She tuts as she taps the front of my passport. “Fifty Euro is Traveller Tax,” she slides my credit card back toward me. “I only take cash.”
“Of course you do,” I mumble, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Is there an ATM nearby?”
She jerks her head to the far corner of the lobby where I find an archaic ATM, and I shuffle over, doing my best to guess what the Italian words mean. After five minutes of guesswork, the machine spits out a single fifty euro bill, and I walk back over to hand it to her.
She takes the money, holding it up against the light to check if it’s real. “You literally watched me get it out of the machine,” I growl.
“It is procedure,” she mumbles while narrowing her eyes at it.
After the longest minute of my life, she accepts the money and slides my key card over without a word. Normally, I ask to speak to upper management if someone treats me this dismissively, but I’m so tired that I decide it’s a problem for tomorrow.
I wheel my bag to the elevator, grateful to find it’s already waiting for me, and I punch the number three just as the doors slide closed behind me. I practically run to my room once the elevator re-opens, scanning the numbers on the doors as I pass until I find mine at the end of the hall.
With a quick swipe of my card, I push my way in, already dreaming of the king sized bed I’ll be sleeping in after a long hot shower. But I stop short when I realize the room looks like a converted storage closet.
A bare-looking twin sized bed is pushed up against a wall with one single, flat pillow. In the corner sits a tattered wicker chair, and across from that is a tiny mini fridge, next to a wooden door. Ants crawl along the stone floor and my hand twitches,hovering over my pocket, ready to pull out my phone to tell off Rei, again.
There’s no king size bed, no selection of pillows, and no television. Based on the chilliness in the room, no heat either. Ditching my bags next to the bed, I open the door next to the mini fridge and find the bathroom.
There’s a small standing shower with a musty, stained shower curtain, a standard toilet, a bidet, and a sink that probably costs more than anything else in this room. Without a second thought, I strip out of my clothes and jump straight into the shower, hating how unclean I feel after the plane ride.
The water is lukewarm at best, and that’s my final straw. I shower quickly, not bothering to use the already opened and half-used body wash provided, too scared of what I might contract. Once I’ve dried off and changed into loungepants, I grab my phone and call Reid.
“Missed me already?” he answers.
“In the seven years that you’ve been my assistant, I’ve never seen you fuck up as bad as this trip.”
There’s a pause on the other line, followed by a forced chuckle. “It can’t be that bad.”
“Oh no, Reid. It’s atrocious,” I scoff. “Find me a new hotel by tomorrow, nothing less than five stars, and if you can’t find me anything then buy the nicest fucking villa closest to Rome.”
I hang up and take myself to bed, pissed when I realize the blanket is paper thin, just like the pillow. It’s almost a blessing that the jet lag is hitting me this hard, because between this shitty sleeping arrangement and the constant noise of city life and construction outside my window, there’s no way I’d fall asleep under normal circumstances. But tonight that’s not a problem as I doze off.
FIVE
ZALEA | ROME
The morning sunbeams in through my curtains, directly onto my face and wakes me up. For the first time in what seems like forever, I feel rested and…happy.
Who knew all it took was an excessive amount of sleep to finally start feeling good again?
Last night, when I finished dinner and found my way back to my hotel, I jumped onto my tablet—thankfully Gabriel didn’t try to hack that, too—and searched up the address of that place the art academy woman told me to meet her today.
Initially, I wasn’t going to go—I’m not one to make plans with strangers—but when I found out it was near the Colosseum, I was over the moon. I’ve planned the whole day for sightseeing after my meeting with her, and I’m more excited than I have been in a long time.
After getting dressed, I turn off airplane mode on my phone and walk toward the meeting place with the help of Google Maps. It’s not long before I find a cozy cafe tucked into the corner of a narrow cobblestone street. Terracotta pots are placed all over the space with ivy and trailing jasmine vines looping around the iron railing, and small marble-topped tables with wooden chairs are placed throughout.
The smell of buttery pastries drift toward me and I take it as a sign that this is where I should be eating breakfast today.
I walk up to the counter to place my order, only to come face to face with a tall, broad-shouldered, man in a crisp white button-down. His dark hair curls at the ends, and when he smiles at me my heart skips a beat.
I swear Italy must have a government program dedicated to producing the most genetically gorgeous men on the planet, because all I’ve noticed since wandering the streets here are the hottest men I’ve ever seen.
“Buongiorno,” he says.
“H-hi,” I stutter, feeling so stupid for answering in English.
I order a cappuccino—fingers crossed it’s better than an espresso—and I’m surprised to find pizza as an option this early. The old me would never—absolutely not. But the new me? I order a small slice, not sure if I can handle so many carbs this early in the morning.
