Roman Crazy (14 page)

I skidded through the hallway and stopped at the antique oval mirror. “Fuck,” I groaned, and tried to smooth down my hair. I had showered and
then
napped, not taking the time to dry my hair.

For anyone with naturally curly hair, that's a disastrous combination. It was everywhere, wild and untamed. And of course Daisy's apartment had eaten every hair tie I'd brought. I looked around wildly for a hat. A fedora or hell, I'd even wear a knit cap in this humidity. There was a silk scarf hanging from the coat rack and I grabbed it just as he knocked at the door.

“Just a minute!” I called out, whipping the scarf around my head and trying to stuff my hair behind it.

“Can I at least come in?” he called.

“No!” I shouted, and frowned in the mirror. I'd tied it back as best I could, hiding the bulk of it underneath the scarf, sixties style. I hated not feeling pulled together. Daniel never saw me with a hair out of place. A button was never missed, a shoe was never unpolished, and lordy knows the occasional pimple never left the house uncovered.

“Hi,” I said, swinging the door open when I finished tying the scarf's bow.

Once again, in the country where every male was always presentable and pretty damn good looking, he was stunning. The sun from the courtyard lit him up from behind, making him appear angelic and devilish at the same time—beautiful.

“Your shirt is outside inside,” he said when I stepped onto the porch, the door closing behind me with a quiet click.

I looked down. Sure enough, it was not just inside out, but backward, too. What was it Daisy said?
Dio mio
.

“Turn around.”

“
Che?
”

“Turn around so I can fix my shirt,” I said seriously, starting to pull my arms through.

He chuckled softly, disbelieving, but turned. “You know I have seen you. All of you. Many times.”

Oh my.

“That was college-age Avery. Before things started shifting and sinking like your Colosseum,” I explained, tucking the shirt back into the front of my yellow capris. “Okay, I'm decent.”

Marcello began descending the steps before he turned, smiling up at me.

“You look . . .” he began.

The scarf had come loose. One end was caught in my hair but the rest was flying behind me in the breeze. Along with my hair.

“That bad, huh?” I asked, self-consciously rubbing a hand over the wayward curls.

“No, now you look how I remember.”

All I could do was grin. Silly, toothy, hopeless.

Until I got downstairs and until he swung his leg over a— “Scooter? You expect me to ride around town on that?”

He blinked back at me, confused. “Yes?”

“Have you seen how crazy people are on these, these, tootabouts?”

“What is tootabout?”

“You know: toot toot! And then you all drive into traffic like a bat out of hell, all over town! I'm not getting on that thing.” I crossed my arms. I'd been involved in several near misses by some nutty Roman on a Vespa, and I didn't wish to experience the madness from behind easy-to-crumple handlebars.

Marcello got up, closing the distance between us once more. “What city are you in?”

I rolled my eyes. “Rome.”

“Exactly. And what is that phrase? When in Rome . . .”

“Marcello, that's not the point. The point is dead—which is what I will be if I climb on that thing.”

I stood with my weight on one hip, tapping one foot, frowning with arms crossed. Wild hair blowing in the breeze. He just started to laugh.

“What?”

“
Mannaggia,
” he sighed.

“What?”

“I say nothing changes,” he repeated, but this time with a mischievous smile.

“I don't get it.”

“How puffed up you get when you're afraid of something. You are like that little fish who blows up when it feels threatened. You did the same thing when we went on that tour boat.”

“And I was right about that! We ended up half drowned!”

He shook his head, his eyes warming to the memory. “Half drowned is not drowned, is it? We got back in the boat and continued with our trip, yes?”

“Yes,” I said. “Soaking wet, though.”

He took another step. “My favorite part,” he murmured, his mouth close to my ear. “I could see right through your blouse.”

“Pervert.” I smiled in spite of myself.

“Do you trust me?”

“Completely,” I said without hesitation.

He looked over my shoulder at the Vespa. “I won't let you get hurt.”

“You promise you won't go too fast?”

His eyes danced. “I promise.”

For the record, never trust an Italian's version of what constitutes as
too fast
.

We zipped through Trastevere, around the Vatican—not a short distance by the way, in less than fifteen minutes. In traffic. Right before I had climbed on and wrapped my arms tightly around Marcello's body—which is an entirely different story and one I'd likely come back to when I was slipping off to dreamland later—I'd mentally calmed down by reminding myself that scooters weren't cars and therefore not capable of going very fast. More of a putt-putt than a vroom-vroom.

Couldn't be further from the effing truth. We vroomed our way around town, zipping in and out of traffic, taking off like a shot several times fast enough that I was sure my hair was going to blow off. The horn on a Vespa shouldn't be so weenie. It should be a giant foghorn, something more representative of its ferocity.

All I could do was bury my face against Marcello's back, my lips pressed tightly together to squelch the tirade of swearing, and hang on.

Oh, to hang on. My hands, which had been wrapped around his waist from the second we took off, were clenched against him. Twice, when stopped at a light, he reached down and slid his hand across mine, soothing . . . or just touching?

My face was buried against his back, and sweet merciful lord did he smell good. Sense memory, what a tricky thing. He no longer wore the cologne I'd been used to when we were together before, but he still had the same scent, that clean soapy smell that some men have. Earthy and pleasant and all Marcello.

These little things I picked up and noticed only in the nanoseconds between stops and starts. The rest of the time I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and prayed to whatever holy spirit seemed to be hanging over this city at all times to
let me off this thing.

“Oh you sorry, sorry, son of a bitch,” I wheezed, climbing
down from behind him when we finally stopped and I stood up on wobbly legs. “That was
too fast
.”

“How can it be too fast? We were the same speed as everyone else—”

“Shush.” Acting on instinct alone, I rose up on my tiptoes and pressed one finger to his lips, my hair flying wild all around me. “Give me pizza and I'll forgive you.”

And because he was Marcello, he kissed that finger, bit that finger, then gave me a wolfish grin. “Pizza.” He caught my hand, and pulled me inside the restaurant.

He caught my hand. I don't even know if he knew he was doing it, it was so instinctual. My hand in his snapped me right back to the past, where I hardly went anywhere without my hand in his. Squeezing tightly while exploring the tide pools in Cadaques, or linked lazily while he explored my tummy with his tongue, it seemed to me now that our entire time together could be summed up by a simple hand holding.

Daniel never took my hand. And to be fair, I never took his, either. It never felt natural, holding hands with my husband. And how telling was that?

So into the chaos of Pizzarium Bonci I went, holding Marcello's hand without a second thought, each finger knowing exactly where to go, comfortable and yet thrilling enough to make a stupid smile spread over my face.

Pizzarium Bonci was so small it could barely be called a restaurant. But I was beginning to learn that the tiniest spots in Rome tended to have the best food. This little pizza shop had three stools crowded around one little table, a stand-up bar on the window wall, and barely room for two people at the counter.

I'd never seen pizza like this before. Trays and trays of long, rectangular pizza, cut sideways almost like a French tartine, but
thick and piled high with the most delicious-looking toppings. Traditional, with fresh mozzarella and basil and what looked like an incredible tomato sauce. Nontraditional, with figs and prosciutto and . . . was that mint? Foie gras, salsiccia, cherries, feta, cured black olives, capers, ricotta, Serrano ham, anything and everything that could be described as delicious was scattered across these beautiful pizzas in carefully paired concoctions.

But this was no quiet romantic spot; it was chaos. Cooks shouting from the kitchen, the guys behind the counter shouting to the customers in line, and the customers shouting back their orders to be heard over the din. It was loud, crazy, and wonderful.

Marcello was trying to ask me a question, but I could barely hear him.

“What did you say?” I asked, leaning closer to him with an expectant look on my face.

He laughed and tried again. “What . . . good . . . okay . . . me . . . decide?”

I shook my head with a laugh, gesturing around to indicate how hard it was to hear him.

He rolled his eyes, but leaned closer. And as he put his mouth right next to my ear, bringing us impossibly close once more, I shivered in spite of the overheated restaurant. “What looks good to you?”

Mmm, was that a loaded question, especially when accented by the puff of air from those beautiful lips on my suddenly frantic skin. I closed my eyes to ground myself.

“Or is okay for me to decide?”

Yes, you decide. You decide it all: the how, the when, the where, the how many times, and the how loud I'll scream.

Careful, Avery . . .

Not trusting my voice, I nodded, pointing to what looked
good, and he shouted it out, gesturing wildly along with the guy behind the counter. They went back and forth a few times, finally deciding on four pieces, all different kinds. He carried the slices wrapped in grease-dotted paper while I grabbed a couple of drinks from the cooler, and we headed out to the street where it was less chaotic, snagging a tiny table just outside the front door.

He handed me a piece. “Start with this, very traditional. Ricotta, zucchini flower, fresh mozzarella. You will love.”

I bit into it, gooey, stringy cheese pulling back on itself while I chewed away. I moaned. “Thif eh suh goo.”

Marcello nodded, taking his own monster bite. As he chewed, his eyes closed in an expression I knew very well. He was satisfied.

“What kind is that?”

“Spicy ham, fried onions, and a small bit of apple.”

I was surprised. “Apple?”

He lifted his slice to my mouth. “Bite.”

I did, and of course it was fabulous. I licked my lips slowly and sighed a little in appreciation. His eyes watched as my tongue darted out to catch a little spot of tomato sauce just below my bottom lip.

“
Madonna mia,
” he mumbled, leaning against the side of the building. It was nice to know I could still make him rock back on his heels.

“So, have you been in Rome since you finished up in Barcelona?” I asked, digging into another piece. Cherries, foie gras, and fresh basil. Heaven.

He chewed slowly and methodically; possibly weighing his options? He finally swallowed and said, “I stayed in Barcelona for another year.”

“Working?”

He nodded, then arched an eyebrow. “Not just working.”

“Oh.”
Oh
 . . .

Well you didn't think he just pined away for nine years, did you?

I bit into my pizza, chewing furiously now. “Where'd you go then?”

Amused by my reaction, he smiled. “I worked in Dubai for eighteen months, new construction mostly. Spent almost a year in Jerusalem, where I started getting more into the green technology, upcycling original materials when we could, then spent a few months in New York—”

He was in New York? He'd been that close to me and hadn't . . . How could he have gotten in touch with you? And better still,
why
would he have gotten in touch with you?

“—and then got a line on a job back in Rome.”

All the places he'd been. All the things he must have seen. Once more I felt that little pang that reminded me of how one could live a life when they grabbed it by the balls and just went for it.

“And now you're here,” I said, still amazed at everything he'd accomplished.

“And now
you're
here.” His eyes met mine, searching, wondering.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask. In those nine years, who'd been alongside him on these great adventures? Was it one woman? Two women? Several? Many? Who had shared his bed and his life all these years, someone special or just someone? I wasn't sure which I was more interested in.

And just how special was this Simone he'd been all over the other night?

I could have sat there for hours and just asked him questions
with my eyeballs, but the pizza place was hopping and there were people circling our table like sharks.

Finished, I got up and tossed our wrappers into the recycle bin at the street corner. I felt his eyes follow me with each step.

My phone buzzed as I was walking back to the table. It was the lawyer emailing to tell me that Daniel's attorneys (yes plural) had requested another meeting, and it wasn't looking good.

“Ah shit,” I muttered, stabbing at my phone and shoving it back into my purse.

“Everything okay?” he asked, touching my elbow. I blinked up at him, the worry eating away at the happiness I was feeling from being with him again. “We can go?”

“No, everything is fine.”