“You don’t have to hang around,” I tell him, fixing my hair after a few strands get pulled loose from the partial ponytail. Herolls his eyes, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the wall.
“I need to see the American, so I’m able to identify him to the police.”
Snorting, I lift my phone and use the camera to check my face. Given that Roman and I are probably going to be doing nothing more than sitting in the car all day, I probably didn’t need to put quite as much effort into my appearance as I did. But I’m nothing if not vain, so I’m wearing a pair of shorts that will border on obscene when I’m seated in the car, another crop top like the one I wore last night, albeit shorter, and makeup. Roman gave me no less than six compliments on my makeup last night, which means I’ll be wearing it for the entire journey, no matter the activity we’re doing.
I catch Mathéo’s reflection in the screen, rolling his eyes again, but a car pulls into the small lot before he can offer a comment. Lowering my phone, I stand and smile at the little wave Roman sends through the windshield as he parks. He pops the door and unfolds his big frame from the vehicle, cheeks already a little red underneath the dark beard.
“Hey, Niilo,” he greets me, eyes flicking up and down as he takes me in. The blush crawls down his neck, which is ridiculously satisfying. I knew the shorts were the right decision.
“Hello,” I reply cheerfully, gesturing toward Mathéo with a casual flick of the wrist. “This is Mathéo, who is confused and thinks he is my father. Ignore him.”
Roman laughs, but tries to cover it up with a cough. We share a look before he gamely attempts to introduce himself to my friend. While they’re shaking hands and puffing out their chests at one another, I sling my bag over my shoulder and head toward the rear of the car.
“I’ve got that,” Roman says, rushing over and holding out his hand for my things. I pass it over, pleased, and raise myeyebrows at Mathéo, who pretends to gag. Squeezing Roman’s forearm in thanks, I walk over to Mathéo.
“Text me,” he requests, pulling me into another hug with a hand on my shoulder. After a squeeze that threatens to leave me with a few cracked ribs, he adds, “You didn’t tell me he was hot.”
Grinning as I slide into the passenger seat of Roman’s car—after he held the door for me again, like the sort of gentleman I didn’t realize actually existed—I waggle my fingers at Mathéo through the window. He replies with a rude hand gesture.
“Your friend seems…nice,” Roman tries valiantly, once we are pulling away from the hostel. I laugh. He glances over, grinning, cheeks still a little pink. The car, which is a normal-sized vehicle, feels tiny with his broad shoulders taking up two-thirds of the space.
“My friend is jealous because I’m off on an adventure with a Viking, while he’s stuck behind and in line for a new roommate.”
“Viking, huh?” he asks, sounding pleased. “I can work with that.”
The Italian countryside flies by,but I’m barely paying attention. One leg cocked up on the seat so I can sit at an angle, I forgo the view in favor of watching Roman. We’ve been chatting about everything and nothing, the conversation ricocheting between topics like a bouncy ball. I’ve learned enough about Roman’s middle school experience to know that it was a place only a small step above hell; I know his favorite color, food, and animal—both wild and domesticated. I know he struggles with public speaking, and likes to read, although he finds himself watching documentaries more often than picking up a book these days. I know he’s not close with his family, nordoes he feel like he’s got any friends who would, in his words, miss him if he were gone.
By the time dusk is crawling over the hills with fingers tinted pink, we’ve had what I consider to be a successful first day. The drive from the vineyard to Florence is quick and relatively painless, if one is to make a straight shot of it, but that’s not what we did. We took detours based on nothing more than a hunch, or a comment along the lines of “huh, I wonder what’s down here.” We stretched an hour-long drive into five, and stopped no less than four times to eat.
At one stop, Roman became adorably flustered when he caught sight of a pair of hockey players eating at a café. After a touch of prodding from me, he’d led the way over to say hello, cheeks and ears pink as he introduced Corwin Sanhover and Nigel St. James to me as though they were all buddies. He couldn’t stop smiling about it afterward, and for the next dozen miles of our journey the silence was filled with hockey stats.
Climbing out of the car, I reach my arms over my head and stretch. I hold the pose a little longer than strictly necessary, enjoying the way Roman seems unable to look away from my stomach. He grabs both his bag and mine as we head into the hotel, the fingers of his free hand resting very gently on my upper back.
“I booked two rooms,” he mutters under his breath, stopping and setting the bags down so he can tap at his cellphone. “Last night, after I got back from dinner.”
Amused, I watch him check in with the hostess at the front desk. I glance around at the shiny marble floor, and potted plants. The arched doorways draw my eyes upward, to a ceiling painted in the fresco style. I step a little closer to Roman as he checks in, listening in on the off chance he needs me to interpret anything. He doesn’t, nor does he apparently need any help carrying the luggage as we take the stairs up to our floor.
“I can carry my bag,” I tell him. He looks at me, eyebrows slanted downward.
“No, I’ll do it,” is all he says in return.
“What do I owe you for the room?” I ask somewhat nervously. This is an expensive hotel, and I don’t need to check the internet listing to know so. I’m not bereft, by any means, but this is more luxury than I’ve encountered outside of a work uniform.
“Nothing. I want to pay.” He smiles and nods toward a door, dropping his bag with a thump and handing me a key for what is apparently my room. I’m disappointed we aren’t sharing, which is even more ridiculous than heading off on a tour of Italy with a stranger. It’s a good thing we have separate rooms. Safer.
“Coming in?” I ask, somewhat desperately. After spending all afternoon eating, neither of us is hungry enough to go foraging for an early dinner. But I don’t want the day toendhere.
“Want to walk?” he asks hopefully. I relax, relieved that he’s not sick of me after an entire day spent in my company.
“Absolutely.” Bringing my bag into the room, I give the space a cursory glance before joining him back in the hallway. “Fancy,” I comment, which makes him chuckle.
“Not a lot to choose from when you’re booking the night before,” he admits. “I didn’t exactly shop around—kind of just went with the first one that looked cool.”
“Well, it certainly looks cool,” I confirm.
Roman barely steps a foot into his own room, next door to mine, before tossing his bag in and closing the door. I watch him re-lock it, wondering how anybody could manage to be this appealing without actively trying. He catches me looking and smiles softly, holding his hand out, palm facing upward.
As we did the night before, we stroll hand in hand through the streets. Having already been to Florence, I’m familiar with the city, but there’s something undeniably magical about visitingit with someone who hasn’t. Roman keeps a tight hold of my hand and his head on a constant swivel, as though tonight is his one and only opportunity to take it all in. I’ve never seen eyes so wide.
