But the best part of the tiny room, is the equally tiny bed. Thesingletiny bed. Hands on my hips, I grin at it. Rome is quickly turning into the best leg of this journey, and we’ve only just arrived.
“Did she tell you there was only one bed?” Roman asks, glancing around the room as though thinking the second bed is merely hiding.
“Oh, she might have mentioned it,” I reply flippantly, waving a hand. She did, in fact, mention it. Unfortunately, I have a very serious condition called selective hearing, and chose to ignore it.
“That’s areallysmall bed,” he notes, voice caught somewhere between amused and alarmed. I trace his tall frame with my eyes and come to the conclusion that his feet will, most likely, hang off the end. I’ll fit perfectly, particularly with that big body hopefully wrapped around me.
“I’m not mad about it,” I admit, which sets Roman off laughing.
“I promise I didn’t do this on purpose,” he eventually tells me, eyes wide and earnest. “I booked two roomsandtwo beds.”
“That’s what they all say.” I sigh, blowing out a single hard breath and shaking my head. Placing a hand over his eyes, Roman chuckles.
“I’m not mad about it, either,” he agrees. “Now let’s get out of here. It’s too early for sleeping, and I can’t be in this room with you, unless we’re going to beinthe bed.”
Rome is hot.The height of summer brings waves of heat and tourists, everyone flocking toward the popular destinations like flies to honey. Because of this, I have a love-hate relationship with the city, and although I would probably have skipped the busier sites on my second round through, I’m not going to begrudge Roman the chance to experience them. It has to be said, the tourist spots in the city are popular for a reason.
Our tour guide at the Colosseum makes a comment about Roman being a gladiator no less than three times. By the time he’s gearing up for a fourth, I’m considering ripping the man’s tongue out of his mouth; maybe scratching an eye out for good measure. I’ve had quite enough of the appreciative looks and the flirting.
“If that man makes another comment about your biceps, I’m pushing him off this ledge,” I tell Roman waspishly, pointing toward the ledge in question.
We’re walking along the top tier of the Colosseum, sun hot on our faces, and skin glistening with sweat. Roman’s white shirt is damp enough to stick to his chest in an obscene manner, and lends some handy visual aids to our guide’s fantasy of him as a sweaty gladiator. I scowl at the man’s back. I might be small, but I’m strong for my size and everyone knows jealously is the best motivator.
“I’m definitely throwing him over the edge,” I declare, before Roman can respond.
“Well, to be fair, I probablywouldmake a good gladiator,” he replies, sounding proud of himself. I roll my eyes and he laughs, grabbing my hand despite how dismally hot it is. Our sweaty fingers slide together, but I don’t mind either. Not whensomeoneglances back at us and notices, frowning.That’s right,I think tartly,find your own gladiator, this one’s taken.
Half an hour later, we exit the Colosseum, caught along in the stream of bodies. Brushing a hand up the back of my neck, grimacing at the way the hair that escaped from my bun is sticking to my skin, I say a silent thank-you to past-me for keeping the makeup to a minimum this morning. People who visit Rome in the height of summer are crazy. I am crazy. The big Viking turned gladiator next to me is definitely crazy, if the smile on his face is any indication.
“What next?” he asks enthusiastically, pulling up his trusty notes app and looking at me with eager, brown, puppy-dog eyes. I melt a little bit at that look, despite needing no help in that department, and sidle closer to take a look.
“Let’s do Palatine Hill, the Arch of Constantine”—I point at the arch, within a stone’s throw of where we’re standing now—“and the Roman Forum. All of that is right here. Also, the Basilica of San Clemente is close as well, and worth a visit. It’s not on your list, but the basilicas are like standing works of art around here. Not to mention, they house a lot of art worth seeing as well.”
“You don’t have to convince me!” he says excitedly. “I want to see it all. Anything you recommend, let’s do.”
Smiling, the feathers that had been ruffled by our Colosseum guide smoothing down, I retake his hand and tug him toward the arch. I know quite a bit of random knowledge about the sites in Rome, having swallowed a guide book during my own inauguralvisit here, and I mean to use the knowledge to make myself appear a touch more intelligent than I really am.
“Wow,” Roman says, eyebrows raised as he looks between me and the Arch of Constantine, after I word vomit a history lesson on him. “I didn’t know half of that.”
“It’s only one of three remaining arches in Rome,” I add, gesturing toward the massive structure. “It’s also the largest.”
“Only three? Wow,” he repeats, “that’s sad. No wonder they have the fence around it.”
We walk slowly toward Palatine Hill, the heat rising in visible waves off the stone paths. July in Rome is truly hellish. Only the thought of our tiny, blessedly air-conditioned hotel room keeps me pushing forward. Well, that and the lovely little single bed we’re going to be cuddled up in tonight.
“Okay,” Roman prompts, once we’ve reached the top of the hill. Almost unconsciously, he reaches out and uses a finger to tuck a stray bit of hair behind my ear. I flush, body heating up further, as though he did that with his tongue. “Tell me about the hill.”
Taking a deep breath in an attempt to reroute my blood back to my head, I glance around. We’re stopped in the shade—bless these trees—and the crowds are noticeably thinner up here, just like they were last time I visited.
“I don’t remember much,” I admit, “but it’s said to be one of the seven founding hills of Rome. The first hill, if you believe the legends. Oh, and Cicero lived here.”
“Who the hell is Cicero?” Roman asks.
“I haven’t a clue.” Tipping his head back, he laughs loud enough to draw the attention of a family walking by. Still chuckling, he whips out his trusty cellphone and snaps a picture of the tree we’re standing under. “Some of the emperors also had homes here: Augustus, Caligula, and a few others I can’t remember.”
“Maybe Cicero was an emperor,” Roman comments, adjusting his position so the Colosseum is behind me in the distance, and taking another picture.
“Maybe,” I agree, waiting for him to finish this series of photographs, before leading him along.
