I keep my pace steady, masking the sudden twist in my gut. “Yours, I believe.” I hold it out, my voice smooth and measured.
She blinks, then glances at the bag like it might disappear if she touches it. “Come hai?—?”
I offer a soft smile, the kind I know disarms. “I must’ve spooked him. He practically threw the bag at me.”
She takes it from me with both hands, fingers brushing mine for a second too long. Her touch is soft. Warmer than I expected. “Grazie,” she says, breathless.
“No need to thank me. Just glad I was nearby.” I’ve been nearby for weeks. Watching. Waiting. Planning.
She brushes the hair from her face, cheeks pinkening, eyes darting to her book still clutched to her chest. “Non sapevo cosa fare.”
I chew on the inside of my mouth, trying to figure out the words. My Italian is a little rusty.
She must sense my confusion. “Scusa. I didn’t know what to do.” She says the words slowly, as if trying to remember her English, but she speaks it fluently. “It all happened so fast. I’m not good at running.”
“Yeah, well. You shouldn’t have to know what to do.” I glance around, scanning the area even though I know we’re clear. “People like that prey on soft targets.”
She frowns. “Soft?”
Shit. Wrong word.
“I mean…” I shrug, slipping my hands into my pockets to keep them from clenching. “You’re young. Alone. You don’t exactly look like you’d punch a guy in the throat.”
Her lips twitch. “You don’t know me.”
“No. I don’t.” I let the words settle, let her fill the space between us. Her shy smile filters its way into my chest and that’s when I feel the first crack.
“You’re British,” she says, like it explains something she’s been trying to figure out.
I raise a brow. “And you’re observant.”
Her cheeks colour as she looks down, but she’s still smiling.
“Rome’s not used to angels with English accents,” she murmurs under her breath, maybe not even meaning for me to hear it.
But I do. And I can’t contain my smile.
“I’m Rose,” she says, glancing up through thick lashes, her wide smile matching my own. “Rosetta, really. But everyone calls me Rose.”
Of course they do. Dolce Rosa. Like a beautiful flower in full bloom and ready to be plucked.
“Dan.” I don’t offer my last name. She doesn’t ask. Her innocence is the kind that doesn’t even question. And it makes something raw stir inside me. Protectiveness, maybe. Or guilt. Or both.
She lifts her bag and lets it drop to the bench beside her, but she keeps hold of the handle. “Do you… do you want to sit?”
It’s working. The plan. The setup. The story I told Dom about staying detached—not so much.
I nod to the gelato cart. “Want an ice cream?”
Her smile is brighter than the sun gleaming down on us, or maybe it just feels that way as we walk the few steps to the cart.
I pull out my wallet, but she reaches into her bag. “Let me, signore.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She bats my hand away and speaks in Italian to the vendor and hands him money before I protest.
I lean back on the railing next to the cart and watch her lift the cone from the rack and lick at the pink strawberry gelato.
