I feel his compliment rush through me like the first sip of an ice-cold drink. Obviously, I like it, but that’s the problem. It’s all becoming a bittooflirty and there’s absolutely no way a world-famous popstar is a suitable rebound. I need to shut it down.
“Right.” I step towards him with my hand out. “Give me that.”
He frowns. “Why?”
“Because you’ve got hardly any pictures ofyou.”
“Trust me, plenty exist.”
“Not of you in Pompeii. Having a moment.”
He concedes, pulling the camera strap over his head and passing it to me. “Do you know…”
“Shut up,” I interrupt. “I did A-level photography.” I only did it for a month before switching to economics because I changed my plans for university, but I don’t tell him that.
“Yeah, that’s what all photographers say.”
Gus steps up towards the building where he just photographed me and instantly moves as if he’s some kind of male model posing forMen’s Health. He looks good but it’s notreal. It’s not the man I’ve come to know these past few days. “You really know how to work your angles, huh?”
He runs a hand down his face, repositioning. “Unfortunately.”
“You should shake it up. No, even better. Just walk around. I’ll shoot you candidly.”
“Don’t shoot me,” he says, turning back and pointing. “My team will be livid.”
“Shut up and walk.”
He throws his head back with laughter.
I spend the next hour or so hiding behind walls andjumping out at him, or waiting for him to actually let his guard down before taking his photo. My favourite one, as I click back through, is of Gus giving me that disbelieving, daring smile, his hat on the ground because I’d jumped forwards and flipped it off, his hand out to snatch the camera back.
I finally give it back to him once we’re on the busy train back to Napoli, crammed into a standing corner. It’s too hot and noisy for my taste but Gus ends up holding onto a bar beside me for balance, bringing us face to face. A bead of sweat escapes his curls, running down his forehead, along his nose and onto his lips. It’s too late when I realise I’m staring, wetting my own lips, his eyes tracing the movement of my tongue, his breathing measured.
I swallow, trying to look away but the train lurches and I’m thrust forward, crashing into him. Gus catches my waist, the feel of his touch burns through my thin t-shirt. Finally, our eyes lock again and for a split second, I think he’s going to kiss me, his breath fanning my cheeks but instead he swallows, releases my waist and uses the same hand to brush my ponytail behind my shoulder, throwing me a knowing grin.
Hell, I’m in trouble.
Back in the city centre, we try some of the touristy areas, soaking in the culture and history of the city. We grab pizzas from a bustling pizzeria and sit in a small piazza watching the world roar around us as the sun goes down.
“This place is so chaotic,” I say after we watch two men on mopeds yelling Italian curse words at each other, throwing their hands in the air.
Gus nods, his mouth full. “Itisbusy here.”
“We should think about heading to Rome soon.”
“I have an idea,” he says. He finishes chewing. “But you can say no, of course.”
A bit of stringy mozzarella escapes my pizza and ends up on my chin. I squeal. Gus laughs and before I know what’s happening, he’s using his thumb to wipe the sauce off my chin then licks it clean. I don’t know what to say. He doesn’t acknowledge it. Something in my core is doing somersaults. I swallow it down, eyes wide.
“What do you think?” he asks.
Has he been talking?
I blink. “About what?” My cheeks are hot.
When he glances at me again, he gives me a bemused smile. “Is that pizza so good your ears stopped working?”
“Mmhmm. Yes. That’s what happened.”
