When in Rome (Sweet Somethings Book 2) Read online

  As it is, I content myself with ambling to his side. “That thing you mentioned earlier today. At your friend’s art gallery.”

  He glances at me, a knowing smirk on his face. “You’re interested.”

  “Damn right. What do you need from me?”

  Domenic turns and leans his hip into the railing. “A sampling of your favorite images, half a dozen or so. I’ll give him a call after we cross over to Villa San Giovanni. When we go back to the train I’ll give you the code to upload the files onto his secure cloud drive. You should be able to use the train’s WiFi.”

  My own grin blooms. “Anything else?”

  “Your photos will speak for themselves.” He gives me a wink, then pushes away from the railing and meanders across the deck to the stairwell.

  I wait a full minute before following.

  Chapter 14

  Highs and Lows

  Upon our arrival back in New York, the entire team surrenders our luggage to the hotel concierge and gathers in the conference room for a debriefing session. Domenic shares the preliminary feedback from the fashion designers, and almost all of it is positive. Before dismissing us and truly calling it a wrap, he passes out small printed flyers for the art exhibition where, hopefully, one or two of my Italy photos will be on display. Lauren emits a squeak of excitement when she sees it.

  “I hope you’ll all come to Kate’s opening on Saturday,” he says, sinking into the chair beside me.

  Furious heat, a mix of embarrassment and pleasure, races into my cheeks. “It’s no big deal.”

  “No big deal?” Joe echoes. “I, for one, will be first in line.”

  Miranda swats his arm. “There isn’t usually a line for these things.”

  Across the table, Corrine pins me with an assessing look. “I’ll swing by your hotel room around six that evening to help you get ready.”

  Surprisingly touched by the offer, even though I’d been thinking of asking, I murmur, “Thanks.”

  Everyone grabs their electronic devices and clears the room, leaving Domenic and me alone for the first time since we boarded the night train in Sicily. He stares at me for a minute or so, then reaches for my hand.

  I’ve been struck dumb, and all I can do is put my hand in his. We walk to the elevator, and I’m reminded of the night in Taormina when he kissed me for the first time. Tension and anticipation curls deep inside at the memory. This time, we have no real reason to hold back, but the only touch between us remains the clasp of our fingers as the elevator stops on my floor and the doors slide open.

  Nerves strumming, I let him walk me to my room. This time, the key card gives me significantly less trouble than the old school lock and key of the hotel in Taormina. I push the door open and lean against it, breaking contact with Domenic just long enough to set my laptop bag on the floor near the closet. Then I turn to face him again.

  His gaze is full of green lightning that jolts straight to my heart.

  Then he steps toward me, locking his arms around me and walking me into the room. The door slams shut as he captures me in a bold, claiming kiss that leaves me not only breathless, but drowning.

  This is it. The moment of truth. Up to this point, we’ve dealt with maybes and what ifs, played with the idea of being together. Domenic hasn’t quite said it out loud, but his meaning has been clear since our sea kayaking trip into the blue grotto under Isola Bella.

  If he isn’t already in love with me, he’s well on his way to falling.

  The rapid, arrhythmic thud of my pulse, rising to a roar in my ears, warns me of my own impending fall.

  I cling to him, but I can’t quiet the blaring sirens in my head. The ones that have always made me pull back whenever I get too close to someone, when the risk of getting hurt skyrockets. My body stiffens with my inner struggle to silence the mental alarms, and Domenic senses it, drawing away as far as he dares without actually letting me go.

  “Sorry. You said you were afraid of where this was going. I should’ve asked first.”

  “It’s not that,” I whisper. “I just . . .”

  Just what? I can’t answer my own question, and I know he’s thinking the same thing. How can I explain it, make it any clearer than I already have? To let go of my inhibitions, my fear, would be absolute bliss.

  But to have all those fears confirmed would be utter tragedy.

  Domenic gently runs his hands down my arms and takes my hands. “We’ll slow it down. There’s no rush anymore, no playing catch-up. No deadline, nobody watching and making speculations. Just you and me . . .” A mischievous grin spreads on his face as he glances over my shoulder. “And, if it’s cool with you, a bed.”

  A giggle bubbles into my throat, and with it my tension dissipates. This, right now, is what I want. To have fun with Domenic, to enjoy his company and, at least for a little while, the illusion of forever.

  Smiling, our systems calming but not cooling, we traverse the floor in a sort of offbeat dance, toeing off shoes, tugging off top layers, until I’m down to my camisole and he’s bare-chested. We fall onto the bed in a heap of quiet laughter. Domenic pulls the elastic from my hair and runs his hands through its length, pausing to massage his fingertips over my scalp before streaking his touch down my jaw.

  The tender caress yanks the last of my breath away, and I reach out for him.

  Just as his cell phone rings.

  With a groan, Domenic lowers his face into the hollow of my neck. “I knew I should’ve turned that on silent.”

  “I doubt it’s urgent. Let it go to voicemail.”

  He pops his head up with an appreciative grin. “I like the way you think, innamorata.”

  I smile and pull him down for a kiss, ready to lose myself.

  His phone rings again.

  “Are you serious?” he growls.

  Landing what I think is a flirtatious peck on his lips, I push him up. “You should get that.”

  “You’re sure? I could just answer long enough to tell whoever’s calling to go f—”

  “Just answer it,” I laugh, cutting off his profanity.

  Casting a look of suffering my way, he stands and pulls his phone from his pocket, then paces to the window. While he talks, I slide off the bed and adjust my camisole to cover the skin of my belly, exposed during our initial tumble. My tunic top lays at my feet, but I resist the urge to retrieve it. Instead, I watch Domenic, his frame silhouetted between the open curtains, one hand propped on his hip. I can’t hear his words, but judging by the tone of his voice and his posture, our romantic interlude is about to come to an end.

  Sighing, I pick up his shirt and hold it out to him when he turns. “You have to go, don’t you?”

  “It sucks, but yes.” He bends a glare on the screen of his phone, but then shakes his head and pockets it. Lifting his gaze to mine, he sucks in a breath. “Wow. Did I bring a goddess back from Rome with me, or what?”

  For the first time, I see myself through his eyes. Physically, I’m far from perfect. But Domenic looks on me with something akin to worship, or something decadent he’d like to indulge in, whether it’s good for him or not.

  The heat in his eyes tells me, if not for that phone call, he’d be more than happy to indulge.

  My heart sings. In an attempt to steady my own head, I toss his shirt at him. “Business calls.”

  “For now.” Pulling his shirt on, he strides toward me and hooks his arm around my waist. The kiss he gives me is full of both regret and promise. He runs his fingers through my hair one more time. “You should wear your hair down more often.”

  And then, just like that, he walks out the door.

  I realize I’ve been holding my breath for the last thirty seconds. In a whoosh, I let it go, then scramble to dig my phone out of my bag and dial.

 
Pure joy, and maybe a little bit of brag, fills my voice. “Hey, Beth! I’m back in New York. You’re not gonna believe the story I have for you.”

  I don’t hear from Domenic until late the next afternoon. Citing a rush of requests from three of his biggest clients, he apologizes for needing to stick around his studio most of the rest of the week. If I didn’t hear the regret in his voice, or the recollection of him calling me a Roman goddess, I’d think this was a brushoff. But he saves himself by texting me each morning just to say hi, then sending me selfies in which he frowns, pretends to cry, and captions with things like, “Why can’t I get paid for kayaking in grottoes with you?” and, “I’d play hooky, but the boss would find out.”

  A florist box arrives on Friday morning. It contains a small sprig of wisteria, definitely not something a florist is asked to deliver every day.

  Any irritation I have at being left to my own devices completely vanishes.

  I send Domenic a selfie of my own, holding the wisteria to my lips, and caption it, “Adulting is hard. See you tomorrow.”

  Corrine and Lauren both show up at six on Saturday night to help me get ready for my art opening. The dress Corrine pulls from the garment bag she carries makes me suck in my breath. Form fitting with just a hint of flare in the skirt, black jersey knit studded with silver rhinestones, and probably worth more than my entire paycheck from the shoot in Italy.

  I replay Domenic’s compliments in my head, the appreciative way he looked at me when we went out to dinner in Rome. When we were interrupted by that untimely phone call earlier this week. “Keep my hair down.”

  Shrugging, Corrine agrees, and Lauren pulls me into the bathroom to do my makeup and set my hair in jumbo hot rollers.

  An hour later, they give me hugs and head on their way. “Make sure you call a cab,” Corrine orders. “No way you’ll make the walk in the shoes I brought for you.”

  “We’re meeting Miranda and Joe for a quick drink before the exhibition opens,” Lauren explains. “We’ll catch you at the gallery a little before eight, so you can enter with an entourage.”

  I roll my eyes, but the idea of a ready-made fan club has me bursting with excitement. At least I’ll look like I fit in, even if I still don’t feel like I do.

  Corrine has laid my dress out on the bed and left a little bedazzled hair clip beside it. Returning to the bathroom with the clip in hand, I take out the hot rollers, brush out the soft waves, and pull the sides of my hair back to secure it loosely on the crown of my head, leaving a few tendrils free to float around my face. Then I wriggle into the dress and smooth the fabric over my hips.

  “Not bad, Kate,” I tell my reflection in the closet door mirror. “You could give little sister Sadie a run for her money in this number.”

  My phone buzzes on top of the desk, and, assuming it’s Domenic, I answer without checking the Caller ID. “Hey, there.”

  There’s a pause. Then, “Hey there, what? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Mom.

  Shit.

  My mood instantly plummets. “Maybe I’m trying out a new way to answer the phone.”

  “Don’t start. Are you back in Atlanta yet?”

  I pad across the room and kick at the shoes Corrine left by the door. “No, I’m in New York.”

  “City?”

  “Really, Mom?” I grab my purse off the dresser and plop onto my bed. “I’m on my way out, actually, so I can’t talk.”

  Mom’s surprise leeches into her voice. “You’re going out? Like on a date?”

  “Not everything has to do with dating,” I snap. “If you must know, I have a couple photos in an art opening tonight.”

  There’s another pause. “In New York City?”

  Her incredulity makes me clench my teeth. “Yes. Is that so hard to believe?”

  “And how did you manage that, if I may ask?”

  I absolutely do not want to try and explain the events of the last two months to my mother, least of all Domenic’s role in them. But I have to say something. “The director of the photo shoot I was on? A friend of his runs an art gallery, and there’s an exhibition tonight. He arranged for a couple of my photos to be included. It’s not a big deal.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “The art gallery guy? I have no idea.”

  Mom scoffs. “You don’t need to be so dense, Kate. I mean the director of this photo shoot.”

  “Domenic Varezzi.”

  Now she gasps. “Wait. The Domenic Varezzi?”

  Color me surprised now. “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Honey, I might not know much about what you do with your camera at that little portrait studio. But I do know fashion, and his is one of the biggest names in the business. You hear it linked all the time with the most gorgeous models. Honestly, if you’d taken half a minute to talk to me about your work instead of brushing me off all the time, you’d know I know—”

  “Okay, whatever.” Knowing Domenic’s reputation for dating models and hearing my mother rub it in are two different things. My mood continues to sour. “I really have to get going, Mom.”

  “Are you dating him?”

  “Am I—What?” I stand and pull my wallet, which can double as a mini-clutch, out of my purse. My balance shifts as I ease my feet into the high heels Corrine picked out for me.

  “You’re right, that’s a ridiculous question.”

  “Thank you.”

  “After all, why would a man like Domenic Varezzi be interested in you?”

  My whole body goes cold at her words. Ice drips in my voice, and the hand clenching my phone trembles. “I’m gonna be late if I don’t catch a cab in the next twenty minutes.”

  “Okay, but let me know when you’re back in Atlanta. We’ll do lunch.”

  “Fine. Bye.”

  The line goes dead, and I lower my arm. Mom’s words, her assertion that Domenic could never want to be with me, lay over me like a wet blanket, weighing me down body and soul. Taking another look at my reflection, I expect to see the usual.

  A frumpy woman in her early thirties, a little too curvy at the hips, too thick at the waist, the beginnings of crows’ feet beside her eyes.

  “You look stunning.”

  “Did I bring a goddess back from Rome with me, or what?”

  I don’t see what I always see, what Mom’s words insinuate. Right now, I can’t quite see what Domenic does, but the woman looking back at me isn’t frumpy.

  She looks determined.

  Confident.

  Ready to take on the world and prove wrong everyone who ever doubted her.

  I lift my chin, stuff my phone into the cell pocket of my wallet, and head for my art opening.

  Chapter 15

  Breaking Down

  I arrive at the art gallery in SoHo with my irritation calmed and my nerves strung. Thankfully, Lauren is waiting outside for me, and she lifts her hand in an enthusiastic wave the second she sees me. Her multi-colored hair is swept into a messy topknot, but she wears a smart, fashionable black dress with matching flats that I attribute to Corrine’s influence. Her excitement bolsters my confidence in a way no mental pep talk has yet managed.

  Said wardrobe stylist—turned personal stylist—pushes through the gallery doors to join us on the sidewalk. She’s the picture of haute couture perfection in a slim-fitting silver ensemble. Joe and Miranda follow close on her heels, Miranda in a long chocolate brown dress that emphasizes her petite frame, and Joe comfortably business elegant in a black sport coat over a maroon button-down and khakis.

  Drawing a breath, I let their easy smiles touch my nerves. “I hope you all realize what a big deal this is for me.”

  “Of course,” Joe replies. “The start of bigger and better things.” He leans toward me. “
I didn’t want to say anything during the debriefing, but your abilities are misplaced in fashion.”

  Miranda smacks his midsection, then turns to me before Joe’s words have a chance to sink in. “What he means is that fashion photography is the wrong medium for your abilities, doesn’t let them shine the way fine art photography does. We all looked at your online portfolio.”

  Joe, rubbing his stomach, picks up the train of thought. “There really isn’t a subject you’re not good at shooting. But when you let your creative side loose, that’s where the magic happens.”

  At this point, Lauren grabs my arm and tugs me toward the door. “Whatever. I just want to see what Domenic’s friend chose for your opening. Plus, he usually puts up an awesome wine and cheese selection.”

  I let the four of them surround me and escort me inside. It takes a couple minutes for my eyes to adjust to the dimmer lighting, but once they do, my whole being starts to soar. There are probably seven or eight different photographers’ work on display, and some are pretty big names. To be counted among them, even for one night, and with one photograph . . .

  “Look, there’s your display,” Lauren says, pointing to the opposite side of the room.

  As a group, we meander through the milling crowd. My mouth drops open as we draw near. One photograph? Domenic’s friend has all eight of the images I sent on exhibit. A shot of the Coliseum from Palatine Hill. The grandeur of skeletal columns in the Roman Forum. The Appian Way. The Spanish Steps. Taormina from the heights of Castelmola. Mount Etna at sunset. Giardini-Naxos reflected in the dark Ionian Sea.