“Why does driving here feel so much harder than driving back home?” he asks, as we climb from the car and gather our bags. Or, Roman gathers them, as he seems hell-bent on never letting me lift a finger. “I swear I’ve driven in big cities before. I’m from Seattle!”
“I’m not a fan of driving in any city,” I admit, following Roman into the hotel and gazing around. The lobby is lit by an ancient-looking chandelier, the stone walls and floor faded with age. Already, I can tell this will be both the cheapest hotel we’ve stayed in, and my favorite.
This is confirmed when Roman calls me over to assist with the check-in, and the stressed-looking hostess hits me with rapid-fire Italian that even I have trouble following. Beside me, Roman stands perfectly still, listening with an adorably confused expression on his face, and his ID clutched in his hand.
“There was a problem with the booking,” I summarize. “She apologizes profusely, but there is only one room available.”
I do my best not to soundtoohappy about this, but I clearly fail, if the blush sneaking up from Roman’s beard is any indication. I shrug, because a single hotel room sounds like a marvelously good idea to me. In fact, I’d been hoping for it ever since I first sat in the passenger seat of his car. What can I say—I have a type, too.
“Oh, well, that’s okay?” he asks hesitantly. “Or…?”
“Or nothing.” I turn back to the hostess, who looks relieved that we aren’t about to throw a fit. “One room is just fine.”
Of course, in the nature of European hotel rooms and holiday mishaps, the room in question is hardly bigger than a kitchen pantry. There is a rickety-looking metal patio table tucked into one corner, the chairs small enough that there’s no way they’ll accommodate Roman’s size. A quick glance into the bathroom shows a space similarly proportioned—so tiny that barely a third of his body will get wet when he stands under the showerhead.
But the best part of the tiny room, is the equally tiny bed. Thesingletiny bed. Hands on my hips, I grin at it. Rome is quickly turning into the best leg of this journey, and we’ve only just arrived.
“Did she tell you there was only one bed?” Roman asks, glancing around the room as though thinking the second bed is merely hiding.
“Oh, she might have mentioned it,” I reply flippantly, waving a hand. She did, in fact, mention it. Unfortunately, I have a very serious condition called selective hearing, and chose to ignore it.
“That’s areallysmall bed,” he notes, voice caught somewhere between amused and alarmed. I trace his tall frame with my eyes and come to the conclusion that his feet will, most likely, hang off the end. I’ll fit perfectly, particularly with that big body hopefully wrapped around me.
“I’m not mad about it,” I admit, which sets Roman off laughing.
“I promise I didn’t do this on purpose,” he eventually tells me, eyes wide and earnest. “I booked two roomsandtwo beds.”
“That’s what they all say.” I sigh, blowing out a single hard breath and shaking my head. Placing a hand over his eyes, Roman chuckles.
“I’m not mad about it, either,” he agrees. “Now let’s get out of here. It’s too early for sleeping, and I can’t be in this room with you, unless we’re going to beinthe bed.”
Rome is hot. The height of summer brings waves of heat and tourists, everyone flocking toward the popular destinations like flies to honey. Because of this, I have a love-hate relationship with the city, and although I would probably have skipped the tourist sites on my second round through, I’m not going to begrudge Roman the chance to experience them. It has to be said, the tourist spots in the city are popular for a reason.
Our tour guide at the Colosseum makes a comment about Roman being a gladiator no less than three times. By the time he’s gearing up for a fourth, I’m considering ripping the man’s tongue out of his mouth; maybe scratching his eyes out for good measure. I’ve had quite enough of the appreciative looks and the flirting.
“If that man makes another comment about your biceps, I’m pushing him off this ledge,” I tell Roman waspishly, pointing toward the ledge in question.
We’re walking along the top tier of the Colosseum, sun hot on our faces, and skin tacky. Roman’s white shirt is damp enough to stick to his chest in an obscene manner, and lends some handy visual aids to our guide’s fantasy of him as a sweaty gladiator. I scowl at the man’s back. I might be small, but I’m strong for my size and everyone knows jealously is the best motivator.
“I’m definitely throwing him over the edge,” I declare, before Roman can respond.
“Well, to be fair, I probablywouldmake a good gladiator,” he replies, sounding proud of himself. I roll my eyes and helaughs, grabbing my hand despite how dismally hot it is. Our sweaty fingers slide together, but I don’t mind either. Not whensomeoneglances back at us and notices, frowning.That’s right,I think tartly,find your own gladiator, this one’s taken.
Half an hour later, we exit the Colosseum, caught along in the stream of bodies. Brushing a hand up the back of my neck, grimacing at the way the hair that escaped from my bun is sticking to my skin, I say a silent thank-you to past-me for keeping the makeup to a minimum this morning. People who visit Rome in the height of summer are crazy. I am crazy. The big Viking turned gladiator next to me is definitely crazy, if the smile on his face is any indication.
“What next?” he asks enthusiastically, pulling up his trusty notes app and looking at me with eager, brown, puppy-dog eyes. I melt a little bit at that look, despite needing no help in that department, and sidle closer to take a look.
“Let’s do Palatine Hill, the Arch of Constantine”—I point at the arch, within a stone’s throw of where we’re standing now—“and the Roman Forum. All of that is right here. Also, the Basilica San Clemente is close as well, and worth a visit. It’s not on your list, but the basilicas are like standing works of art around here. Not to mention, they house a lot of art worth seeing as well.”
“You don’t have to convince me!” he says excitedly. “I want to see it all. Anything you recommend, let’s do.”
Smiling, the feathers that had been ruffled by our Colosseum guide smoothing down, I retake his hand and tug him toward the arch. I know quite a bit of random knowledge about the sites in Rome, having swallowed a guide book during my own inaugural visit here, and I mean to use the knowledge to make myself appear a touch more intelligent than I really am.
“Wow,” Roman says, eyebrows raised as he looks between me and the Arch of Constantine, after I word vomit a history lesson on him. “I didn’t know half of that.”
“It’s only one of three remaining arches in Rome,” I add, gesturing toward the massive structure. “It’s also the largest.”
“Only three? Wow,” he repeats, “that’s sad. No wonder they have the fence around it.”
