His fingers graze across my hand still holding the cone of gelato in my hands, which are now covered in melted stickiness.
“Shit,” I curse.
“Let me.”
He takes a plain black handkerchief from the back of his suit pants and wipes the gelato from my hands. The fire escaping through our touch only melted it further. My chest rose with deep wanted breaths. I can’t look at his eyes.
Look anywhere but his eyes.
Glancing up at his neck, I see a large tattoo. His shirt collar covered most of it, but what I could see were skeleton fingers wrapped around his neck. I’m desperate to see what this man looks like naked.
“Next time try pistachio, it’s my favorite.”
“Yeah,” I stumbled over the simple response.
Be brave.
I look up into his eyes and am dumbfounded of the man standing in front of me. His jet-black hair slicked back out of his face. His skin the most perfect bronze. His full beard has whispers of gray. He’s older than me. Not much older than Finn. The corners of his mouth turned up into a teasing smile.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” he whispers.
“You didn’t.”
“Your heart is racing,” he says, inching closer towards me.
“It’s hot here, my gelato melted.”
I turned my attention to the melting gelato in my hands, making more of a mess in my hand, but while my brain is telling me to walk away. My vagina is telling me to drop it on his body and lick every last bit off. If I don’t break my gaze with his glacier eyes, my vagina will win the war.
Say something. Say anything!
“Lorenzo Capetti,” he says by way of casual introduction.
Jesus.
“I am headed underground. I have to go,”
“What a coincidence. So am I.”
“Of course, you were,” I say rolling my eyes with sarcasm.
“May I escort you?” he asks.
I numbly nod and walk down the alleyway towards the Trevi Fountain. The cone full of gelato has become strawberry milk in my hand. I quickly throw it away in a trash bin as I pass it. Rubbing my hands together with the white handkerchief he gave me to still have sticky hands. He grabs my hand and pulls me to lone spouts inside the steps of the Trevi Fountain. I pulled my hand from his and ran them under the free-flowing cold water.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“Shall we go?”
“After you,” I say.
* * *
This mysterious Italianman led me down the metal stairs leading into the Vicus Caparius. His hand never leaving the small of my back once. I told myself that I was done with looking for men to put in my passport.
I have something with Finn. There’s something. Don’t fall for the hot Italian. Don’t think about what else he can do with those hands.
As we reached the bottom of the first set of stairs, my hand grazes across the smooth stone of the ruins of this ancient home. He stands beside me as we stand on the landing between the ruins. The sound of water lightly heard in the background.
“You know the story?” he asks.
“I do. I researched these ruins since I was a little girl,” I tell him.
“Your family is Italian?”
“On my mother’s side. My father is Irish,” I say, my hand grazing across the railing of the staircase.
“You have a temper,” his smile beaming.
“The worst.”
“I’m afraid I am Italian, but I don’t know much about this. Thought I could be a tourist for once.”
Eyeing him skeptically, “Stopping by to be a tourist on your way to a business meeting?” I ask.
“You don’t believe me?” He feigns insult, placing a dramatic hand over, what I can tell is a chest corded in muscle.
“Not a chance,” I state.
“Tell me about this place,” he says, motioning across the ruins in front of us.
“These are the remains of the homes of ancient upper-class Romans. Their belongings. Their terracotta figurines. The mosaic tiles from their floors. Their coins,” I say, inhaling a deep breath.
“You know a lot of our culture,” Lorenzo observes.
“It’s something I am passionate about.”
“I can be something else you are passionate about,” he whispers back.
Fuck, that was good. No. No.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
Good job! You are a fucking idiot but stick to your guns!
“No?” he asks, his eyebrow arching skeptically.
“You're brash. Arrogant, selfish, egotistical. Chauvinistic. Do you want me to keep going?” I ask.
He pursed his lips together into an amused smile. His gleaming white smile was like a sudden beam of light. So white it could illuminate the darkest of skies.
“Please,” he urges.
“You think your God’s gift to women. This inclines me to not liking you, at all.”
“Women like me, I can't help that.”