feeling of bliss courses through my system. She ditched him and she came to me. Still not getting my hopes up, but I’ve got to say, I’m feeling pretty fucking pleased with myself right about now.

“Okay, I need to hear about this. But first, you need wine, and I need beer.” I head over to the fridge and extract a bottle of white Tuscan something-or-other before pulling two glasses out of the cupboard. Moments later I’ve handed her a glass and seated myself on the armchair opposite the couch.

She sips the wine elegantly, biding her time. Damn it, she’s teasing me.

“Okay, you’re killing me,” I say. “Why did you ditch the poor guy?”

She proceeds to tell me about everything. How he ogled a young woman outside when he thought she wasn’t looking. How he called her a cougar, then ordered her food without even asking her what she likes. How he wandered away and got handsy with some young woman in front of her.

What a tool he is, and I’m so fucking glad to hear it.

“Holy shit, that sounds like some fresh hell,” I reply. “I’m not sure whether to laugh or charge down to the restaurant and beat the living crap out of the idiot.”

“He’s not worth risking your hands,” she tells me. She sets the wine glass on the coffee table and leans forward, her lips ticked up in that knowing smile of hers. “Besides, it’s not really him that made me walk out. It was you.”

“Me?” I ask, dumbfounded. “What did I do? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted to have fucked up your date. Any time I can be of service…”

Her smile disappears. “You reminded me that I’m worth more than to let myself be treated like shit, Dylan.”

“Well, yeah. That goes without saying.”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s more than just that.”

“Tell me.”

She pulls her hands into her lap and looks down at them. “A few years ago, I wouldn’t have left. I would just have sat there and taken my lumps, no matter how much it hurt. My ego would have suffered for it, but I would have sat there blaming myself for some stupid man’s shitty treatment of me. It’s taken me a long time to gain the confidence that I have now. And sometimes, I have to admit that I’m still the insecure little girl that I was so long ago. But you’ve reminded me that I shouldn’t be. I just wanted to thank you for that.” She lets out a little laugh and pulls her eyes up to mine. I don’t know if I’m imagining it or if they’ve gone a little dewy, like she might cry. “I guess this is a big change from where we were that night seven years ago, when we parted ways.”

“Yes,” I reply, “it is. We were kids then, Loose. Now we see the world differently. We understand things better.”

I pull myself up and step over to the couch, seating myself next to her. I’m not sure if I’m welcome there. All I know is that I want to be closer to her.

She looks away and draws her hands deeper into her lap, but she doesn’t pull her body away. Doesn’t flinch as she has so often when I’ve come close to touching her.

“Lucy, look at me.” I speak the words low, pulling her eyes to mine. “I have to come clean about something.”

“What is it?” she asks. She’s trembling, like she’s waiting for a doctor to deliver bad news. But what I’m about to say isn’t bad. At least I hope it isn’t.

“I don’t want you going on dates with other men,” I tell her.

When she doesn’t reply, I slip my hand over her left knee, easing it up her thigh under her skirt.

This is it. This is the test. Pass or fail, I’ll know very soon if there’s any chance that we can be together.

“What do you want, then?” she asks, her voice a hoarse whisper as she watches my hand move slowly along her skin. She doesn’t stop me, though. Doesn’t protest.

“I want you, Loose. I want every part of you. I’ve wanted you for a decade.”

Twenty

Lucy

“I’ve wanted you for a decade.”

God, how many times over the years have I wanted to hear those words from between Dylan Emerson’s lips?

The way he’s looking at me, I’m surprised my dress doesn’t just melt off my skin and fall to the floor in a puddle. My body is reacting with a quiet explosion of fireworks, my breath coming in shallow gasps that I have to control, or I’m going to lose my mind.

“I don’t want to be with anyone else, either,” I tell him. “I only said yes to Giancarlo because I thought it might help me take my mind off you for a little.” I’m waiting to see how he reacts. Waiting to see if he understands exactly what I’m saying.

The hand that’s under my skirt pulls away and then slips up to my neck, tucking my hair behind my shoulder. Slowly he pulls my thin strap downwards. Another gasp locks itself away in my throat.

It’s finally happening. His lips are on my shoulder now, laying gentle kisses in their path. I’m weak—so damn weak with desire for him. My right hand goes to his stubbled cheek and I guide him towards my neck, drawing my head back. He kisses his way up, one hand returning to my thigh. It’s so gentle, that touch of his. I feel him pushing my skirt up again, skimming my bare flesh with his fingertips.

I pull my knees apart slowly, savouring the heat of this moment. A moment I lost years ago. A moment I’ve craved for so damn long. His hand is between my legs now, making its way cautiously up. He pulls his face back to look at me, one eyebrow raised as if to ask for tacit permission. I nod almost imperceptibly, easing my hips forward.

When his fingers find the edge of my panties, I gasp.

“Lucy,” he whispers, slipping a finger between the fabric and my pussy. “I want you.”

With those words, his lips crash against mine for the first time in seven years.

The kiss is even better than the one I remember. Tender, sweet, warm, delicious. When he finds my tongue, gravity fails. I’m floating above the clouds, light as a feather, but he’s still with me. Still kissing me, unwilling to let me go.

I’m not sure we’ll ever let each other go again.

Dylan’s mouth is still on me when he pulls my panties to the side and strokes his middle finger over my sex, finding my wetness. I can feel his sigh vibrating through us both, and I know he’s floating too.

In one smooth motion he slips down off the couch, left hand reaching for my dress, pulling the top down to reveal my strapless lace bra. Tentatively he draws a finger around the rim of the left cup, pulling it downward to reveal a very, very hard nipple. He’s staring at it as he pushes a finger inside me, eliciting a moan from between my lips. Gently he nuzzles my nipple with the tip of his nose.

“You’re perfect,” he tells me. “More now than ever.”

He cups his hand around my breast and purses his lips around my nipple, sucking gently enough that I already want more. He knows it, too. Knows how to get me going. Dylan can read me like a book, and I love that about him.

His fingers move to the other breast and he pulls at my bra again, drawing it down. Slowly he pulls his other hand away from my pussy and cups both hands around my breasts, pressing them together as he licks one nipple, then the other.

“I’m sorry to break it to you,” he murmurs, “but I have a serious crush on these beautiful things.”

“They like you, too,” I tell him. “A lot. Especially that swirly thing you’re doing with your tongue.”

It’s almost enough to make me come.

He lets me go, though, pulling away for a moment before he slips both hands under my skirt. He’s looking up at me with the dirtiest, naughtiest narrowing of his eyes. I know exactly what he wants, because I want it too. So damn badly.

I lift myself off the couch as he yanks my panties down towards my feet. I slip one foot out then the other, letting them fall to the floor. When I push my pelvis forward I’m right on the edge of the couch, yanking my skirt up and offering myself to him, parting my legs wide. Slowly I lift my dress over my head and toss it aside. My bra follows close behind.

I’m naked on his couch, offering myself to him at last.

He dips a finger inside me again, his thumb working my clit as he stares up at me. “Do you like this?” he asks.

I nod. “Yes, I do. But like is the wrong word. Totally inadequate.”

He replaces his thumb with his tongue and I let out a quiet yelp. Definitely inadequate.

“Dylan, you’ll make me come,” I protest, though I can’t say I’m strongly opposed to the possibility.

“And that’s a bad thing?” His voice vibrates against my sex. Oooh, good boy.

“It’s not,” I reply. “But I want you inside me too, you know.”

“All in good time,” he says before giving my clit a gentle suck that sends a shudder of bliss shooting through my body.

I ram my fingers in his hair and push myself against his face, encouraging him as he eats me voraciously. All in good time. We still have almost a month together, and I intend to make good use of it.

As I wrap my thighs around his shoulders he stretches his muscular arms up and pinches my nipples gently, driving me beyond insane with pleasure. Well, it seems that I’ve just discovered yet another of Dylan Emerson’s talents.

My hips dance under his touch, his tongue lapping greedily at my pussy as he moans against me. I’m all but convinced that he’s enjoying this as much as I am.

I don’t need to cry out when the shock of my orgasm hits. My hips thrust forward and he reads me perfectly, wrapping his hands around my thighs, eating me until the last shudder has left my body.

I want to weep.

That was the best orgasm of my life, the most intimate, the most sensual. I’ve been waiting for it for seven long years, and it was totally worth the wait.

After a final soft kiss on my bud, Dylan slips up to kiss my stomach, my nipples, making my body flinch with pleasure under his touch.

Finally he looks into my eyes. “Is it okay?” he asks.

I nod. “I’m on the pill,” I tell him.

He reaches a hand out, raising me to my feet, and guides my naked form towards his bedroom. When we’re inside I turn to face him and watch as he strips off his t-shirt.

There’s that body that I saw my first evening here. The ripped muscles, the perfection of his torso, his arms. I want to touch him, but I wait. He’s not quite naked enough yet for my tastes.

“More,” I say.

He undoes his jeans slowly and slips them down, along with his boxers, stepping out of the garments when they’ve hit the floor. My eyes are drawn to the iron rod between his legs, standing erect just for me.

Manaconda, indeed.

Without thinking I fall to my knees before him, submissive, worshiping. He gasps as I take his shaft in my fingers and stroke him, my tongue teasing the engorged tip of his cock.

He’s as big as I always imagined, his dick throbbing with need. I slip my fingertips over his rock-hard thighs as I take his length in my mouth and suck, drawing more moans from between his perfect lips. This. This was what I wanted so badly. Well, this and one other thing.

“Loose,” he gasps as though he’s reading my mind. “I want to be inside you.”

I’m reluctant to release him from between my lips but I pull myself to my feet. He guides me to the bed, but I shake my head. “You first,” I tell him.

“Me?” he asks.

I nod. “Lie down.”

I want to straddle him. I want to dominate Dylan, to control this moment. I’ve waited so long for this, and I want to take charge of his pleasure.

He obliges, lying back, his cock clenched in his fist. Slowly I climb over him, kissing my way up his chest, my knees resting on either side of his taut torso. When my lips reach his mouth I slip my body over him, pressing my weight down as I take in his massive length.

I arch my back as my ass collides with his hips. A hard cry explodes from me, my eyes wincing shut with the pleasure of this moment.

His hands are on my hips, guiding me up and down, urging me to milk his shaft with my greedy pussy. “Fuck, Lucy, that’s so good,” he moans.

I look down at him, pressing my breasts together with my upper arms. I know how much he loves looking at them, how much they turn him on. My nipples are still tight little peaks, red and tender from his fingertips.

Slowly I ease downward and press one nipple to his lips. Hungrily he sucks as I fuck him, my body hungry for his length. Good boy.

I pull away from his mouth and speed up the pace, drawing my body up and down, faster and faster as I read his face. His eyes close tight, his fingers digging into my thighs. I can feel him getting close, the muscles in his stomach tightening as he resists. I draw myself along his cock, then ram back down again.

“Oh fuck, yeah,” he moans as I keep up the pace. He’s on the brink, I can tell.

As if to confirm my suspicion, after a moment I feel a spray of hot seed on my insides. Dylan lets out a possessive roar, ramming himself deep inside me with one brutal roll of his hips. Then slowly, gently, I fuck him until his body subsides, and I ease my body down on top of his, my face pressed to his neck.

We’re spent and happy.

“Seven years,” he whispers.

“Seven years,” I reply.

Twenty-One

Lucy

Warm rays of morning sun hit the tiled floor between the bed and the window as I lie facing towards the courtyard on my side of the bed.

Dylan’s bed, that is.

A smile spreads over my face as it hits me that it wasn’t a dream—this really happened between us. Dylan and I finally made love, after all these years.

Three times.

My body’s tingling with aftershocks and memories of his touch, his taste. I’ve had sex more than a few times over the years, but last night was something different. Last night was a release of everything I’ve held inside my soul for years. It wasn’t just sex; it was forgiveness, acceptance, moving forward. It was the understanding that the world changes, and so do we.

Slowly I roll onto my back, my face turning to look and see if he’s awake. He’s still next to me, and as he senses my movement, his eyes open sleepily. That sexy smile infiltrates his lips the second he spots my face.

“Loose,” he whispers as he lays a hand on my stomach and strokes me gently with his thumb. “You’re still with me.”

“I am,” I reply. Of course I am. I’m happy. So freaking happy to be with him.

He edges over and lays an affectionate kiss on my forehead before laying a second one on my lips. Then he rolls onto his back and lets out a quiet yelp, thrusting a fist high into the air. “Yes!” he shouts.

“What’s that for?” I chuckle.

“I did it. I finally conquered the elusive Lucy Horner. It’s like summiting Everest, but probably a lot harder.”

“Is that what I am?” I ask, slipping over him, my thighs gripping his hips. “A big fat mountain?”

His hands slide up to my breasts and he cups them, fingers and thumbs working their way to my nipples. He pinches them gently, hardening them with his fingertips. Oh, that feels good. Way to distract me, Mr. Emerson. “The greatest conquest in the history of the world,” he tells me as his erection throbs to life under me. Carefully I pull myself up and slip down onto his shaft. This has quickly become my favourite position. I love to watch his face while I pleasure him and myself at once.

“I’ve wanted you forever,” he breathes, his eyes closed as I ride him, my insatiable body ready to claim him for the fourth time.

But as his words hit my mind, I freeze over top of him. Forever. Really? If he’s wanted me forever, then why did he treat me so badly that night so long ago?

Losing my desire to be so close to him, I pull myself up and off his dick, separating us temporarily.

His eyes pop open and he stares at me, confused.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “What is it?”

“Why didn’t you come after me then? After what happened that night—why didn’t you try to make things right?”

I know this might not be the best time to ask the question, but I can’t help it. There’s no more honest moment than when you’ve just had someone’s hard-on inside you.

“I tried calling you, but when I didn’t hear back, I thought you hated me,” he says. “I thought you’d decided you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

I remember the messages from my housemate. I remember hearing over and over that Dylan had called, like that could make up for what he’d done to me.

“You were probably right,” I reply. “I did hate you.”

He’s still staring at me, waiting for me to expand. Waiting to hear how much I despised him. The guy must be a masochist. Or maybe this is his way of doing penance.

“Sorry,” I say, all too aware of how nuts I probably seem right now. “I shouldn’t dwell on it. It was a long time ago.” Shit. I’m doing exactly what I promised myself I wouldn’t. I’m being an idiot and letting the past colour our future. Let it go, Lucy. “Forgive me?” I ask.

He nods. “You’re naked in my bed, and a minute ago you were riding my dick. Of course I forgive you.”

I ease over him and lean down to bite his lower lip, my breasts pressing into his chest as I gyrate my hips a little, welcoming him inside my body all over again. “Just so you know, right now, I don’t hate you at all.”

“I sort of guessed that,” he tells me, thrusting his pelvis upwards so that he rams himself deep into my core. I let out a sharp cry of pleasure.

“I think you might be a little into me as well,” I say when I’ve recovered.

“You think?” Another thrust.

“Just a wild guess.”

He reaches a hand up and pushes my hair behind my left ear. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says. “I don’t care that things went badly back then. We’re here together now.”

“Yes, we are,” I reply, speeding up my pace.

Dylan’s on his way to orgasm number four, and he deserves it.

* * *

“I have a meeting at 9:30,” he tells me when we’ve finally gotten out of bed and showered. “Do you want to walk me over to the office?”

“Absolutely,” I reply, looking over at the clock. It’s 8:15. We barely slept last night, but who cares? Sleep isn’t necessary when you can live on the power of multiple orgasms. “I’d love to see where you’ve been hiding yourself during the day.”

“Good. We can grab some coffee on the way.”

I steal the top sheet off his bed and drape it over myself like a toga. “Should I wear this?” I ask.

“Fuck, yes,” he replies. “I can see your nipples. Any outfit where they’re conspicuous is a good one.”

When I look down I can see that he’s right; the white sheets don’t do much to hide them.

“Hmm. I suppose I can’t, then. You’d be walking around all day with an erection, and the other architect boys would make fun of you.”

“Either that or they’d ask me for your number,” he says, grinning. “You go get dressed, and I’ll do the same. Meet you back here in five?”

“Absolutely.”

I steal his sheet and run across to my balcony, dropping it to the ground just as I dash in my door. I know he’s watching me; I can almost feel his eyes on my bare butt, and I love the thought of it.

I turn around, blow him a kiss, tell myself it’s okay to be a total idiot, and run to my bedroom in search of clothes. When I’ve pulled on a cute little blue dress designed by yours truly I slink back over to his place.

When he sees me again he kisses me like I’ve been gone for days, his hands interlocking behind my lower back.

“Who would have thought last night’s date with Giancarlo would’ve ended in this?” I ask him, teasing.

“Well, certainly not Giancarlo, I’ll bet,” he replies. “Poor guy has no idea what he missed out on. Come on, let’s get going. The sooner I start working, the sooner I can get back into bed with you.”

We all but skip our way down the stairs. Apparently a lot of sex has revitalized both of us and turned me into a chatterbox. I tell Dylan about my plans for the day—to go look at the Pantheon, to eat gelato by the Spanish Steps, to be a generally super-annoying tourist with a doofy post-sex grin plastered to her face.

“More gelato, huh?” he asks. “You’re an addict by now.”

“Just practising my licking for later tonight,” I tell him as we traipse along the cobbled sidewalk.

“Don’t get started on licking.” Dylan grabs me, spins me around and kisses my lips, his tongue finding mine. A little clutch is wrapped around my wrist, and I almost feel like I should bend my knee and pull my foot up into the air behind me. Well, if you’re going to make out on the streets of Rome, do it right.

“What was that for?” I ask him when I’ve pulled away, my heart racing with the power of his kiss.

“For being Lucy. For everything.”

When we’ve grabbed a cappuccino and a couple of Italian pastries, Dylan takes me over to an old fifteenth century office building owned by a Roman architecture firm. We slip inside the stairwell, and immediately I’m enthralled. The walls are covered in framed sketches of old structures, the building itself a marvel of arches and leaded glass.

He guides me upstairs to the second floor where a few offices line the corridor, all with modern-looking glass walls. Dylan pulls me into one of them, slipping over to the table at its centre, which is covered in sketches.

“This is what I’ve been working on,” he says, showing me a pile of large pieces of thin paper. Each has a different set of drawings on its surface, different vantage points of the apartment building he’s designing.

But to the right of the pile is another drawing, one that looks like an Italian villa.

“What’s this?” I ask, pulling the page away from the others.

“Oh, that’s just a fantasy of mine,” he says, craning his neck to look at it. “Something I’ve always wanted to build.”

I pull my eyes off the drawing to meet his. “Your future house?” I ask.

He nods, hopping up to sit on the table. “I have a bit of a dream that someday maybe I’ll head back to California and open a vineyard. Stupid, I know.”

“Not stupid at all,” I say, shaking my head. The house is gorgeous. Shuttered windows, a tiled roof. Everything it should be. My heart aches with envy for that house. Someday I just know that he’ll live in it, raise a family. But I can’t begin to imagine that I’ll be part of the dream. “It’s going to be amazing, and I’m sure you’ll be very happy in it.” I try my best to smile.

“Lucy,” he says softly. I pull my eyes up to look at him, and see a stare of pure affection that makes my heart melt “I…”

A knock hammers at the door, interrupting us.

Dylan sees the visitor before I do. His face immediately goes pale, like he’s just been confronted by a spectre of doom. When I turn to face the same direction, a sick feeling hits me, too, though I’m not entirely sure why.

A beautiful woman is standing in the doorway, dark hair curling around her cheekbones and over her shoulders. She’s wearing a short skirt, high heels and a low-cut top. To top off the look, she’s smiling at my lover like she’s going to eat him for lunch.

“Dee-lan,” she says, her accent thick, sexy, all the things I don’t want it to be. She strides over to him on stilettos that would break my ankles and kisses him on both cheeks, her lips lingering just a little too long. Suddenly she’s reminding me of Giancarlo.

“Renata,” he replies. Of course this is Renata. I think I knew it the moment I laid eyes on her.

She plays with the collar on his shirt for a few seconds, her lips dipping into a pout as she says, “I miss you, Deelan.” Like I’m not standing right here, my jaw open, every swear word in the world trying to force its way to my lips.

“Renata,” Dylan says forcefully, pulling himself away from her hands and slipping off the desk, “this is Lucy. She’s an old friend of mine.”

Friend. That’s just great. Well, I guess it’s what I am. I’d probably be freaked out if he called me a girlfriend so soon. I’d lose my mind if he called me his lover, though it would fill me with pleasure to see Renata taken down a notch.

“Lucy.” Renata says my name with finality, like she’s cursing me with it. She looks me up and down, judgment all over her face before casting her gaze back to the obvious object of her affections. “We have work to do today, you and I,” she tells him.

“We?” he asks. “Oh, shit. Right.” He turns my way. “We’re supposed to go have a look at the Villa Doria Pamphili this afternoon,” he tells me. “A bunch of us. But after that’s finished, I’ll come home and see you.” To my surprise, he steps over and kisses me on the lips for longer than one normally kisses a “friend.” I guess he’s just let Renata know what I really am.

So what if the gorgeous Italian sex-bomb with great boobs still wants him? So what if she’s going to spend the day with him in some romantic villa while I go drip chocolate gelato all over myself? So what if she’s obviously planning to try her damnedest to get him back? So what if he has a history of hooking up with his exes just when things are getting good between him and me?

I have nothing to worry about, right?

Wrong.

My stupid old insecurities are biting me, needling me, punching me. I need to remind myself of Katherine’s words all over again. Don’t judge him by the past. Unless the past is confined to last night and this morning, in which case I should judge the hell out of him.

“I think I should go,” I tell him, smiling and holding my head high as I avoid looking at Renata. “Busy day ahead.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Dylan replies, grimacing as if to say “Please don’t leave me with the monster.” Together we step by the foul temptress into the hallway and down the stairs. When we reach the door, he presses a hand to my cheek and kisses me tenderly. “I want you all over again,” he tells me, almost replenishing my supply of ego-juice. “I want to see you tonight. Promise me I will?”

I nod. “Of course I promise.”

“Good.” I think the words make us both feel better.

“Listen, about Renata—you have to know that she’s nuts,” he tells me. “I don’t mean that like the flippant ‘all exes are nuts,’ either. I mean she’s up and down like a roller coaster. She’s jealous of you, so she’s acting weird right now.”

“Jealous?” I say. “Why would she be jealous? She didn’t know I even existed until about two minutes ago.”

“Because she can tell that I’m crazy about you.” He gives me another kiss, this time with tongue. My head spins with pleasure. Good boy, Dylan.

“Well then,” I reply. I want to tell him I’m crazy about him too. Want to say that my heart’s filled up since last night, that I’m in serious danger of falling for him all over again.

But I don’t say it, because I’m afraid. Because I’m a coward.

I give him one last kiss and send him on his way back up those stairs to the vixen, while I turn to face the city of Rome on my own.

Twenty-Two

Dylan

As I climb the stairs back up to my office, I remind myself that I’ll see Lucy again this afternoon. Whatever crap Renata throws my way today doesn’t matter, because tonight I’ll have Lucy in my arms again. We’ll kiss. I’ll explore her body with my tongue and find all the erogenous zones I missed last night. I’ll learn more and more about what makes her feel good. And then I’ll do it all over again.

God, I love making her come. I know men are supposed to be selfish fucks in bed, but man, all I want to do is make Lucy moan against my mouth like she did last night. I love the way she goes silent just before an orgasm hits, like her body has taken her to another universe. I can tell when I’m sucking, licking, or fingering her just right.

But I have so much yet to learn. So much exploring to do. Lucy’s complicated, refined and so fucking sexy that I can’t believe I even managed to drag myself to work today, when I could have spent the day in bed with her.

By the time I hit the top of the stairs, Renata has positioned herself directly in front of me, lying in wait like a lioness about to pounce on its vulnerable prey. Sorry, lioness. There will be no meal for you today. I’m not vulnerable, for one thing. I’m strong as hell, and there’s nothing you could ever do to persuade me to look at you again. Not with Lucy in my life and my bed. Other women may as well not exist anymore.

“Dylan,” Renata says as I get closer, only she doesn’t exactly say it. She moans it, whines it, like she’s pleading with me for something.

“What?” I reply when I hit the top step, my voice tainted by my irritation.

She moves towards me as I try to step around her, forcing me to back into the wall. “I miss you,” she says.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Do you?” I ask. It’s a rhetorical question. I don’t give a flying fuck if she misses me. She goes hot and cold faster than a witch’s microwaveable tits. She’s a total mess and I’m sorry I ever made the mistake of getting into bed with her.

She reaches out and strokes a finger along my arm, which I yank away. “Don’t you miss me?” she asks.

“Renata,” I snarl. I suppose I should just tell her to fuck off, but I don’t. I’m just slightly too nice to do that to a mentally unstable person. “We have to get to work.”

“The Villa we’re going to see this afternoon,” she continues. “It’s very romantic.”

“I’m not looking at the building for romance. I want to see how its walls are supported.”

“I was hoping we could bring some lunch and eat together, just you and me.”

I glare at her. I can feel my face turning red with rage. Since I’m not a complete and utter moron, I know what she’s doing. “You think you want me, because I brought Lucy here,” I growl. “That’s it. That’s the only reason, and it’s not going to happen. Look—we broke up, Renata. And we’re not getting back together. If you’re not happy with that simple fact, then I can’t help you.”

Great. She’s pouting again. “But I still adore you,” she says, piling it on as she steps towards me again, stroking a finger over my chest. I grab her wrist and hold it tight. “I miss our nights together,” she whispers.

“Well, I don’t.” With that I drop her arm and walk back to my office, slamming the door hard.

This is going to be a long fucking day.

* * *

The first thing I do when I sit down is check my email. There’s a notification of a Facebook photo album from an old college friend, Gary, who was on the football team with me. The heading is “End of term party, June 2010.”

Holy shit. What are the odds of receiving this message, today of all days?

I click on the link, which takes me to my account. My eyes are greeted by several dozen photos from the night of our party. The night Lucy and I kissed.

As I take a quick look, I see a photo of me talking to my friend Aaron, my quarterback jersey adorning my torso. I can see everyone from back in the day, half-drunk, totally stupid and having a great time.

In another photo I spot Chloe, my ex, talking to my friend Aaron.

As I’m staring at the strange assortment of memories, a gentle knock sounds at my door. I turn to glare at the visitor, who turns out to be Paolo. My face breaking into a smile, I signal him to come in.

“Just checking to see how things are with Lucia,” he tells me, shutting the door behind him.

“Very good,” I reply. “And check it out—an old friend just posted some photos.” Quickly I click through them until I see Lucy’s face. She’s standing by the bonfire, a curious glint in her eye, like she’s looking for someone.

“Is that her?” Paolo asks, admiring my lover.

“Yes, seven years ago,” I reply.

“I see why she’s worth waiting for,” he tells me, leaning in to get a closer look. “Nice tits.”

“Watch it, man,” I retort.

“Mi scusi. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“They are nice,” I admit. “Even nicer now than they were then. But yeah, let’s not talk about them. Listen, would you mind if I sent off a quick email before we get down to business?”

“Sure. Go insane,” Paolo says.

“Go nuts,” I reply, laughing. He waves me off, chuckling, and leaves the room.

Quickly I type up a note to Lucy, pointing her towards the link to Gary’s photos. He’s made them public, so assuming that she has a Facebook account she should be able to look at them. Of course she might not want to, given that the party on the beach was so weird for us both. Still, now that we’ve found one another again, it might be good for an amusing look back on more innocent times.

In addition to the email, I shoot her a quick text, hoping she’ll see it as she wanders around Rome on her own.

Hey, Loose—thought you might get a laugh out of seeing us seven years ago. Sent you a link in an email.

I’m looking forward to seeing you later, Sexy.

Looking forward to eating you.

Looking forward to putting my giant dill pickle inside you.

p.s. That last one was a euphemism for my enormous dick.

p.p.s. I really, really like fucking you.

p.p.p.s. I hope that’s not rude.

p.p.p.p.s. I also really, really like eating you out. I’d make you come for a century if you let me.

p.p.p.p.p.s. I think I’ve definitely entered rude territory. But I’m good with it.

When I’ve hit send, I pack up my things and steel myself for the trip to the villa. This is not going to be a good day.

Not until I see my Lucy again.

Twenty-Three

Lucy

I’ve been wandering around Rome like a zombie for three hours, thinking about Dylan and trying not to think about him at the same time. Not to mention the olive skinned, beautiful woman who obviously still wants him. Or the villa where it they’ll be spending the afternoon together.

I’ve spent years telling myself that I have nothing to be insecure about. That I’m worthy of love, that I’m good enough to be with someone for more than a week. That I don’t have to run away anymore, that it’s okay to give my heart to the right man.

I thought I was making progress, too. But now I’m wondering if I was deceiving myself, because I’m in full-on panic mode. I know this is the twenty-year-old me talking, feeding into my insecurity. Not the grownup who tells people off and has a backbone made of hard-edged steel.

Give no fucks.

The mantra emerges softly from between my lips. Worst case scenario at the end of today: Dylan decides that he doesn’t actually want to be with me. The fact is that I still got to spend last night and this morning with him. He worshipped my body like a fanatic all night, and no one can take that away from me. Not even some Italian vixen with a body that looks like it stepped out of the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.

Besides, it’s a waste of energy to be insecure. I’m supposed to be the woman who gives the fewest fucks imaginable. Resilient, flexible, easy-going Lucy. Not some worried little twit who’s scared of having her heart stomped on.

A cappuccino in hand, I’m now making my way towards the Forum. It’s one of the most famous sets of ruins in Rome, but I have to admit that I’m really just heading there to be around people. I want to watch unconcerned tourists wander around. Maybe I can focus on their stories instead of on my own, take my mind of Dylan for a little.

As I walk the curving Roman streets I let my gaze move from this building to that, taking in the sight of laundry hanging over narrow laneways, suspended from strands of twine between two separate apartments. I love that about this place. Everyone seems attached to one another, somehow. Everything is connected.

Except for me. Right now I’m isolated. Floating on an island somewhere, utterly alone.

I lean against a stucco wall and sip my cappuccino, watching a young man and woman argue in animated voices and very Italian gestures. She’s wearing little shorts, her legs long, tanned and perfect. He’s the essence of style, his hair gelled just so, his shirt crisp white cotton, hugging his svelte body. He looks like a soccer player.

I want to yell, “Kiss each other!” at them, because the way they’re going at it, I know they’ll end up in bed together within a matter of minutes. Only lovers can shout with such passion. Only lovers care enough about each other to flail their arms like that.

He’s defending himself against some sort of accusation. Without even knowing the language, I can tell when a man on the defensive. As for her, she’s saying he made a pass at her friend, or a waitress, or something. He’s gesturing to his chest as if to say, “But honey, you have my heart. Not her.”

I wonder if that’s true. I wonder if any woman has ever really had all of a man’s heart. I wonder if I have even the smallest part of Dylan’s.

Frowning to myself, I continue along the way, determined to stop analyzing my situation too much.

This city smells like a molten stew of life. Pizza, cigars, exhaust, even flowers. Every so often I stumble upon a little fountain where people stop to fill up their water bottles and take a much-needed drink. One fountain has an angry face pouring water from its mouth, another, a fish spitting a constant stream. Even the tiniest touches, hidden away in dark corners, are so Roman. So exquisitely beautiful. The Eternal City is magical.

My heart releases a hard pang as I look around. Insecurities aside, I miss Dylan. As usual, I want his eyes to see what mine are seeing. I want to talk to him about all of it, to point out a particularly beautiful door, or to have him explain to me what sorts of columns I’m looking at. My jealousy is temporarily gone, and all I know now is the warmth of affection for someone who’s made my life better. Someone whose smile has made me happy, his body made me lustful, his brain made me excited.

I’m a girl who wants to love someone, but has never dared. A girl stupid enough to think it might be a good idea to fall for the boy who once broke her heart.

Part of me wants to embrace it, another part wants to push away the depth of my feelings. But I remind myself that whoever I am now, I know I’ll be okay, no matter what happens. I don’t need anyone else to tell me what I’m worth, even if it feels good to hear it. I know who I am. I survived losing Dylan once; if it happens again, I’ll be okay. I’m Lucy Fucking Horner, and it’s okay to care. It’s okay to be vulnerable.

Maybe it’s even okay to love.

When I arrive at the Forum, I make my way through the ticket line and pay my admission, before entering the sacred grounds once occupied by the likes of Julius Caesar. Crowds of foreigners are milling around, taking selfies, ignoring the closeness of ancient Rome in favour of their cell phones. But not me. I’m leaning against a railing and inhaling the place into my lungs. My eyes drag slowly across the ruins—this column, that lonely arch, centuries ago deserted by its crumbling surrounding walls—and I’m savouring this moment. Every stone in this place has been around for countless generations. Men in togas and ratty sandals held meetings in the shadows of the stones that still manage to stand erect in front of my eyes.

I love the antiquity of Rome. I love its capacity to survive. I love that my petty insecurities have no bearing on whether this place lives to see another day. Rome doesn’t care about my crap. It just is. Sometimes it takes an ancient place to remind me of how little I matter in the grand scheme of things. We’re all just a part of a giant puzzle, and Dylan and I are nothing more than the tiniest of pieces.

There are no Italians here. Even the people selling souvenirs come from somewhere else. It’s like the Romans know to stay away from the Forum. They don’t want to deal with people like me. They don’t want to see us marvelling at their treasures. They just want to do their thing, live their lives. And I don’t really blame them.

Finally, after staring for so long that my eyes have glazed over, I succumb to the desire to look at my phone—only for a second, I swear—when I see that a text l has come in from Dylan. Among other things, he says this:

p.p.s. I really, really like fucking you.

p.p.p.s. I hope that’s not rude.

p.p.p.p.s. I also really, really like eating you out. I’d make you come for a century if you let me.

Sweet mother of all that is good and holy.

I’ll admit it: No matter how insignificant I may be in the universe, I needed that.

He says he’s sent a link to my email, which I’m not about to download without Wi-Fi. Oh, God. From what he says, I think it’s photos from the bonfire party. My stomach turns. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to remember. I’m supposed to be moving forward through time, not looking back.

I guess it’s pretty damned ironic that I’m currently staring at a set of ancient ruins and telling myself that the past doesn’t matter. But it doesn’t, not when the present and future have so much potential to be great.

I click my phone off and just revel in my lover’s words. Looking forward to tonight, Dylan?

So am I.

Twenty-Four

Lucy

For the next week, every moment when Dylan’s not at work is a moment we spend together. He takes me to the incredible, massive Colosseum where gladiators used to get eaten by lions. To the Catacombs. To the Vatican Museums.

When I see the Sistine Chapel for the first time, my lover is clasping my hand in his. In a whisper, he describes to me how Michelangelo lay on his back for years, toiling over the amazing fresco depicting everything from the Creation of Adam to the Last Judgment.

Hundreds of tourists flock around us, but as far as I’m concerned we’re alone. It’s a moment that I’ll never forget, among many, many perfect moments spent by Dylan’s side.

He takes me to the Trevi Fountain, where sexy Anita Ekberg splashed around in a strapless dress in La Dolce Vita. Tourists get fined 650 euros if they try that these days, or else I’d be tempted to do it. But I don’t need a fountain to feel sexy around Dylan. He makes me feel so good about myself every second that we’re together that I’ve become all but cocky. A little gelato dripping down my chin is enough to get him going. A shy look. A kiss in the middle of a piazza. I can do no wrong in his eyes, and I love it.

For the first time in my life I feel like I’m not just dating a man. I’m in a relationship. A mature, adult relationship with communication, openness and so, so much sex. We’re lovers in a beautiful city, and it’s the best feeling in the world.

By the time I get home at four on my second Friday in Rome, I’ve eaten my almost-daily gelato, walked miles and miles through narrow streets, and even done a little shopping. I came away with a bit of lace lingerie that’s so see-through that I may as well not wear it. I know Dylan loves my breasts, and I know he doesn’t need any encouragement to get his mouth on them, but there’s nothing wrong with a little fabulous packaging.

When I walk into my apartment, aware that Dylan will be home from work soon, I shower off the day’s sweat and slip the negligée on. My tits do look great in this thing, if I may say so myself. One day gravity will claim them, but not today.

Dylan told me he’d be back shortly after four, so when I hear a knock on the front door, I fly over like an over-eager sparrow. Normally he enters via the balcony, but it’s entirely possible that he hasn’t been by his place yet.

“Who is it?” I ask, my tone coy.

“He who is very hungry for what’s between your legs,” the voice replies. Suddenly I’m really glad I didn’t put panties on. I open the door a crack and shove my face out.

“I’m not decent,” I tell my lover, who’s looking mighty sexy, his skin shiny from the Roman heat.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he tells me. I pull the door open to reveal myself, crossing one foot over the other and placing my hands on my hips. A second later the door’s slammed shut, he’s on his knees, his lips locked around one nipple, his hand between my legs like he’s already detected the lack of panties. When he discovers how wet I am, he lets out a prolonged moan of bliss.

Very, very good boy.

“I missed you today,” he says as he slips over to the other nipple to tease it with his teeth.

“I missed you too,” I reply. “A lot.”

“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t talking to you,” he says, looking up at my face as he takes my breasts in both hands. “I was talking to these sweet girls.” He presses them together and licks my cleavage.

“We’re a package deal,” I tell him. “Anything you say to them, you say to me.”

“Fair enough.” He rises to his feet and kisses me like someone who meant it when he said he missed me. “Thank you, Loose,” he says when we’ve managed to pull apart for a moment.

“For what?”

He slips a finger under the negligée’s strap. “For this,” he says. “For this.” He slips his hand down again and strokes a finger over my very wet pussy. “For this.” He kisses my lips again.

Perfect man.

“I want to fuck you,” he says, grabbing my hips and pulling my body towards his. “God, I’ve wanted you all day.”

“So take me,” I reply. “What are you waiting for?”

“I will—but I desperately need a shower. Is that okay?”

I let out a laugh. “It’s fine. Just do it quickly, or I’ll explode.”

He nods. “So will I. But I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” He slides down to his knees and kisses me between my legs. “Do not, under any circumstances, cover up this beautiful thing,” he commands, cupping my sex in his right hand. “I’m going to inspect it further upon my return.”

“In that case, I definitely won’t cover it.”

“Be right back.” When he’s stood up again, he goes tearing out the back way and around the balcony to his place, where he disappears inside.

I move around the apartment, tidying this stack of papers and cleaning the kitchen as I wait for him, impatient to feel his mouth on me again. Sure enough, after a few minutes I see him jogging back over, wearing nothing but the bath towel that’s wrapped around his waist. As soon as he’s inside, he lets it drop to the floor, revealing a massive hard-on that makes me want to die in a puddle of my own drool.

We just stand and stare wickedly at each other from across the room, me in my see-through negligée, him with nothing on at all.

Oh, yes. We’re going to make love again, and it’ll be just like the first time. Possibly even better.

But just as we each take a step towards one another, someone jiggles the knob on the door that leads into the hallway. Shit, oh shit. It hits me for the first time that I forgot to lock it when Dylan came in. I leap towards it, trying my damnedest to get to it before the intruder comes in.

But I’m too late.

Before I know it, two familiar, horrified faces are staring at me, their eyes expanded to saucer size. Then, in a perfectly synchronized motion, they turn to Dylan and his very impressive erection.

Then back to me.

Kill me, I mutter.

Twenty-Five

Lucy

Over the course of my life, there have been a lot of awkward moments. A few spring to mind:

1. The time I threw up during the sermon in church right after the minister shouted something about expelling demons.

2. The time I accidentally peed my pants when I laughed too hard in grade three, and had to sit around in wet snow pants for several hours, claiming it was just slushy out.

3. The time when my dog fished a used condom out of my roommate's garbage and brought it to me as some sort of worshipful gift.

4. Then, of course, there was the time my parents walked in on me wearing a nipple-licious negligée while my naked lover stood by with a throbbing hard-on.

Oh, wait. That's happening right now.

“Mom, Dad,” I choke, “I thought you were supposed to be arriving on Sunday.”

My mother’s covering her eyes and mumbling some prayer, no doubt to re-expel the demons from my very exposed body.

My hands are covering my breasts, and I’m frozen, unable to make any kind of intelligent decision. Meanwhile, Dylan has at least had the common sense to pick up his towel and wrap it around his waist. It’s now the thickest, softest terrycloth tent ever, his hard-on jutting out like a long metal pole.

My father has turned away and is facing the hallway, no doubt horrified to be faced with the awful truth: his daughter has sex with men. His daughter also has breasts. And a very see-through, very tiny lace outfit.

When I finally regain the ability to move, I sprint towards my bedroom, slam the door and immediately feel pretty awful that I deserted Dylan. But women and children first, right?

I throw on a dress and spring back out only to see that Dylan, calm and collected, has somehow engaged both my parents in conversation and asked them to sit down on the couch. His towel seems to have calmed itself into a more natural position, too.

I approach the three of them tentatively, like a child who’s just broken a vase and is very, very sorry. But wait—I’m twenty-seven, I remind myself. I’m allowed to have boys over. Even naked ones. And damn it, my parents got here early. Two days early, by my count.

“We’re so sorry,” my mother says when she sees my face. “A nice young man showed us up here when we asked about your apartment—we didn’t realize you’d leave the door unlocked while you were…”

“While there was nudity,” says Dad, scorn in his voice.

“I was just showing Dylan the apartment,” I blurt out. Yup. Naked apartment showing. It’s a thing in Italy.

“It’s hot in Rome,” Dylan beams, leaning back in the chair, his hard abs on full display. I’m convinced that my very virtuous mother is sneaking peeks at his physique. My father, probably not so much.

“Very hot, apparently,” Mom says. I’m not sure if the double meaning is intentional.

Okay, it’s past time to change the subject. “But I thought you weren’t supposed to get here before Sunday,” I moan. For the first time it’s hit me that I may not get to spend another night with Dylan for a week. My parents won’t exactly approve of my having him over here, and if I desert them to spend the night with him, I’ll never hear the end of it.

Kill me.

“We wanted to see about getting into the service at St. Peter’s on Sunday, so we came early. We thought we’d surprise you, dear. We thought maybe you’d be lonely.”

Nope. Not lonely at-fucking-all.

“Are you tired, Mr. and Mrs. Horner?” asks Dylan, who’s far more considerate than I am. He seems so comfortable in this situation that I’m beginning to wonder how many parents have walked in on him naked in his time. “Could we show you around a little?”

“I think you’ve shown us quite enough,” says my father. Ah, I see what’s happened. He thinks I’m thirteen all over again, and he’s doing that angry father thing. Most dads get the luxury of imagining that their daughters never have sex. Even when their first grandchild comes, they’re somehow convinced that it was all immaculately done, and by some miracle daddy’s little girl has retained her virginity. But the overwhelming evidence just flew in his face, a cruel blow to his deluded paternal mind.

“Let me take you for dinner, Mom and Dad,” I say. “You must be hungry.”

“Actually, we are. But we should unpack first, then maybe a shower.”

“Right. Okay. Well, my bedroom’s in there—” I point to the chamber where, until a few minutes ago, I’d hoped to get laid.

Dylan stands up, grabs their suitcases and carries them into the bedroom. I follow close behind, making little whimpering noises as I go.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper as he lays the bags on the bed.

“It’s all good,” he replies, chuckling. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll make a great story.”

“I can’t imagine who would ever want to hear it.” But I’ll admit it, I’m laughing a little, too. It’s all so ridiculous.

“You’ll sleep in my bed tonight, then?” he asks.

I shake my head, my lips turning down in a pout that I can’t quite help. “What?” he whispers. “Why not?”

“Because my mother is a devil woman who wants me to be miserable and alone and sexless and horny because horniness is suffering and suffering is noble. She doesn’t want me to be single, but she also doesn’t want me fucking anyone. If she knew how many blowjobs I’ve given you, she’d die of a heart attack.”

“Oh, mothers. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t sell them on the Black Market,” he says. “Wait—are you telling me that I won’t get to lick your pussy for a week?” He thrusts his fist into his chest like he’s stabbing himself.

“Not necessarily. I’m saying we’d need to sneak around like we’re naughty seventeen-year-olds again. But…”

“I’m all for sneaking. You know where I live. Come find me tonight.”

“I’m not sure if I can. My parents are super old-fashioned. It’ll ruin their trip if they think we’re…”

“What exactly do they think we were about to do?”

“Maybe if I send them off somewhere tomorrow, we can find some time alone.”

“I have meetings all day tomorrow.”

“Damn it.” In spite of everything, I’m still horny as hell. “Well, I’ll try and sneak over later, then. Sorry again.”

“Loose.” He slips over to me and reaches for my hand, then thinks better of it. I’m sure he can feel my dad’s Superman eyes burning a hole through the wall. “I’ve waited to be with you for seven years. I can wait another night. Besides, every night with you is like four nights in one.”

I don’t care about my father’s X-ray vision. I lurch forward and throw my arms around him, squeezing his neck. “Thank you for saying that,” I tell him. I don’t really know if he meant the part about waiting seven years, but it means everything to me to hear it right now. “I’ll try to come by tonight,” I say, “but I can’t promise anything.”

“I know.” He lands a kiss on my lips that reminds me how much I need to find my way back into his bed.

“Okay, yes, I can promise. Totally. I’m yours,” I tell him robotically. “But right now I’ve got to get back out there. They’ll suspect that we’re in here doing the nasty.”

He heaves a sigh. “All right,” he says, adjusting the towel by pulling it apart and re-tucking it, which gives me a glimpse of his delectable manhood.

“You’re so mean,” I moan.

“I know,” he says. “As for you, you’re incredible. You really don’t know how amazing you are, do you?” he asks.

I back away. Tears are rimming my eyes; there’s just been too much emotional mayhem thrown at me in the last hour. I shake my head. “No, I guess I don’t.”

“Well, I know. And that’s enough for now.” He kisses me quickly, then marches back into the living room, still sporting the towel.

Men’s new fashion accessory for summer ’17.

Twenty-Six

Lucy

“There’s a nice restaurant around the corner,” I tell my parents as we walk down the arched tunnel towards the street. I can feel that my cheeks are still red. The idea of eye contact with either of them is still too horrifying to conceive.

“Whatever you think is best, dear,” my mother says. “So is that the Dylan I remember from your university days?”

I pull open the wrought iron gate. “Yes,” I say. “We’ve known each other for a long time.”

“He’s a very handsome boy. Very…well put together.”

My father makes a noise like a dying cow, and I get it. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the idea of a nude man in his daughter’s flat. He doesn’t want to think about whether or not Dylan is handsome. I suspect that if my father gets his hands on a bottle of wine this evening, he’ll chug it like water.

“I’ve been doing some research for my clothing line,” I announce, trying desperately to change the subject as we make our way along the street. “I have some really good ideas after wandering around Rome.”

“Did you know that Trudy’s daughter just married a surgeon?” my mother asks, which has nothing to do with what I just said, yet has everything to do with it.

“Um, that’s great,” I reply.

“Is Dylan a doctor?”

“He’s an architect. I’ve told you that. And we’re not about to get married.”

“An architect, you say?” my father replies. He’s finally perking up. Finally, something he can sink his teeth into.

“Yes,” I say, smiling and looking at him for the first time since his arrival. “He has his own firm back in the States.” As I utter the word firm I wince, reminded of Dylan’s hard-on. “He’s studying the villas here in Rome. He wants to use their style for some American buildings.”

“Well, that sounds interesting. I’d like to…”

“How much do architects make, dear?” my mother interrupts. I swear to God, she does this just to see if she can make my blood pressure spike.

“I don’t know, Mom. I imagine quite a bit.”

“Maybe you should have invited Dylan to join us this evening.”

“I think Dylan might have been a little embarrassed.” I think Dylan wanted to run away screaming is more like it.

“I don’t know. He was very comfortable in his towel, chatting with us.”

When we arrive at the restaurant, a waiter gestures us towards a table by the window with a nice view of a vine-covered façade across the way.

Dinner is mostly painless, with the odd passive-aggressive comment about my choice of food, clothing or the fact that I chose to wear my hair up instead of down thrown my way. But we somehow get through it. My father seems to have gotten over his shock; I suppose he’s worked out that maybe next time it would be wise to knock on my door before barging in.

After an hour or so, we head back to the apartment. The entire time, I’m trying to figure out if there’s a way I can sneak over to Dylan’s without causing problems. As much as I want to see him, I know I won’t be able to relax if I think my parents are lying in bed with their judgy-faces going.

“There are fresh sheets in the closet,” I tell my mother as we climb the stairs to the flat. “I’ll change them when we get back.”

“Yes, I think that would be best,” she replies, like my current ones are sullied with gallons of sweat and the aftermath of wild animal sex.

What is it with mothers and daughters? It’s like there’s some unwritten animosity, a barbed wall of criticism that rises up between us like fortifications. My father and I have always gotten along like a house on fire, albeit a fairly tame blaze. We chat about life, we laugh. We enjoy each other. My mother, on the other hand, lives to let me know that I am not, nor will I ever be, perfect. Or anything close to it, for that matter.

It’s no wonder I’m a freaking basket case.

When the sheets are changed, I find myself standing in the bedroom doorway, staring at my parents. I stretch my arms over my head and fake-yawn. It’s, like, eight o’clock and I’m totally not tired, but I hope to hell that they are.

“Well, I think it’s time for me to lie down,” I say.

“So early? I thought Europeans stayed up half the night,” says my mother.

“Yeah, it’s been a long day. I think I’ll just crash.”

“Actually, I’m tired too,” my father says, winking at me. Winking! He’s got it. My father understands my need to get my ass across to Dylan’s place. He hears my plea for sanity and calm. “I think I’ll brush my teeth and get to bed. Best way to stave off jet lag is to get lots of sleep the first night, they say.”

“Okay, then,” my mother replies, looking like she’s disappointed that she’ll have to cease her barrage of critique at such an unreasonably early hour.

Thank God there are two bathrooms, and the one attached to the bedroom guarantees that they won’t have to walk through the living room in the middle of the night. It means there’s a chance that I might manage to sneak out to Dylan’s place. Of course it’ll have to be without the negligée, but that’s okay.

Naked is better, after all.

When we’ve said good night and my parents have finally closed their door, I wait a suitable amount of time. Which means at least half an hour, during which I play every game on my phone, stare longingly at the window and touch up the polish on my toenails. Finally I hear my father’s deep snore erupting from the bedroom.

Excellent.

It’s time.

Twenty-Seven

Dylan

I could pretend I’m not excited to see Lucy walking this way, her head occasionally turning to look back as she sneaks over to my place. But the giant smile would prove me a total liar.

When she knocks, I open the door immediately, pulling her inside before shutting it again.

“I can’t stay long,” she says, like a woman who’s having some torrid affair and is worried about being seen.

“Don’t worry,” I reply, grabbing her by the waist and dipping her backwards as though we’re wrapped up in a passionate tango, “I’ll make quick work of you, beautiful woman.”

She laughs, the worried look disappearing from her face. I pull her back up and kiss her. She kisses me back, throwing her arms around my neck, and I start walking backwards towards the bedroom. I need my Lucy dose. I’m an addict by now.

Within seconds I’m on my back and she’s on top of me, stripping away her dress. I pull off my t-shirt, she tosses her bra onto the floor.

“Wait,” I say as she reaches for the front of my jeans.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Nothing. I’m grinning from ear to ear, Loose. Do you really think there’s anything wrong? I just wanted to take it slightly slower.”

She leans forward, propping herself up on her hands, and kisses me again. “I thought maybe you’d changed your mind,” she says, pulling back just enough to give me an eyeful of those magnificent breasts of hers.

“I will never change my mind where you’re concerned,” I tell her. “Are you kidding me? Look at this.”

I stroke my hands over her tapered waist, slipping them up to her breasts.

“These old things?” she says, looking down. “You really like them?”

“Fuck, yes,” I tell her.

She pushes herself back, slipping her ass over the hard-on now raging in my jeans, and gyrates just enough to make me nuts.

“You’ve learned a thing or two since we were kids, you know,” I observe.

“Things I wanted to learn with you,” she mutters. As soon as she says the words, she goes silent.

“What do you mean?” I ask, but she doesn’t answer. “Loose…what do you mean?”

“I…nothing. Nothing at all. It doesn’t matter anymore.” She smiles and kisses me. “The only thing that matters is here and now. I’m starting to think everything that happened back then was for a reason.”

I stare at her. “What reason is that?” I ask.

“So we could be together now,” she replies. “If we’d gotten together back then we would have broken up for some stupid reason or other.”

“Agreed.” I lay a gentle kiss her shoulder. “Look at us now. Enjoying a secret, sexy romance in Rome.”

She lets out an adorable little giggle and throws her hands over her face. “It’s all so crazy,” she says. Pulling her hands away, she looks at me again. “You remember when we were kids and people talked about ‘going together?’”

I nod. “Yes. If you so much as gave a girl a blade of grass in elementary school, you were going steady.”

“Yup.” She strokes a finger over my stubbled jawline. “Is that what this is? Are we going steady?” she asks.

I shake my head, smiling. “No.”

“So what are we doing?” she asks. I can see worry on her furrowed brow, like she’s waiting for a blow.

“We’re going hard,” I reply in a low growl. With one flurried motion I’ve flipped her onto her back and I’m on top of her, my hands pinning her wrists into the mattress. “Hard, like difficult. Hard, like so the only things in life that are worth doing are the hard ones.”

The smile forming on her lips is turning my heart into melted chocolate.

“What else?” She mouths the words almost silently.

“Hard, like my…” I say, pressing down to kiss her again. Our mouths are so hungry for one another, so fucking greedy.

I keep her wrists in my grasp as I work my way down to her perfect breasts, taking one nipple and then the other into my mouth as I listen to her moans of Lucy-laced pleasure. Her hips are dancing under me, asking me silently to keep traveling down her body until I get to the magical place between her legs.

Don’t worry, Loose. I intend to spend several hours there.

Or possibly my entire life.

Twenty-Eight

Lucy

For the next three days I play tour guide to my parents. We visit the Pantheon, the Colosseum, The Spanish Steps, the Piazza del Popolo. All Dad wants to do is eat gelato, all Mom wants to do is complain abut her feet and how the Romans should really get off their asses and pave this place with asphalt like normal human beings, because the cobblestones are irritating her corns.

The whole time, I have to admit that I’m totally preoccupied with very pleasant thoughts. Counting down the days until Friday, when they’ll finally leave for Florence. I can’t wait to drop them at the train station, pretend to be sad to see them go, then spend my last two weeks here with Dylan by my side. His time in Rome is coming to an end, too; he’s supposed to head back to New York a few days after I leave.

I have no idea what will happen after that. All I know is that I want to make the most of the time we have together.

He and I have talked about our little experiment with “going hard.” We’ve talked about the present—a lot. We’ve touched on the past too of course, but mostly, we’ve been smart enough to leave it in the vault where it belongs.

What we haven’t talked about is the future.

It seems stupid to even think about. We’ve only really been together for a few days. They’ve been amazing days, but it’s not like a few amazing days ever end in a “let’s get married” or anything, except in story books. As much as I hate to say it, this romance of ours really will probably amount to little more than a pretty intense summer fling.

The thing is, though, that I care about him. So much that it almost hurts. After denying my feelings, after pushing away attachment and intimacy for so many years, something in me has finally opened up and let him in. I’m not ashamed of my feelings, though I’m terrified to use the word love, even in my own mind. But what else can I call it when every time I see him, I feel like the world becomes a better place? Every time I think about him, I feel like I understand what I’ve been waiting for all my life.

When I’m away from him I sometimes come close to forgetting how much I love his smile, the way his eyes narrow a little when he’s being mischievous. I forget how sexy his voice is, the way he growls “Loose” when he’s looking at me a certain way. How good it feels to have him worship at the altar of my body, how sweet it is to feel his mouth on me, kissing every inch of skin. How generous he is. How thoughtful.

I forget how he makes me feel like a kid again. But he also makes me feel like a woman.

He’s offered to take my parents out for gelato, to walk them through the back streets of Rome and show them the hidden gems that tourists never get to see. He’s taken them to see Bernini’s amazing statues in the Piazza Navona, explained the intricacies of classical architecture to them.

My father loves him now. My mother already did; what woman wouldn’t? Of course, they’re also naive enough to think I haven’t been sneaking over to give him blowjobs at night or to moan while he eats me out and brings me to multiple climaxes with his fingertips. Not so sure they’d love him if they knew he’d done the nasty with their daughter quite so many times since their arrival.

On Thursday night, Mom and Dad, as always, are exhausted and in bed. It’s 9:30 and I’m getting myself ready for my nightly trip over to sexual heaven. I pop into the powder room to check my face and quietly saunter out to the living room, listen for dad’s snores and tiptoe over to the door that leads out to the balcony. Thirty seconds later I’m in Dylan’s arms. Thirty seconds after that, we’re both naked.

“Am I an addict?” I ask him when we’re lying in bed half an hour, content and utterly spent. “Addicted to you, I mean.”

“If you are, I’m a Lucy junkie. Maybe we can do rehab together.”

“Hmm. Let’s hope rehab involves a hell of a lot of sex.”

“Cheers to that.”

“Listen—I wanted to thank you for being so nice to my parents. They’re not always the easiest to get along with.”

“It’s fine,” he replies. “I enjoy them, actually.”

“My dad likes you. And my dad never likes the men I date.”

“Well, he and I have something important in common,” Dylan says, “so it makes sense that we’d get along.”

“Oh? What exactly do you have in common? Please don’t say a penis, because I don’t want to throw up all over the bed.”

“Not that at all,” he replies, tucking a strand of my hair behind my right ear. He locks his eyes on mine, his expression totally, utterly earnest. “We both love his daughter.”

Okay, I’m not going to throw up. But something insane is happening to my insides that may or may not be healthy. In a totally good way, except that I’m paralyzed now. Like, I literally can’t move. Or breathe. Or think. Or talk.

“That’s fine,” he says, and I feel like I’m hearing his voice from under water. “I just said I love you and you’re staring at me like a deer caught staring at a strobe light.”

“I…” He just said it again. I love you. He really said it. Dylan Emerson just said he loves me. “I love you, too.”

It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever said it to anyone other than my parents. “I’ve loved you for a long time.”

He’s got this look in his eyes that tells me he’s serious. This isn’t some fleeting, superficial summer fling to him. We really did somehow pick up where we left off all those years ago, minus the stupid drama in the interim.

“So you’re not freaked out?” he asks me.

I shake my head. “Not freaked out. Are you?”

He shakes his head back at me. “I think I knew I loved you even back in the days when we were basically kids. It’s why…” he stops himself, turning his face away, like he’s trying to decide if it’s really a good idea to keep talking.

“Why what?” I ask.

“Why I broke up with what’s her name,” he says.

“Chloe,” I reply. The very mention of her name makes my stomach turn over. Chloe, who was instrumental in my downfall. “Wait—what do you mean, you broke up with her for me?”

“You didn’t know?” he asks. For some reason he seems genuinely surprised.

“Hell no. I mean, I knew that you’d broken up but I never thought it had anything to do with me. I always figured you were torn about it. I figured that was why…” No. I’m not going to mention the incident. Not going to rehash that horrible night. “I guess I thought you didn’t care that much about me.”

He props himself up on one arm. Damn, he looks sexy like that. Stop looking so hot when I’m busy being confused. “Is that why you ran away?” he asks. “You thought I didn’t care?”

“Of course I thought you didn’t care,” I reply. Uh-oh. It’s coming out. “After what I saw, I figured…”

“Figured what?”

I’m about to answer him. To spill my guts and tell him everything, when a series of bright lights flash through the bedroom curtains, reflecting circular beams across the room onto the walls around us.

“That’s weird,” I mutter.

“Those are flashlights,” Dylan says.

“Neighbours?” I ask, but too late. A walkie-talkie blurts out some rapid-fire Italian from somewhere on the other side of the window.

“No. It’s Polizia,” he replies. “Cops.”

A hard knock sounds on the door. No two people have ever leapt out of bed so quickly as we do, throwing on any piece of clothing we can find.

Dylan walks over and opens the door, wearing nothing but pyjama bottoms. Meanwhile, I’ve managed to make myself relatively presentable in my clothing. I march out into the living room, only to see a police officer standing in the doorway.

To my shock and horror, my tiny mother is standing next to him.

Dylan and the cop are discussing something in Italian, and when the officer sees me he raises his eyebrows approvingly then mutters something. My mother, meanwhile, has crossed her arms over her chest and is giving me the look of death.

“I had no idea what had happened to you,” she scolds. “No idea. You could have been abducted, killed, raped.”

“In that order?” I ask, my inner smart ass in no mood to deal with her treating me like I’m five.

“Don’t get clever with me, young lady,” she says, proving that I am indeed still a child in her eyes.

Dylan says something to the police officer, who nods, gives me one final glance and takes off with his buddies.

“Come, Lucy,” my mother says. “You ought to be in bed.”

“You mean on the couch. I was in bed,” I mumble. “Quite happily, too.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Sigh.

“I’ll follow in just a sec,” I say. “You can head back to the apartment. I know the way.”

Scowling, she leaves us alone.

Fuck, this is going to be a long night.

“I’ve got to go,” I tell Dylan quietly, closing the door behind my mother. One more day and they’re out of here. “Sorry about all this. My mother has forgotten that I’m supposed to be an adult by now.”

“No worries. We’ll finish our conversation tomorrow,” he assures me.

“Okay,” I reply, pissed beyond words that everything was so rudely interrupted, but there’s no time to get back into our conversation again. My mother will have an aneurysm if I take more than two minutes to get back to her.

I’m about to leave when Dylan grabs my hand, pulls me to him and kisses me. “I meant what I said earlier, you know,” he tells me. “I love you, Lucy.”

“I know,” I reply. “I meant what I said, too.”

Twenty-Nine

Lucy

The next day is overcast, a rare sight in Rome. After my mother’s gotten over her aggravation at the reminder that her only daughter is an unholy slut, we wander around the Villa Borghese’s grounds for a few hours. They’re beautiful. Breathtaking, even. But the entire time I’m distracted.

The fact is, four o’clock can’t come fast enough. I have it all planned out: I’m going to drop my parents at Termini Station for their ride to Florence, then head over to Dylan’s office. He doesn’t know I’m coming, but I plan to surprise him by stealing him away for a romantic dinner together on this, our first night of freedom in a week. I know our conversation last night was a little weird, so I want to make up for it. I want to remind us both that it doesn’t matter what happened a lifetime ago. The only thing that matters is that we’ve found each other again.

He loves me. I love him.

For the first time in my adult life, I feel like I get it. I understand that relationships are insane and complicated and so, so worth it. Every minute I’ve spent with Dylan in Rome has been amazing. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

When I’ve finally said good-bye to my parents and seen them to their train platform, I set off on the long walk to the architecture firm. I don’t mind walking; I love that I now know my way around Rome. I love feeling like I blend in with my surroundings; I am an honorary Roman, complete with A-line dress, little handbag and large sunglasses. I’m Audrey Hepburn all over again, ready to declare my adoration for my man from the rooftops.

Except for the fact that the clouds above are about to explode rain down on me, and I have no umbrella.

As I stride along the route parallel to the Tiber River, a strange sight greets my eyes. Men have started coming out of dark corners, carrying bins of umbrellas. I have no idea where they came from, but there are suddenly dozens of them standing on the street, hocking their wares like pros. They know that unprepared tourists such as yours truly will fork out cash, rather than get soaked on our way somewhere.

Clever thinking, boys. Very entrepreneurial.

I approach one of the men. “Quanto costa questo?” I ask, pointing to a little black and white polka dot umbrella.

“Otto,” he tells me. Eight euros.

Fuck it. I pull out my wallet and hand him ten. He gives me the magical rain shield and two euros back.

Now I’m even more fashionable, holding the canopy over my head as I stroll under a steady shower of warm summer rain. Suddenly, I’m even more eager to get to Dylan than I was before. I want to pull him outside and kiss him under the sultry cascade. Something about the thought of it seems so romantic, so sensual.

As I round the corner closest to the architecture office, dreaming about our perfect moment to come, I freeze for a moment. My dream has been temporarily thwarted.

A couple is standing on the sidewalk in front of Dylan’s building, their voices raised as they argue in Italian. Another lovers’ quarrel, no doubt.

The man’s holding a black umbrella on an angle, his back towards me so that I can’t see his face. The woman is facing him, her body angled towards me, but her features are mostly obscured by the black nylon shield.

Smug and self-satisfied, I pat myself silently on the back. I’m so glad I’m in a mature relationship where sparring matches don’t need to occur. My man is a grownup who knows how to talk to me openly and honestly. I don’t have to engage in this kind of crap.

From her body language, the woman looks like she’s pleading with him. I’m close enough now that I can hear her tone of voice, and although she’s not speaking English, I can somehow make out enough to know that she wants him to be hers. She says she adores him, and wants to know if he adores her too. The man’s free hand reaches for her shoulder, his fingers pressing into bare skin. She reaches for him, pulling herself towards his body. Though I still can’t quite see their faces, I get the impression that she’s about to kiss him.

With a thump, his umbrella hits the ground. Her arms are around him now, and it looks like I was right. She’s kissing him on the lips.

A moment later the kiss has ended, but the man wraps his arms around her, holding her tight like he doesn’t want to let her go. I guess they’ve made up.

This is some serious passion that I’m witnessing. I just wish the idiots weren’t standing in my way. It’s all well and good that they’ve found their happy ending, but damn it, I want to get to my man.

She says something and pulls back for a moment, just enough so that I can finally see her face through the pouring rain.

Holy rigatoni.

It’s Renata, the woman Dylan dated before I came to Rome.

When she spots me standing in the downpour, my mouth open, the most wicked, evil grin spreads over her face. She puts her hands around the man’s neck and kisses him on the lips again, then says something to him. Immediately, he turns and sees me then pushes her away hard enough that she goes careening backwards, nearly falling to the ground. Another man who’s stepped out of the building runs over to grab Renata, presumably to save her from a giant ass-bruise.

But I don’t care about any of that.

I’m busy trying not to be sick.

Because the man Renata was kissing is…Dylan.

Dylan, who just told me he loves me.

Dylan, the man who’s just broken me for the second time.

I’m reliving a seven-year-old nightmare.

I could tell myself that it was all her doing, but I know what I saw. He had his arms around her; it wasn’t like he pushed her away the moment she touched him. He was holding onto her for dear life, as though he was afraid she’d run away.

Oh, God, I really do think I’m going to be sick. I spin around and run the other way, not paying attention to my ankles buckling on the slick cobblestone surface. My vision is blurry with tears, my throat dry, my hands shaking. All I know is that I need to get away from this place as fast as I can.

“Lucy!” I hear behind me. No. I am not going to stop. I was burned like this once, I won’t let him burn me again.

Footsteps echo somewhere behind me. Shit, of course he’s wearing better shoes for sprinting through Roman streets, and he catches me up in a matter of seconds.

He grabs my arm and stops me, spinning me around to face him. But I won’t look into his eyes. I can’t.

“Lucy, that wasn’t what you thought it was…” he says. Immediate denial. Yeah, Dylan, like I’m that stupid.

“That wasn’t you holding onto your ex-girlfriend for dear life while she kissed you? While she laughed at me?” I retort. “Because it sure as fuck looked a lot like that.”

All the anger I’ve held in for seven years is surging up, all the unspent currency of my damaged heart. Dylan’s getting pelted, my rage flying through the air between us.

“You don’t understand. Renata came charging into the office, going nuts,” he insists. “They asked me to take her out of the building. She was raving and screaming, and when I took her outside, I had my arms around her to stop her from hurting herself. She kissed me, but I pushed her away. I yanked her in and held onto her arms to keep her from doing it again. I was worried about her safety. She’d said she was going to hurt herself if I didn’t take her back.”

“Right, so let me get this straight. Letting her kiss you, pulling her closer—that was all for her own good?”

He’s staring at me with this annoying, frustrating expression of disbelief right now, like he’s innocent and I’m a lunatic as raving mad as Renata allegedly is.

“Fuck, Dylan,” I say, a sob shooting up my throat. “Last night you said you loved me. Now you’re making out with other women. Is this your way of panicking when things get too serious? Because maybe I should remind you that you’re the one who said you loved me. What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you do this to me? To us?”

He lets my arm go and stares blankly at me, backing away. Each step he takes is like a knife in my side. “Wow. You really don’t believe me,” he says. “You think I’m lying to you.”

“Of course I do!” I snarl, choking back another sob. “You know what the worst part is? I thought you’d changed. I had so much faith in you. I thought I’d finally found myself in an adult relationship with a mature man who knows better. But you haven’t changed one bit. You’re still the immature, manipulative asshole you were all those years ago.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know exactly what I’m talking about.

“It means you just pulled the same shit that you pulled on me seven years ago, when you and I kissed on the beach. The only difference is, this time I’m calling you on it. I’m not going to wait another seven years to tell you that you broke my heart, Dylan. I’ll say it to your face, right here, right now: you’ve fucking broken my heart. I hope you’re happy.” The tears are streaming heavily now, even harder than the rain is falling. I can barely see his face, but that’s probably for the best. His gorgeous features have gone ugly in my mind, and I’m not sure I could stand ever to see them again.

“Lucy,” he says calmly. “I genuinely don’t know what you’re talking about. Seven years ago, I hoped to have sex with you. I wanted a relationship with you. I broke up with Chloe to be with you. But you disappeared.” He sounds so sad, so confused, that I almost believe him. Almost. “That’s all I know.”

“You’re telling me that you were perfectly innocent? That you went over to the bonfire, grabbed a blanket out of your car and boom, the end?”

“Well, no. There was something else that happened. I looked after someone. Chloe was…”

“Ha!” I yell. So, he’s finally confessed. It’s about damn time. “You made an ass of me that night. I was saving myself for you, Dylan. I wanted you. I cared about you, way more than I should have.”

“What do you mean, you were saving yourself?” he asks.

“I was a fucking virgin,” I yell far too loudly, my voice shattering. “I was in love with you, and I was going to give myself to you. Then you ruined everything. You made a fool of me then, and you did the same thing today. Nothing’s changed. Nothing.”

He stares at me, his mouth slightly open. “Loose. Oh, fuck, Loose…” he moans.

“So that’s all you have to say,” I snarl before I spin around on my heel and storm away.

This time Dylan doesn’t follow me. I’m pretty sure he’ll never follow me anywhere again.

Thirty

Dylan

I’m standing on Via Siena, staring at the back of the woman I love as she storms away from me.

I’m not stupid; I get why she’s upset. I understand what she thinks she saw. Hell, if she really thinks I was making out with Renata, she has every right to be pissed at me. But it’s the fact that she doesn’t believe me—that she doesn’t trust me—that’s getting to me.

I’m totally confused. I have no idea what she thinks she saw seven years ago. I don’t understand the strange resentment that she seems to have held onto all this time. I thought we’d moved past all that.

I thought a lot of things. But clearly I was wrong about all of them. Lucy has given up on me. She thinks I’m a total asshole.

I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to fix this. Hell, I tried to talk to her. I tried not to let things fall apart like they did seven years ago.

But it doesn’t matter. They did fall apart, and now I’m standing here, my heart shattering to think of what I’ve lost.

Once again, Lucy Horner has run away from me, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

.

Thirty-One

Lucy

I slam the door to my apartment and march into the bedroom to pack my clothes. There’s no way that I can stay here another night. No way I can stand to be anywhere near Dylan, not now. Not ever. I never want to see him again.

All the way home I tried to calm down. Asked myself if I was being too emotional, if I was overreacting. I want to believe him, really I do. But he’s denying what I saw with my own eyes. As for what happened at the bonfire party, he’s denying that, too. Either I’ve gone insane, or he’s a liar. Neither is a good alternative, but honestly at this point, I’d rather find out that I’m nuts.

They say that if something seems too good to be true, it probably is. Way to learn the lesson the hard way, Lucy.

Man, I’m an idiot.

I’m still throwing my clothes randomly into my suitcase when I spot my laptop sitting on the bed.

For a second, a thought springs into my mind.

I’m going to look at the link that Dylan sent. I’m going to prove to myself once and for all that I’m not crazy, and that I’m better off without a lying bastard in my life.

When the computer’s booted up, I open his email and click on the link, which takes me to a Facebook page. At first all I see is a mass of photos. People yelling over each other, a big fire burning in the background. But there’s another link in the post, this one to a Youtube video. I click it, wondering if it will show me what I need to see.

A few seconds later I’m watching a younger Dylan in his jersey, having a drink and chatting with his friend Aaron, another blond man about his same size and shape. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. They joke around for a minute until Dylan’s eyes focus on something in the distance.

A moment later, I see myself wandering towards Dylan, a big, dumb smile on my face. Suddenly I want to grab young me and warn her about the chain of events she’s about to set off. Run away, I’d tell her. Fast.

The video is over an hour long, so I fast-forward for a time. Dylan and I have disappeared from the scene, presumably to go off and talk. A little while later he reappears without me, the bright number on his jersey reflecting the glow of the fire. He’s running around like he’s looking for something. But someone—Aaron, his buddy—goes up and talks to him again. His body language is animated, like something’s happened. Dylan looks concerned and nods. After a moment, for some weird reason, he pulls his jersey over his head and hands it over to Aaron. He’s still got a grey shirt on underneath. I suppose Aaron was cold or something, so Dylan helped him out. Could that possibly be what he was talking about when he said he was helping someone?

Oddly though, Aaron whips off his own shirt before putting the jersey on. I can see now that the white t-shirt that he took off has some kind of stain on it. After a few seconds Dylan hands him something else as well, a small item that he’s pulled out of his pocket. Then he says something inaudible and heads off in another direction.

Aaron then goes over to a nearby log, where a young woman is sitting, looking disoriented and a little miserable. He pulls her up, slips an arm around her waist, and the camera follows them for a while. I recognize her now. It’s Chloe, Dylan’s ex. The woman whose face haunts me. Though right now, all I can see is a pitiful creature. A stupid girl who’s had too much to drink.

She leans over and pukes on the sand—gross—and then she and Aaron make their way towards the parking lot.

The cameraman, obviously intrigued or amused by Chloe’s inebriated gait, follows them as they lurch towards a car in the distance. I can barely make them out now because the parking lot isn’t properly lit, but it seems that Aaron is trying to walk a very out-of-it Chloe towards a vehicle. She stops at one point, swaying on her feet, and plants a very drunk kiss on his lips. He helps her get into the car then slips around to the driver’s side.

The car, of course, is Dylan’s red Honda Civic.

The camera pans over to a young woman standing in the distance. I recognize myself, my face forlorn, the firelight illuminating me faintly. From the vantage point where I was standing, I can understand how it is that I thought I was watching Dylan’s form heading towards the car. After all these years I understand everything, in fact.

The jersey.

The ex-girlfriend.

All this time I’ve allowed myself to believe that Dylan did something awful, instead of thinking he could possibly have cared about me. I’ve thought the worst of him when he deserved the best.

The worst of it is that not only did I not trust him, but apparently I didn’t trust myself to be interesting or attractive enough for a man like him.

I thought he treated me like shit, because I somehow believed I was unworthy of his affection. For years I’ve thought that he simply toyed with me that night. Used me, then ran off to be with Chloe.

But all this time it’s been me who screwed up. Instead of returning his calls, instead of asking him what happened, or having the guts to invite him in, I shut him out seven years ago. I was the one who ruined everything.

And I did it all over again today. After telling Dylan I loved him, I didn’t even show him the courtesy of trusting him. I thought the worst again, projected my insecurities onto a man who didn’t deserve it at all.

I’ve seen Renata in action. I know she’s manipulative. I know she’s awful. I saw Dylan holding her arms to her sides, trying to keep her from hurting herself or him. But my screwed-up mind told me that it was because he wanted her.

It seems that I don’t trust myself enough to think I’m worthy of love, even now.

I want to be sick all over again, but this time it’s not because Dylan hurt me.

It’s because I did this to myself.

Thirty-Two

Lucy

I’m still here. Still in the apartment, shaking like a leaf as I sit on the couch. My hands are in my lap, clasped together like the teeth on a zipper. My knuckles have gone white and I’m sure my face has, too.

I screwed up. I ruined everything with Dylan today. All because of a stupid mistake I made seven years ago. A mistake I’ve carried on making all this time, because I was too proud, too stubborn to consider that maybe, just maybe, he was actually the good man that he seemed to be.

There’s nothing to do but apologize.

Or run away, which is what I’d really like to do. It would be easier at this point. Better in some ways. But I can’t. I ran away once before, and this time I owe it to Dylan to tell him I’m sorry for doubting him. For getting everything so, so wrong for the second time. I’ve failed Dylan, and I’ve failed myself, too.

I’m going to make this right. I’m going to tell him how sorry I am, and then I’ll say good-bye and wish him a good life. I know I’ll never see him again, but it’s okay. As long as I take the high road and admit that I’m wrong, at least I’ll be able to live with myself. My heart will break again, of course. But at least no one is responsible for breaking it but me.

With some effort, I rise to my feet on shaking legs and make my way to the door. My hand is trembling as it reaches for the handle. I don’t know quite what I’ll say when I get to him. Hell, I don’t even know if he’ll be home; he might be off getting shit-faced in a bar somewhere, rather than risk running into the psycho woman who’s just screamed at him for a crime that he didn’t commit.

I know I would drink my ass off if I were in his shoes.

I close my eyes, inhale a deep breath, and pull my door open, taking the outside air into my lungs for courage. I’m going to need it.

“Lucy.”

I hear his voice as clear as day in my mind. Wishful thinking, I suppose. I’m daydreaming, imagining things. Imagining that he’s come to me after everything.

“Lucy, look at me.”

But when I open my eyes, Dylan is standing right in front of me. I jump about three feet in the air, letting out a little shriek that draws a smirk across his lips. “It’s just me,” he says. “Sorry if I startled you.”

I’m frozen. Stunned that he would come anywhere near me after the way I treated him. Stunned that he would apologize for a damn thing.

I shake my head. “No, I’m the one who’s so, so sorry,” I all but wail, my voice breaking immediately into a series of heaving sobs. “Dylan, I had it all wrong. I finally looked at the video on that page. I saw what happened. I was wrong about everything. You have to understand—that night on the beach, when I saw your jersey—I thought it was you—”

His smirk morphs into a smile. “Loose,” he says, moving towards me. He isn’t touching me, but for the first time, I’m hopeful that there’s a chance that he will again someday. “It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

“It is? How can it possibly be okay?” I ask, stepping back into my apartment, turning away from him. I’m panicked. I’ve never been in a situation like this with a man. I don’t know where to go, what to do with myself. I don’t know how to fight, or to resolve a fight. I don’t know how to…how to relationship.

Yes, it’s a verb now.

“When you left me in the street, I was so fucking confused,” he says. “I came home and looked at those photos and the video, too. I looked for every moment when you were on screen, trying to figure out what the hell you were so upset about, because honestly I could never understand what was going on with you. But I get it now.”

“I thought he was you. All this time, all these years, I thought…” I turn to face him again, determined to be brave. Determined to be an adult for the first time in my damned life.

Dylan nods. “Aaron is blond, and he was with my ex,” he tells me. “I should have put two and two together way back then, but I didn’t know you’d seen any of that. You have to understand, I thought you’d be exactly where I left you, down the beach. It never occurred to me that you’d see him back at the parking lot and think he was me. Chloe got drunk and threw up on his shirt, you see. He asked me if I had a spare, so I gave him my jersey. The crazy thing is I’d forgotten all about it until I saw the photos the other day. That part of the evening seemed so unimportant compared to what had happened with you. I didn’t care about any of it like I cared about what might happen between us.”

“You gave him your car keys,” I say, my voice a miserable moan. “I saw him drive off.”

He nods again. “He took Chloe home, made sure she was okay. I guess he had a bit of a thing for her. She was all over him, too. She was drunk as all hell.”

“But…how did you get home that night?”

“I walked. Do you think I cared about not having my car when I’d lost the best thing that had ever happened to me?”

I heave a hard sob of joy and pain. Sorrow sears through me for all the time we’ve lost.

“I wish you’d said something when you left me messages…I wish you’d told me all this.”

“I tried,” he says. “I really did. I just wanted to talk to you. It didn’t occur to me to explain about the jersey…”

But it wasn’t his fault. I deleted every message before I’d even heard it. Every time his voice met my ear, it was an automatic press of that damned button. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d explained in the most graphic detail, because I wouldn’t have heard any of it.

“You never lied to me,” I say. “And today, with Renata…you told me the truth then, too. I thought you were having some kind of post-I-love-you crisis.”

“No, I wasn’t,” he says. This time he presses the backs of his fingers to my cheek. “I do love you, Lucy. And I’m not scared to say it. Not at all.”

“Even after everything?” I ask miserably.

“Do you really think I’m as fickle as all that?” he asks. “I wouldn’t give you up, not over some stupid misunderstanding. I knew something was wrong. Something was missing, a puzzle piece. But as soon as I understood it, as soon as I understood how much it must have hurt you seven years ago to think you were seeing me cheating on you…”

“Cheating? We weren’t even together.”

“As far as I was concerned we were,” he tells me. “I was yours, Loose, whether you like it or not. My heart was yours, and it’s yours now. I wouldn’t have lied to you then, and I will never, ever lie to you now. I promise you that.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I see that now.”

“Good. Listen, I have something for you. Something I was saving, but I think you should have it.”

Oh, God. It’s not an engagement ring, surely. It can’t be. Even if we do love each other, it’s too soon for diamonds.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper, handing it to me. I unfold it and stare, trying to figure out what I’m looking at.

“It’s…your house,” I say. The drawing of the beautiful building that I saw on his desk in the office. Large, shuttered windows and a roof of ceramic tile. The design for Dylan’s dream home.

“It’s the house I want to build,” he replies. “I’ve already made some inquiries about land in the Napa Valley.”

“You’re moving?” I ask, hopeful. If he’s in California, then maybe…

“I’m hoping that we’re moving. Together,” he says. “I want you there with me when the time comes. You can open up your clothing store and I’ll work from there. The thing is, I don’t want to date you before we jump into a life together. We have a lot of lost time to make up, Loose.”

I stare at him in shock. “Dylan, this is my fantasy,” I reply. “Everything about it. The house, you…”

“It’s my fantasy too. It always has been. I told you a while ago that you never saw yourself as others see you. You never did figure out how beautiful you are. Maybe now you’ll start to understand how I feel about you. Maybe you’ll figure out why it is that all these years I never committed to any woman who wasn’t you.”

“I’m finally beginning to get it,” I say, laughing through my tears.

“You’re not the only one whose heart got a little broken that night.” The words come out of him softly, slowly. My eyes study his, and I know he’s being honest with me. But of course he is; he’s always been honest. “I was always afraid to admit that I could be hurt,” he says. “Men aren’t supposed to feel pain. But it fucking hurt to lose you like that.”

I throw my arms around his neck and squeeze hard. “I’m so sorry, Dylan. I really am. For everything.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, not anymore.”

He pulls back to look into my eyes, pushing my hair behind my ear. He kisses me softly, slowly, his hand trailing down my neck. When the kiss is done, I want to laugh and cry and dance, all at once. To tell him that he’s the only man who’s ever meant anything to me.

But I have the rest of my life to do that.

So instead I just say, “I love you, Dylan Emerson.”

Coming Soon!

Keep an eye out for Loving Hard, coming in Fall 2017.

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Also by Carina Wilder

If you’d like to be informed of future releases, exclusive deals, reader contests and special offers, please sign up:

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Carina’s Books:

The Single Ladies’ Travel Agency (Contemporary Romance)

Gettin’ Hard (a full-length stand-alone novel)

Paranormal Romance:

The Dragon Guild Chronicles:

Dragon Hunter

Dragon Seeker

Dragon’s Lover

Dragon’s Curse

The Alpha Seekers Series:

Sought by the Alphas

Seeking Her Mates

Illusions

Sorceress

The Plenty of Shift Choose Your Own Sequel Shifter Dating Series begins here:

Miri: Plenty of Shift, Book One

Naomi and Tyler, Book Two

Naomi and Quinn, Book Three

The Wolf Rock Shifters Series (these are complete stories and can be read out of order):

Wolf Rock Shifter Box Set

Winning the Alpha

 Bearing Up In Wolf Rock

The Right to a Bear's Arms

To Lie With Lions

Alpha’s Hunt

The Billionaires and Curves Serial:

Billionaires and Curves (Taken With You) Trilogy

Taken With You

Crazy About You

The Way to You

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