“Do you watch with your partner?” I ask, tilting my head to the side and watching his face. I enjoy flirting and having no-strings-attached fun with tourists, but I won’t be the ignorant third party in a relationship, no matter how disposable. Holidayflings are meant for the single, not the spoken for. Roman looks surprised by the question, at first, before his mouth tilts upward into a pleased grin.
“No partner,” he tells me. “You?”
“No. It’s just me.” And it’s been just me for a very long time. I love traveling and meeting new people, but a vagabond life is not favorable for fostering long-term relationships. Not unless your partner is traveling with you.
My bed has been little more than a revolving door these months on the road, and while I certainly enjoyed myself, I’m exhausted. I’m tired of shallow, meaningless conversation with men who don’t bother to remember my name. I’m tired of working weddings and watching people in love make vows of forever, while fielding advances from guests who think the staff belong to them. I’ve been in Italy for months, and have worked four weddings in that time; not once have I given a guest more than a passing glance.
Not until Roman.
“Well, are you staying near here?” he asks hesitantly. “Maybe you’d like to go out to dinner tomorrow?”
“Aren’t you off on your adventure tomorrow?” I ask, arching an eyebrow and pretending my heart doesn’t burn with pleasure at the offer.
“I can wait another day,” he says quickly.
Oh yes, I got lucky indeed. I stare up at his eager face.
“Sure. Dinner would be nice.”
He beams at me. “Oh good. Do you want?—”
A shrill laugh carries down to where we’re standing in the lengthening shadows at the end of the drive. Both of us look back in the direction of the party, and judging by the expression on Roman’s face, he comes to the same realization as me.
“We’d better get back to the party,” he says on a sigh, rubbing a hand over his bearded chin.
“You’re right. I imagine I might be needed to help the drunken guests further embarrass themselves.”
Roman chuckles, grabbing his suit coat off of the fence and giving it a very cursory dust-off. He pulls it back on, and the poor garment screams in pain as it attempts to stretch around his broad shoulders. We set off up the cobbled drive toward the sounds of merriment, walking side by side. I have to hide a smile when Roman tries to put his hands in the pockets of his slacks, and discovers they are too tight to accommodate them with his thighs. I think I may owe his tailor a thank-you card.
“So…dinner tomorrow?” he asks carefully, as we get close enough to the villa to pick out individual voices.
“Tomorrow,” I agree.
“How will I find you?”
“I will come to you. Where are you staying?”
“Oh, uhm.” Shifting to the side in an effort to make freeing his cellphone from his pants easier, Roman frowns as he taps through a few things. Instead of making an attempt to pronounce the Italian, he holds the phone out to me so I can read the booking confirmation. I nod.
“I know it. I will find you.”
He looks relieved at that, and more than a little pleased. I watch as he shifts uncomfortably, rotating his shoulder and tugging at the collar of his shirt.
“Do you mind if I choose the restaurant?” I ask. “Perhaps something casual?”
“Please,” he agrees. “Yes. This wedding fills my quota for wearing dress clothes for at least the next five years. Maybe more. Also, I’m pretty sure I bought the wrong size.”
“Mm,” I hum, glancing down and not bothering to hide my casual perusal. “It looks like the perfect size to me.”
He scratches a hand over his short beard again, as though wanting to cover up his cheeks and hide the pink. One wouldthink I, with my fair skin, would be the one having trouble with blushing. It’s an endearing trait to find in someone who looks like him—big and strong and masculine.
“Roman! Come dance with me!”
I take a step backward as the bride herself yanks her dress up to her thighs, and comes down the stairs toward us at a pace that shouldn’t be possible in the shoes she’s wearing. She’s glowing, cheeks flushed with heat and a smile wide enough to show off her dental work. I take another step back, thinking I might quietly escape while her attention is on Roman. The help isn’t meant to bother the guests, and certainly not the bride herself.
She reaches Roman and loops her arm through his, locking him in place. Probably wise, judging by his expression. He’d likely rather run for the hills than dance with her in front of this crowd. Before I can fully retreat, she turns to me, eyes sparkling in the artificial glow of the lights strung above.
“Hi! I’m Olivia.” She holds her hand out to shake mine, keeping Roman pressed to her side with the other.
