The only time he lets go of me is when he needs both hands to steady his cellphone as he snaps pictures. Adorably, he appears to want a picture of everything, including things as innocuous as parking meters. He also wants a picture ofuswith everything, which gives me the kind of feelings I would be better off ignoring for now.
We take a selfie next to every piece of architecture Roman likes, which admittedly, is all of them. He’s going to be sore, from all the squatting down he’s had to do, to put his face close enough to mine for a photograph.
“This is incredible,” he says for the dozenth time, gazing fondly around the Piazza del Duomo. When he notices an angle he somehow missed getting a picture of, he brings his phone up and snaps six in quick succession. I wait—feeling painfully fond of him—for what I know comes next.
“We need someone to take our picture together,” he says, glancing around. Gamely, I stop a young lady and ask, in careful Italian, if she wouldn’t mind assisting us.
As he’s done each time, Roman puts his arm around my shoulders and leans down so his head is against mine. I wrap my own around his wide waist and don’t even have to work for a smile—it’s as easy as breathing.
“These are so good,” he comments, flicking back through his album and glancing up to smile at me.
“You’ll have to share them with me.”
He peers down at his phone, looking confused for a second, before hacking out a delighted, and somewhat embarrassed, laugh.
“I don’t have your phone number,” he says wonderingly, holding his phone up for a visual. I bite my lip to contain my own answering laugh.
“We’ve really gone about this in a backward fashion, haven’t we?” I muse, Roman chuckling gleefully as he hands me his phone. I type in my number, as well as my full name—which he heard me use at the restaurant, but might not know how to spell—and add my email for good measure. I stop at putting my home address in Finland, but it’s a close thing. I want to make sure he always has a way to get hold of me.
“Perfect. Niilo Ahonen,” he reads. “Thank you. Now you’re stuck with me.”
“Perfect,” I echo, as my phone chimes with forty-seven air-dropped photographs.
Roman knocksso lightly on my door the next morning, I question whether it was a knock at all. Pausing, eyeliner pencil millimeters from my eye, I wait and see if I imagined the noise. It comes again, a little more sure, so I drop the pencil and answer the door with only one eye finished. Roman beams at me, holding his hands up to show me the coffee and paper bag he’s carrying.
“Good morning,” I greet him, stepping back to let him inside. “You’ve already been out, I see.”
“Wanted to bring you breakfast,” he says, as though the hotel he’s paying for doesn’t offer that service on-site. Walking back over to the table I’ve got my mirror propped up on, I slide my hand over his lower back on my way by.
“That was kind of you, thank you.”
I don’t think I’m imagining the way the words make him straighten, or the way his smile brightens, as though I’ve bestowed an incredible compliment. Maybe he does consider being called kind as the highest of praise, which only makes me like him more.
“So, I wasn’t sure what your coffee order was and I was scared I’d wake you up if I texted you.” He faces me, lifting the cup held in his right hand. “We’ve got two options. This one is a cappuccino, and this one”—he holds up the left—“is an espresso. Or a caffé, as the barista called it. Pretty sure it doesn’t have milk, but honestly, I have no idea.”
“I’ll drink either, so you choose,” I offer, grinning when he immediately passes off the caffé, as I suspected he would. “Thank you.”
“I also got some stuff from the bakery,” he tells me, taking a sip of the cappuccino and looking at my makeup array with interest. I wave him toward the chair opposite as I sit back down and pick up the eyeliner pencil. He sits down, big fingers fiddling with a bronzer. “You won’t mind if I watch?”
“Nope. Watch away,” I tell him, swiping a black line across my eyelid with a practiced flick. In my periphery, I see him lean forward as though hoping for a closer look. I bite the inside of my cheek and try not to poke my own eye out.
He stays mostly silent, and I work fast, having a lot of practice from the last couple years. When I catch his eye, he smiles, scratching idly at his bearded cheek.
“Not trying to make you uncomfortable, but this is all very sexy,” he tells me.
Drinking my shot of espresso, I sit back in my chair and reach for the cornetto he left for me, smiling around a small bite. Worried that him finding the makeup sexy will make me uncomfortable? Adorable.
“Some guys don’t like it.” I shrug when he frowns, looking even more the Viking than he usually does. “But I do, so that’s why I do it.”
“You were beautiful without it,” he tells me, gesturing toward the door to remind me I answered with a single raccoon eye, “and now you just look unreal. Like we should be propping you up on a plinth next toDavid, and charging ticket fees.”
“Half the price, though, since I’m not quite as tall,” I joke. He scoffs.
“Triple the price. You’re worth ten of that marble bastard.”
Wearing a smile that is wide enough to hurt, I toss everything back into my bag and fold up the mirror, clearing the table in case we want to use it later for anything other than pampering. Leaning forward, edge digging into my chest, I wait for Roman to meet me halfway. It’s not a kiss so much as a peck—a good morning, “hi, how are you?” familiar kiss you might share with someone you’ve kissed a thousand times. It seems unbelievable that we only just met days ago. I feel as though I’ve known him my whole life and we’ve merely circled back together after time apart.
“Ready to get out of here, and meet that marble bastard?” I ask, before he kisses me again, smiling into it.
