“Only once,” he says, chuckling. “Sixteen years old and found the love of my life at the Jiffy Lube.”
Startled, I laugh. “What on earth is a Jiffy Lube?”
“It’s an automative franchise,” he replies, the words tinged with laughter. “They change your oil and stuff. My first car was a 1991 Buick, and that baby had the freshest oil around once I discovered the Jiffy Lube.”
“Oh my.” Smiling helplessly, I shake my head. “How often did you bring it in?”
“Had her in once a week for three months before my dad caught on,” he says stoutly. I burst out laughing.
“Oh no,” I comment. He nods, trying to look serious, but losing the battle with his smile.
“Oh no,” Roman agrees. “Hardly my fault, though. Porn was great and all, but the sweaty mechanic at the Jiffy Lube? Who wore a dirty white tank top under his coveralls and had arms covered in tattoos? Teenage me never stood a chance.”
“And adult you? Do you often frequent automotive shops to ogle the natives?”
“Definitely not. I have a very specific preference these days, and it doesn’t include layers of oil, sweat, and dirt.”
“A type? Do tell.”
It’s only because I can’t tear my eyes away from his profile that I catch the smirk hidden in the beard.
“Blond. Blue-eyed. Shorter than me,” he lists off. I raise my eyebrows, but he’s looking resolutely at the road. “Uhm, let’s see. Smart, funny. Beautiful with makeup or without. Probably has a propensity for wearing clothing that makes me want to die.”
I snort. It’s true that I’ve devoted myself to wearing the least amount of fabric possible this week, and it’s also possible that I’ve enjoyed Roman’s reactions. I wasn’t trying to kill the man, but I suppose it does feel nice on the ego. I sit up a little straighter and adjust the seat belt stretched across my chest, biting my lip as Roman’s eyes immediately slide over and catch on my stomach.
“Accent,” he continues, clearing his throat. “Definitely has an accent. Always smells like he pulled his clothes fresh from the laundry.”
“My, this is quite specific,” I note. “I think we can narrow your search down to twinks, though, so that may help.”
“Finnish twinks,” he says with finality, making me laugh. He blushes a little bit, looking pleased when he glances away from the road and catches my eye. “Lucky for me, I successfully abducted one last week.”
“You are ridiculous and a flirt, Roman.”
“I’m actually pretty terrible at flirting. Luckily, you do seem to be picking up on the subtlety, though.”
I raise one eyebrow. “Does subtlety mean something different in America?”
“I’m just a simple Viking, Niilo,” he teases. My cheeks are starting to hurt from how often I’ve smiled and laughed today. How dare he be so handsome and silly and easy to like.
Our arrival in Rome successfully derails any further flirting, as chatting becomes harder when Roman is trying to navigate the city. We end up looping around our hotel three times, as he misses the turn and gets flustered by the narrow streets and brave pedestrians, striding out into the street. When he finally parks the little car, he pauses, taking a second to inhale the first breath I’ve seen him take in minutes, before turning to me.
“We can hit all the important stops on foot, if you like,” I offer, grinning when he practically radiates relief.
“Why does driving here feel so much harder than driving back home?” he asks, as we climb from the car and gather our bags. Or, Roman gathers them, as he seems hell-bent on never letting me lift a finger. “I swear I’ve driven in big cities before. I’m from Seattle!”
“I’m not a fan of driving in any city,” I admit, following Roman into the hotel and gazing around. The lobby is lit by an ancient-looking chandelier, the stone walls and floor faded with age. Already, I can tell this will be both the cheapest hotel we’ve stayed in, and my favorite.
This is confirmed when Roman calls me over to assist with the check-in, and the stressed-looking hostess hits me with rapid-fire Italian that even I have trouble following. Beside me, Roman stands perfectly still, listening with an adorably confused expression on his face, and his ID clutched in his hand.
“There was a problem with the booking,” I summarize. “She apologizes profusely, but there is only one room available.”
I do my best not to soundtoohappy about this, but I clearly fail, if the blush sneaking up from Roman’s beard is any indication. I shrug, because a single hotel room sounds like a marvelously good idea to me. In fact, I’d been hoping for it eversince I first sat in the passenger seat of his car. What can I say—I have a type, too.
“Oh, well, that’s okay?” he asks hesitantly. “Or…?”
“Or nothing.” I turn back to the hostess, who looks relieved that we aren’t about to throw a fit. “One room is just fine.”
Of course, in the nature of European hotel rooms and holiday mishaps, the room in question is hardly bigger than a kitchen pantry. There is a rickety-looking metal patio table tucked into one corner, the chairs small enough that there’s no way they’ll accommodate Roman’s size. A quick glance into the bathroom shows a space similarly proportioned—so tiny that barely a third of his body will get wet when he stands under the showerhead.
