When in Rome (Sweet Somethings Book 2) Page 10

  He hands it over. “I went to three different cafes in the neighborhood before I found one that actually knows how to make American coffee that doesn’t suck.”

  “Of course.” I take a long sip, then accept a bagel, thickly slathered with cream cheese, that he pulls from the bag and unwraps for me. “Now this is something I didn’t expect to see in Rome.”

  “We’ll do something more authentic for lunch. I figured this would fuel you up.” Tossing the empty bag into a nearby trash can and retrieving his camera and shoulder bag from the windowsill, he eases my coffee out of my hand. “Let me carry that while you eat. We’ll walk most of the morning, then grab something from a market before we jump on the Metro.”

  I take a huge bite and gesture toward the front door. “Lead the way,” I manage around my mouthful.

  The morning has already warmed into the low seventies, the sun dappling the sidewalk between buildings and trees as we walk along. Domenic strolls with the leisurely pace of someone familiar with the city, periodically handing my coffee to me as I finish my bagel. He describes some of his favorite corners in detail, painting images with words that tantalize my imagination.

  “Sounds like you’ve spent a lot of time here,” I comment, licking the last of the cream cheese off my fingers.

  “I’m lucky to have a career that lets me travel to Rome a lot. Seems like I haven’t been able to do much wandering the last couple trips.” He steps a little closer. “I wish I had more time to show you the best of the hidden gems. But that would take the better part of a week.”

  “Then what are you planning to show me today?”

  “A couple of the timeless places I love.” He touches my arm, then points to a large archway in a stone wall up ahead. “Places that will make you forget the things that stress you out and remind you that there are things in the world that last.”

  As we cross the street and approach the archway, I notice a tiny cross above the keystone. Beyond, a pedestrian path leads into the cool shadows of shade trees. “What’s this?”

  “Villa Borghese,” Domenic says. “You could spend a whole day here, but we’ll head out once the tourist traffic ramps up. On a clear day like this, the gardens get packed. The only saving grace for us is that we’re in Rome a little before the tourist season starts to peak.”

  We wander the gravel paths in companionable silence, stopping here and there to take pictures. Around nine-thirty, we take a rest on a hillside covered with tiny white flowers, overlooking a small lagoon. Domenic offers me a bottle of water from his bag, and I sit quietly, enjoying the sun, and his company.

  The click of his camera shutter breaks the spell.

  “Did you just take a picture of me?” I ask.

  “Would you be mad if I said yes?” He busies himself with his camera settings.

  “Depends on your reason for taking it.”

  He lifts his gaze to mine, but says nothing. Packing his camera back in its case, he stands and brushes a few clinging blades of grass from the seat of his pants. “Let’s go grab something for lunch before we catch the Metro line at Termini Station.”

  Aware of how skillfully he deflected my question, I take the hand he extends and let him help me up.

  The walk to Termini Station takes about half an hour, even at our relaxed, easy pace. We stop at a supermarket in the nearby shopping center and pick up a loaf of crusty bread, a small ball of mozzarella, and four ripe tomatoes. I keep expecting Domenic to tell me more about where we’re going next. But he just settles beside me on the southbound Metro line, divvying up our food.

  The Metro line stops just inside the old Aurelian wall. Domenic guides me to a transit stop to catch a bus farther south. It’s a short ride, and we get off on a quaint street that looks like time froze somewhere in the mid-1600’s. After stopping in a little market for fresh bottles of water, we walk the cobbled street, passing ruins as well as currently occupied homes, three catacomb sites bustling with tourists, and sun-washed fields stretching toward the horizon. Traffic is light, except for tourists on foot or locals biking. Occasionally a public transit bus rumbles by, forcing us to step onto the dirt path beside the road that serves as a sidewalk. An hour or so into our walk, the smaller cobbles abruptly end in a jagged line and give way to large, smooth stones.

  Domenic comes to a stop. “Welcome to the Appian Way.”

  I glance at him. “Seriously?

  He nods. “A lot of the road leading into Rome has been repaired with these smaller cobbles, but the farther we go, the more the original paving stones still act as the road bed.”

  “Roman paving stones.”

  “Eventually Via Appia Antica hooks into Via Appia Nuova, but even the highways still follow the original route all the way to Brindisi on the coast of the Adriatic.” He sighs, hooking his thumbs in his pockets and tilting his head back to stare at the trees that flank the road. “More or less, anyway.

  A sense of timeless wonder washes over me. Slowly, I lift my camera and study the path ahead, composing the shot in my mind before taking it. Thick cypress and umbrella pines create a heavy canopy over the Appian Way, blocking the intrusion of anything modern that might lay just beyond this tiny sliver of Ancient Rome. Beside me, Domenic waits with patience while I snap a few pictures. Then, when I lower the camera, he grins at me before setting his bag and camera on the ground.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  In response, he squats, then stretches out on the paving stones and rolls onto his back. “Enjoying the view.”

  My lips twist. “You’re staring at trees.”

  “I’m staring at you.” He sits up and grabs my wrist, pulling me down onto the road beside him. “Now you can enjoy the view as well.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call you a tourist attraction.” But it’s oddly intimate to lay beside Domenic here, in the open air and with the possibility of being run over by a cyclist at any time. I shift, trying to find a position that keeps the ridges of the paving stones from digging into my hip and shoulder. “This also isn’t particularly comfortable.”

  Domenic rolls onto his side and props his head up on his hand. “You do realize that these divots have been around for a couple thousand years, right? Not everybody can say they got to spread out on wheel ruts that were made by the chariots, war machines, and merchant wagons of the Roman Empire.”

  I start to formulate a snappy reply, but the weight of his words settles on me with a calming heaviness. “I guess it’s kind of amazing anything can last that long.”

  “Kind of?” He sits up again and grabs his camera. The shutter clicks, the lens pointed my way, before I can protest. “You don’t put much stock in the longevity of things, do you, Kate?”

  “Nothing in my world has ever lasted, or will ever last, as long as the Appian Way.” How did he manage to turn a tourist outing into a bare-your-heart session? Unease chases away that deep sense of melding with something eternal. I scramble to my feet and start walking back in the direction of the nearest bus stop. “I hope you didn’t plan this whole outing as a device to get me to open up about my feelings or my past disappointments, or something.”

  Behind me, Domenic stands and hurries to catch up. “Did it ever occur to you that I planned today so I could get to know you better? I would like you to open up. It’d be a freeing experience for both of us.”

  I could point out that he hasn’t really opened up to me yet. Not completely. Sure, he gave me the basic information on why Riley, his almost protégé, was no longer part of his trusted team. But there’s definitely more to that story, and he hasn’t shown any signs of being forthcoming about the rest of the details.

  “Don’t assume you know me, or what I want, because I told you about my family and the way I acted at my sister’s wedding.”

  “I see I’ve woken the snark.”


  My steps slow, then stop. Closing my eyes, I draw a deep, steadying breath. “I’m not—”

  “It’s your defense mechanism. You put on the snarky bitch act like armor to protect yourself whenever you start to feel vulnerable.” He touches my arm. The caress should send up flares of warning throughout my system. But instead, it sends a smooth wave of comfort. “Want to know the lesson I’ve learned from Roman ruins and the Appian Way?”

  I glance at him. “What?”

  His expression softens. “If you lay the right foundation, anything will last a lifetime or more.”

  “And what foundation are you laying?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I think it’ll be fun to find out.” That amused half-smirk reappears, and he takes my hand, tugging me into motion. “The next bus should be by soon. I think I still owe you some gelato.”

  “What’s gelato?”

  Domenic halts in mid-stride. “You’ve been here almost a month and a half, and you don’t know what gelato is?”

  “It’s the same thing as ice cream, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, Kate!” He strikes his open palm against his chest and staggers as if I’ve just hit him with a paving stone. Then he shakes his head and waves his hands in a universal gesture of futility. “I can’t explain it. The only way to educate you on this point is to make you experience the superiority of gelato firsthand.”

  My naiveté on the subject of Italian frozen desserts renders Domenic speechless, followed by the personification of sputtering disbelief, for the entire walk back to the bus stop and most of the ride into the city center. I just fold my arms and watch him work through his incredulity, then listen in amusement to his short dissertation on the difference between sorbetto, granita, gelato, and inferior American ice cream.

  We get off the Metro near the top of the Spanish Steps and descend the one hundred thirty-five treads to Piazza de Spagna below. My feet throb, and I prop my hands on my hips while Domenic takes out his cell phone and brings up a map app.

  “What are you looking for?” I ask, a little breathless.

  “There’s a fantastic gelatería nearby, and I wanted to make sure it was still open.” Pocketing his phone, he takes my arm and leads me to one side of the Spanish Steps. “Stay put. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

  I watch him disappear into the crowded piazza, then settle on the low wall near the bottom of the Steps. Here I watch tourists pause for souvenir pictures taken with their phones, listen to the conversation of two Italian street vendors nearby, and enjoy basking in the late afternoon sun. I’m so absorbed in the atmosphere, I don’t notice Domenic’s return until he plops down next to me and nudges my arm.

  He holds two cones crammed with gelato. “You pick.”

  “What are my options?”

  “Zabaione,” he says, lifting the cone in his left hand, “or nocciola.”

  I frown at him. “Quit showing off.”

  “Are you allergic to nuts?”

  “No.”

  He extends the cone in his right hand, the nocciola. “Go with the hazelnut. I prefer the zabaione anyway.”

  With a suspicious glance in Domenic’s direction, I take a hesitant taste. The subtle flavor of hazelnut just offsets the sweetened coolness of the cream itself. My attention hones in on the soft, thick quality of the gelato, and after another, more substantial bite, I tip my head back and let the frozen custard slowly melt.

  A low, appreciative groan escapes me. And I thought ice cream was good? American ice cream pales in comparison.

  “Wow,” Domenic murmurs. “If that’s what you sound like when you eat gelato, I’m really curious what you sound like when you’re . . .”

  He smothers the rest of his comment in a bite of his gelato as I snap my gaze to him. “When I’m what?”

  “Never mind.” But his cheeks appear tinged with color, and though he hitches closer to me on the wall, he can’t quite meet my eyes.

  Pleasure of a different sort works its way through my veins. I know exactly what he was about to say, though thankfully he had the tact not to do so.

  Clearing my throat and thinking that the afternoon has suddenly gotten too warm, I let my gaze wander the Spanish Steps again. “It’s too bad there hasn’t been more time for sightseeing. There are at least a dozen spots I’d love to visit.”

  “Maybe you’ll come back someday.”

  I grin. “Well, I did throw a coin into Trevi Fountain when I was there the other day.”

  Domenic pops the last of his cone into his mouth. “What does that have to do with coming back to Rome?”

  “Really, you’ve never watched Three Coins in the Fountain? It’s a classic!” Shaking my head, I finish off my own gelato and lick the sticky drips from my fingers. “The tradition goes that if you throw a coin over your left shoulder into Trevi Fountain, you’re destined to return to Rome. If you throw two coins, you’re supposed to fall in love with a Roman, and three coins land you at the altar.”

  “And you believe in a superstition made up by Hollywood?”

  Standing, I stretch my arms overhead and rise onto my toes, grimacing at the ache in the arches of my feet. “The tradition is older than the movie. But anyway, I never said I believed in it. Just that I followed it.”

  “Just one coin, though, right?” He rises, slings his bag and camera over his shoulder, then hands my camera to me.

  “Yeah, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I threw in one or five.” I sigh and look up the slope of the Steps, to the obelisk at the top. “I’m sure I won’t make it back here again, and I have no interest in love or marriage to a Roman or anyone else.”

  Domenic makes a low hmph in the back of his throat and shoves his hands into his pockets. “You’ve sure made up your mind about that.”

  “Maybe. So what if I have?”

  “It’s a shame, that’s all.” He steps closer until just a few inches of space remains between us.

  My stomach somersaults, the butterflies punching the air out of my lungs. “It’s reality. True love doesn’t exist, and marriage is a game people play to try and convince themselves they’ve landed the fairytale ending to life.”

  “I see showing you the Appian Way has failed to convince you.” The light of anticipation flares in his eyes, and his lips cant up at one corner.

  “Convince me of what?” His penetrating gaze fills me with longing for something I can’t even name.

  “We’ve already laid some good foundations,” he continues as if he didn’t hear my question. “But now you’ve issued me a challenge. Just so you know, I accept.”

  Before I can ask exactly what he’s talking about, he moves away. With a jerk of his head and a smile tossed over his shoulder, he strolls toward the crowd filling Piazza de Spagna, his stride filled with arrogant confidence that I’ll follow. I have no choice but to hurry after him or risk getting lost on my way back to Prati.

  Chapter 11

  Unsolicited Advice

  The remainder of the photography shoot rushes by in a blur of activity, at least as far as work in the studio goes. Miranda’s organizational skills launch into full-blown tyrant mode by the end of the last week, and even Joe avoids his own wife when she starts lambasting the interns and digi techs about finishing the proofs and getting them printed before we wrap. Corrine watches me like a hawk, but whether it’s out of concern for Domenic or because she knows I wore a one-thousand-dollar dress out to dinner, I can’t tell. Lauren, Rafe, and Dave go about their usual business, letting Miranda’s sharp words and Corrine’s dagger-stares glance off them like ping pong balls.

  My stress level skyrockets. These last few days could make or break it for me, and if I deliver a product that’s inferior in any way, only having Domenic Varezzi’s name attached to my work will save me from embarrassment. I’m not abov
e realizing he’s not only giving me a chance, but taking a chance on me.

  As for Domenic . . . He sails through the final hours of the shoot with that same self-assured attitude as always, moving and acting like someone who knows he’s nailed every aspect of his task. While everyone else is caught up in the whirlwind of wrapping up their piece of the project, he remains a solid anchor in the midst of chaos. I watch him, drawing on his confidence to settle my buzzing nerves.

  I can’t ignore the electric connection that flares to life every time he meets my stare across the studio, or wanders past my workstation and pauses to lean a little too close so he can whisper words of praise and encouragement.

  Ever since our lazy day wandering his favorite sites around Rome, I’ve felt tethered to him, as if he knows everything I see, feel, and think. I might as well be his camera, tethered to his computer. Most of the people who used to be privy to my inner life have either vacated the space they occupied, or I pushed them out. For the first time in years, I find I want to let someone occupy that space inside me, the space that makes me feel complete. It’s hard to admit to myself that opening up to him, even a little bit, makes me want to open up completely, to let him in.

  Just why Domenic, of all people, should stir that kind of yearning is beyond me. But he does. It’s a delicious secret we communicate to each other in every glance, in the lingering touch of his fingers when he takes a piece of equipment from me, in the tantalizing feather of his breath against my neck when he looks over my shoulder to compliment my work. With the same smooth, cool sweetness of gelato on the Spanish Steps, he calms and excites me all at once.

  Judging by the curious glances I get from the core members of the production crew during these last couple days of work, others are starting to notice, too.