“How long?” Markus asks in the midst of the students’ laughter. Colton mumbles the answer, and Markus lifts an exaggerated hand to his ear. “What was that, Doc?”
He clears his throat. “Twenty minutes.”
They holler in laughter again.
“I was twenty-one. We all do stupid things at twenty-one.” He raises a significant eyebrow at the group.
“What else did you do?” a student I don’t know yet calls out.
I open my mouth, but Colton cuts in before I can speak. “Are you sure you want to play ‘who did more stupid stuff on their study abroad,’Professor Riley?”
The blood drains from my face, the smirk on his own telling me exactly where he’ll go if I push him. That night we went outin Florence, when we all got wasted at a little tourist trap bar next to the Duomo and I ended up dancing on the bar. Pretty standard drunk college kid activities, until I slipped, falling off the back of the bar and bringing an entire shelf of liquor bottles down with me. Not my finest moment.
I laugh lightly, glancing around. “That’s enough story time for today, children.”
They groan at me, and I wave for them to continue down the street as Colton joins me at the back of the group.
“The bus? Really, Quinn?”
I watch him out of the corner of my eye. “Not gonna lie, watching you squirm was gratifying. Sorry for killing the cool guy vibe you’re going for.”
“I’m not going for a cool guy vibe,” he says indignantly.
“Bullshit you aren’t! You got that whole stoic, sexy Indiana Jonesprofessor thing going on. I bet all the students attracted to men sit in the front row making starry eyes like inRaiders of the Lost Ark.Any student writelove youon their eyelids yet?”
Colton’s brow shoots up. “Sexy?”
Shit.What’s wrong with me?
“Oh, shut up, I didn’t meanyou.I meant cool professors in general,” I say with an epic eye roll.
He smiles his biggest smile with the dimple in his left cheek. “I didn’t know Indiana Jones did it for you.”
“Indiana Jones does it for everyone.” I poke his dimple. “Now put that thing away.”
“You called me a sexy Indiana Jones type, and you expect me not to smile?”
I subtly elbow him in the side and quicken my pace to catch up with the students. The problem is hehadbecome a sexy Indiana Jones type, minus the whip. And double shit, now I’m thinking about him with a whip.
I have to get this attraction under control or risk losing my best friend. My family, really. Relationships have never been mystrong suit. They all go down in flames faster than Rome under Nero’s rule, and, like him, I end up standing on the roof, fiddling and dancing and emotionally removed from the destruction below me. I’m broken. And if past experience is any indication, transitioning back to friends after a relationship never goes smoothly.
Colt’s my person. His family is my family. Our attraction would eventually collapse and take our friendship with it. A few orgasms aren’t worth a decade and a half of friendship, even if the idea of him in a fedora and unbuttoned shirt is ridiculously appealing.
Five minutes later, we arrive at the gelateria. Inez greets us at the door, passing off tickets for the students to take up to the gelato counter.
“This is on every list of the top gelaterias in Rome,” one student says as we enter. “We walked thirty minutes for a tourist trap?”
“There’s a difference between famous and touristy,” Inez answers, never looking up from the tiny papers in her hands. “And once you taste this gelato, you’ll understand that difference. You’re welcome.”
I fight my way through the throng of people trying to hand off their tickets to the workers behind the counter. The mirrors behind them make the space feel open, even though the gelateria is crammed full. There’s something soothing about the crush. I started every summer of my childhood with the same cone—a chocolate hazelnut blend based on a famous Italian treat—from the same place, and it’s comforting to know this store looks and feels the same after all these years away.
Inez is still talking some students through the ordering process when Colton and I get our cones and start to make our way out of the building. We’re nearly to the door when a deep, achingly familiar voice calls out, “Colton.”
I spin toward the voice on instinct, both of us freezing whenmy eyes meet my father’s. He’s an imposing figure, well over six feet with thick hair that has gone mostly gray in the ten years we’ve barely spoken.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, my voice coming out quieter than I planned, and I hate myself for it. He shouldn’t have this much of an impact on me anymore.
He crosses his bulky arms over his chest. “Quinn. I heard you were here this summer.”
