When in Rome (Sweet Somethings Book 2) Read online

  “Because Taormina is quieter?”

  “Hardly. At least not in the summer.” His arms slip around my waist. “I should’ve been clearer. I prefer the view from here right now.”

  Heat flares across my skin. “You’re laying it on kind of thick.”

  “I can tell by your voice that you kind of don’t mind.” Still, he pulls away from me and retrieves my bag from the ground. “Any thoughts on what you’d like to do tomorrow?”

  I use the time it takes to pack up my camera to resettle my slightly scattered wits. “To be honest, a little quiet time with my feet up in the sun wouldn’t be disappointing. At least for part of the day. You said we’re taking the night train back to Rome?”

  He nods, hooking his arm around my waist as we start across the piazza. “We have to board a little after eight.”

  “I assume we don’t have to check out of the hotel until close to noon.”

  “They’ll hold everyone’s bags if we want to spend the day sightseeing.”

  “Convenient. Then can we plan to do something tomorrow afternoon? Something unforgettable.” A memory I can take back to Atlanta with me when Domenic and I part ways.

  As if he hears the unspoken part of my request, his grip firms around me. “I can make that happen.”

  We walk back to the hotel at a leisurely pace, neither of us that keen on bringing our day to an end. Domenic lets go of me only long enough to go up the steps leading to the lobby, claim our keys, and get on the elevator. Once the car begins its descent to our floor, he moves close to me again, running his palm down my arm to capture my hand and lace his fingers with mine. My breathing becomes shallow, the elevator too warm.

  I should pull away.

  Instead, I clasp his hand.

  But I refuse, absolutely refuse, to look at him.

  Once the elevator stops, Domenic walks me to my door, takes my key, and puts it in the lock. He stops just short of turning the doorknob and admitting himself into my room.

  I open the door myself, ostensibly to reach in and drop my bag on the little table just inside. But I can’t quite take that last step. Carefully, hoping it looks casual, I lean against the frame and block the eight inches of open doorway behind me.

  Domenic stares down at me, then places one hand flat on the wall beside my head. He rests his other palm on my shoulder. After a moment, he slides his fingers along my collarbone to the side of my neck. There he stops, waits.

  “Say something,” I murmur.

  The touch of his fingertips firms, turning to a caress that sweeps up to the line of my jaw. His gaze roams my face, pauses briefly on my lips before he looks me in the eye again. “I’m not pretending.”

  “What?”

  He lowers his head until the tip of his nose brushes mine. His lips hover a hair’s breadth away, close enough I can feel them move when he speaks. “This is not pretend.”

  Every ounce of air leaves my lungs. “I know.”

  The kiss isn’t so much searing as a slow burn, one that builds in intensity the way a sunrise slowly illuminates the morning horizon until it bursts into brilliance. When the heat reaches full blast, I reach up and spear my fingers into his hair, pulling several locks free from the elastic at his nape. He mirrors my desperate attempt to hold him here, keep him in this moment where he belongs solely to me, and takes my face in his hands before slipping his palms down my back and clutching me close.

  He’s not pretending, and I’d be an idiot not to admit, at least to myself, that I’m not pretending either. The idea of falling for him is dangerous.

  Giving in would be disastrous.

  The effort of disengaging from his kiss is more challenging than hiking up the switchback road to Castelmola, and it leaves me just as breathless. Slowly, I pull my fingers from his disheveled hair and rest them on his shoulders. My lips throb. “That was a little more familiarity than I expected.”

  “We agreed it was in our best interests to move things forward as fast as possible.” His chest rises and falls with each breath, as if he didn’t just hike up to Castelmola so much as sprint.

  I press against his shoulders, just enough to make him peel his body away from mine, but not enough to make him think I’m pushing him away. “I don’t remember agreeing to that. But even if I did, there’s a difference between moving forward quickly and barreling at breakneck speed. Sometimes it’s smart to apply the brakes.”

  “Okay,” he says after a brief pause. “You’re right.”

  He still hasn’t let go of me.

  A smile creeps across my face. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Remember, you promised me something unforgettable.”

  “And this wasn’t?”

  Now I do push him away, but not before rising on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Goodnight, Domenic.”

  The slight flush fades from his face, but the tension in his frame tells me just how much self-control he’s had to call up in the last two minutes. He hauls in a huge breath and steps back, putting his hands on his hips. “I’ll look for you in the morning, then.”

  “Enjoying the sun.”

  I slip into my room, allowing my gaze to linger on him for a few extra seconds before I shut the door.

  Chapter 13

  Decisions, Decisions

  I sleep late the next morning and wake refreshed, except for the dull ache in my hamstrings from the dozens of uphill miles I hiked yesterday. Stretching, the events of last night, namely the culminating event, replay in my mind.

  The stretch turns into a full-body writhe of delight.

  Never in my entire life has anyone kissed me the way Domenic did, and never have I responded in kind like that.

  Rather than dwell on the possibilities, I focus on the dozens of personal photos on my laptop and SD card. Regardless of what happens with Domenic today, tomorrow, or next week, the urge to create is calling.

  A quick shower later, I’m dressed and installed in a lounge chair on the rooftop terrace, my laptop balanced on my knees, a plate of pastries and a jug of half-frozen juice on a little table at my side. One of the hotel staff was kind enough to set a wide umbrella over me to block the sun, but the warmth still reaches me on the salty breeze of the Ionian Sea. A smile fixes itself on my face as I work through my photos, weeding out blurry or overexposed shots, moving the best to a folder on the desktop for quick access.

  “Come up with anything good?”

  Domenic’s voice reaches me a few seconds before his shadow falls across my feet. I glance up, fingers frozen over my laptop’s touchpad. Licking my lips, I look away again and grab blindly for my juice. My fingers brush the rim, almost upsetting the glass. I catch it at the last second, but the juice sloshes out nonetheless.

  “I’ve told you not to sneak up on me.” I shake the sticky liquid from my hand and fumble for a napkin.

  He crouches beside me and, smiling, leans in to kiss me. A brief touch, familiar but thrilling. “Doesn’t count if you know I’m here.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “So what are you working on?” He straightens and grabs a nearby chair, dragging it under the circle of shade created by my umbrella.

  I turn my attention back to the computer screen. The tingles of contentment at Domenic’s good-morning kiss mix with the rising exhilaration of believing I’m on the brink of professional discovery. “Remember how I told you I wanted to break into fine art photography? Maybe land an exhibition that would put me on the map?”

  “I do. Your face lights up when you talk about it.”

  Am I blushing? That would account for the warmth in my cheeks. “I’ve been working on all the photos I’ve taken during my sightseeing outings, putting together a portfolio of the best to submit to juried exhibitions and art galleries.”

  Domenic slides his chair closer to m
e and reaches out toward my computer. But he freezes and pulls his hands back.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “In Rome, I grabbed your computer and took a look without asking. Just thought I should wait for permission this time.”

  Smiling, I offer my laptop. “Have at it.”

  With a grin of appreciation, Domenic settles back in his chair to check out my photos. His face soon falls into focused lines of concentration as he clicks through them, muttering to himself under his breath. I refill my glass of juice and sip while I wait. After about fifteen minutes, he gives my computer back.

  “These are really good,” he says. “I mean it. How much digital editing have you done?”

  “Almost none. A few needed some filtering and adjustment to the saturation. But overall, those are the raw images.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. He sits back again, rubbing his chin and gazing out at the view of the Ionian Sea. “How would you feel about me showing your stuff to a friend of mine back in New York? He runs an art gallery and has an exhibition scheduled for next weekend. It’s not juried or anything, but there will be some press involved. It’s kind of a big deal.”

  I study him, try to gauge his sincerity. “And he’s got room for a newbie like me?”

  “On my recommendation, yes.”

  “What would I have to do?”

  “Let me send him your favorites. All you’d need to do is show up and look stunning.”

  While I doubt I could manage stunning, showing up wouldn’t be difficult. My return ticket to Atlanta is scheduled for next Sunday, giving me a week in New York when we get back. I’d planned to do the tourist thing around Manhattan and hopefully catch dinner with Beth a couple times. “A spot in an art opening would be . . . phenomenal.”

  “Then you’ll do it?” Domenic’s enthusiasm spills from him, in the way he hitches forward in his seat and leans toward me.

  I attempt a nonchalant shrug, but my lips twitch. “Let me think about it.”

  “Good.” He stands. “In the meantime, let’s drop off your computer downstairs, go get some lunch, and head out. I’ve managed unforgettable for this afternoon.”

  We take the cable car down to the beach at Mazzarò and buy lunch from one of the walk-up quick service restaurants; panini made with crusty bread, mozzarella, prosciutto, and basil. After we finish eating, Domenic helps me navigate the rocky beach to a small ruin built into the cliff on the north side of the bay. A path traverses the top of a stone wall, steps disappearing into the base of what might have been an ancient tower of some sort but is now flooded by the sea. I brave the unsure footing to clamber alone out onto the rocky outcrops for a view of the open Ionian, the wind buffeting me as I stare out at the cloud-dotted horizon, the mainland of Italy a hazy line between air and sea.

  Domenic is smiling when I return to his side. He takes my hand and leads me back to the beach. “Are you ready for your unforgettable moment?”

  Twenty minutes later, I sit behind him in a sea kayak, a life jacket cinched tightly around my torso, as we float into the bay. The waves, thankfully, are calm, and Domenic slices his paddle through the water with the practiced ease of experience. I indulge in watching the way the muscles of his back and shoulders stretch and flex with his fluid movements, rendering my contribution to our progress almost null. He doesn’t seem to notice as we round the point of land to the south of the bay of Mazzarò and cross the narrow water leading to Isola Bella.

  We aren’t the only couple out on sea kayaks, but other than a few polite waves, Domenic doesn’t acknowledge the pods of novices we pass on our way to the other side of Isola Bella. Here, he slows the rhythm of the paddle, letting the kayak coast beside the rocky cliff to our right.

  Ahead, I can see the tall opening of a sea cave. “Are we going in there?”

  Domenic twists to throw a grin over his shoulder. “I promised you unforgettable.”

  With that, he plunges his paddle into the water again, driving us through the azure waves toward the mouth of the sea cave. I’m not claustrophobic by any means, but adrenaline rushes through my veins as we slip through the archway.

  Then awe settles in.

  Despite the fact that we’re essentially inside a giant rock, light finds its way into the cave. The water glows with a brilliant blue, a deeper cerulean than I noted from the deck of the ferry when we crossed the Straits of Messina.

  “Unreal.” My murmur bounces off the walls, magnified tenfold. “What is this?”

  “Grotta Azzura. One of the blue grottoes.” Domenic carefully turns in his seat until he faces me. “Innamorata, there’s something I need to say to you.”

  My heart doesn’t exactly drop, since his tone is the opposite of how guys usually sound when they’re about to tell me something along the lines of it’s not you, it’s me. Even so, I hold my breath.

  “And I want to say it now, because once we get on that train tonight and are surrounded by the rest of the team, reality’s going to set in with a vengeance. I won’t have an uninterrupted opportunity again.” Light reflecting off the waves sends ripples of blue over his face as he reaches for my hands. “You must know by now that I’m looking for a partner. Someone who’ll work beside me, whose style and vision complements mine. But that’s not all I’m looking for.”

  I should say something in response, but my voice seems stuck.

  “I’ve spent most of my adult life making a name for myself, but it’s turned out to be a lonely existence. People fawn over you, try to attach themselves to your accolades. But that’s not the same as sharing your life with someone who matters. Someone who makes you want to be better.” He lifts my hands and presses a kiss to each palm. “Who makes you be better.”

  A tremor races from my palms, up my arms, and into my pounding heart. “I understand exactly what you’re saying. But you deserve to know that it scares the shit out of me.”

  “I kind of figured it would, based on what you’ve told me about your parents and sister.”

  Pulling in a breath, I struggle not to draw my hands from his. “True love is a myth.”

  “Relationships require work. They fail when people don’t take the time to build a solid foundation and do what they can to maintain it.”

  “I’m not sure I’m cut out for anything long term.” My voice shakes. “I’ve seen too many people close to me fail at it.”

  “I’m not asking you to make a commitment. Just to think about one.”

  He’s given me a lot to think about over the past two days. But the truth of what he’s asking settles on me, not just with worry and doubt, but with anticipation and excitement.

  I just hope I can give him a decision that won’t break both our hearts.

  Domenic and I agree to keep things low key until we get back in New York and aren’t always in such close quarters with the other six members of the photography team. This means, to his frustration, we shouldn’t share a compartment on the night train back to Rome.

  “I’m sure they’re already speculating,” I explain as we wait for everyone else to arrive at the rail station. “It’s just better not to give them grounds to gossip until we’re ready.”

  Seated beside me on a weathered wooden bench, Domenic slips his hand into mine. “If that’s what you want.”

  “I do. Let’s just keep the status quo. Once we’re back home and debriefed on the business end of things, then . . .”

  He squeezes my hand as I trail off. “Then we’ll see what happens. Okay?”

  Lauren’s shouted greeting from the other end of the platform signals the end of our conversation and, for the time being, our little love affair. Peeling my fingers from Domenic’s takes tremendous effort on my part, especially when he clings an extra second. But I manage, plaster on a bright smile, and wave to her.

 
Once we’re all installed in our sleeping compartments, which won’t be converted until after we cross over to the mainland, I fake small talk about the weekend with Lauren, Joe, Dave, and Rafe, while avoiding the searching glances cast my way by Corrine and Miranda and the not quite covert gaze of affection from Domenic, who hovers in the corridor. In the back of my mind, I process the two offers currently on the table.

  A spot in an exclusive art opening that could launch my career in fine art photography.

  A permanent place in Domenic’s life.

  Both are life-changing decisions, but right now I can’t focus on the thought of making a commitment to Domenic. Not until we’ve landed in America and I see what everyday life might look like. Plus I have to consider the changes themselves. No doubt he’ll expect me to be based out of Manhattan, as he is, and that means leaving what family and few friends I still talk to in Georgia. It means giving up my business in Atlanta, and I worked my ass off to build it in the first place.

  But the promises he’s hinting at . . .

  It would take major guts to accept his offer, and I’m just not sure. I won’t be until he makes his intentions perfectly clear.

  If I’m going to let myself fall in love with him, I have to know he feels the same, that it’s not just another fling.

  The art exhibition, however—that I can commit to.

  After the train slides onto the ferry and we all head up on deck, I seek Domenic out. He stands at the railing, hands in his pockets, his hair a wild tumble in the wind. Every fiber in my body yearns to wrap my arms around him from behind, invite him to envelope me in a hug that will shield me from the cold off the water and warm me from the inside out. If the rest of the photography team wasn’t on deck, I’d do it.