Tomasso rushes over, nearly tripping over himself in his excitement to see Quinn. He’s short and stocky, with rich brown skin he inherited from his Nigerian mother and round glassesthat give him a studious air. He plants a kiss on each of Quinn’s cheeks, and her smile’s so large I think the little balls of her cheeks may pop off.
“Tommaso, come stai?”
The two of them launch into a fast-paced conversation in Italian, one so smooth and natural that I can hardly follow, even with my fluency. Sydney watches with wide eyes pinging back and forth.
Quinn introduces him to Sydney, whose face turns a satisfying shade of pink when her own Italian comes out much more stilted than Quinn’s.
“It is no problem,” Tomasso says with a smile. “I speak English very well, so we use that instead. Si?” Sydney smiles tightly in response. “Bene. I am excited to talk about Catherine’s work. I am very pleased that Quinn approached me about hosting her.”
We gave Tomasso the basics of the situation ahead of time, and I have to fight hard to keep the shit-eating grin off my face while he goes on to rave for the next half hour about Quinn’s brilliance. At one point, Quinn subtly pinches his arm and gives the tiniest shake of her head.
Too much, Tomasso.
“Quinn and Colton, you take some time to walk around and enjoy while I talk with Dr. Larsen about her research.”
“Oh, please, call me Sydney,” she says with a brilliant smile. “That goes for you, too, Quinn.”
Quinn nods gracefully, but I can tell her body is vibrating with energy, like a dog commanded to stay when they want to rush over and lick the shit out of their owner’s face.
I dutifully follow her out of Tomasso’s office—maybe I’m the dog—and wait for the explosion I know is coming. Three gallery rooms over, Quinn turns and launches herself at me. I wrap my arms tightly around her, fear of knocking over priceless art reigning in my desire to swing her around in a circle.
My face turns into the crook of her neck, savoring thatcitrusy scent. She pulls back like she’s been shocked, and I mentally kick myself. Physical touches had been second nature between us when we were younger, but since I came home, she’s started getting weird after, even when she’s the one who initiates it.
She walks a few feet away and then back to me, like she has to move her body or risk exploding.
“It worked,” she whispers, paranoid that the sound would echo through the large, seventeenth-century palace.
I smile, and Quinn’s eyes flick down to my dimple before she pokes it with her pointer finger.
“Step one, complete,” I say.
“Now for the fun part.” She links her arm through mine like she has a hundred times over the course of our friendship, and I question whether I’m imagining the tension between us.
I wasn’t lying when I said I love Bernini, but I see nothing except her today. She raves about how his statue of David is a brilliant study in movement while I mentally rave about the way her features shift and her hands gesture wildly. I fixate on the gasp that escapes that perfect mouth when we come to her favorite, Apollo and Daphne. Even though she’s seen it a thousand times, she looks at it like it’s new, like she’s spent years yearning for it and the real thing’s blowing her dreams out of the water.
I recognize it from the way I look at her.
“What’s so brilliant about it is how we get to experience her transformation. It’s one piece, a single giant block of marble, yet as we walk around it we see Daphne change as though it is happening in front of us. By the time you reach the other side,” she says as we complete our first of what will inevitably be many loops, “she’s gone. No sign of the poor nymph trying to outrun a demanding god.”
I chuckle. “I’m plenty familiar with the sculpture, Chaos. You’ve made sure of that.”
She looks up at me, eyes trapped somewhere between her admiration for the sculpture and annoyance with me. “I can’t help it. I could talk about it all day. It’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I can understand that urge.” My voice is quiet—maybe too quiet for her to hear—but her soft gasp tells me she did. Her eyes are uncertain, like she’s trying to put together a puzzle, and I keep flipping the pieces back over. I can’t have her sorting out the whole picture, not when there’s an edge of terror in those deep brown eyes that twists my stomach in knots, so I paste on a self-deprecating smile. “I’ve been known to go on about Rome.”
She smiles back, but there’s still something questioning in her gaze that terrifies me.
“Bella, I knew I’d find you here.”
We both jump, the moment gone in an instant as we turn to find Tomasso striding into the room, Sydney trailing a few feet behind, looking closely at another sculpture. I like Tomasso on any given day, but today I love him, swear my allegiance to him, owe him a life debt for saving me from myself. Because if Quinn had pressed me, I don’t know that I’d have been able to stop myself from confessing everything.
After saying our goodbyes, Sydney stops us outside of the palace.
“Thank you for inviting me. This is an incredible opportunity for Catherine, and I recognize she wouldn’t have gotten it without you.”
“I appreciate that, Sydney.” Quinn pauses to see if she reacts poorly to her using her first name, even after getting permission in front of Tomasso. Her shoulders straighten, a smile playing on her lips when Sydney doesn’t object. “My connections got her resume in front of them, but it was the education she’s received from you that got her the internship.”
Sydney beams at her then, a genuine smile of mutual respect. I hold in my sigh of relief while Sydney’s within hearing range.
