Chapter 8

I stood on the sidewalk, wrapped in a blanket, watching the corner where Matteo had disappeared.

Rome, I wanted to love you. But this isn’t what I had in mind.

This morning, I’d been trying to memorize my list of tourist sites to see with my sisters. Now we were scattered across the city and waited alone, a drenched little blanket burrito, with no usable phone or camera and awkwardly holding the leash of a dog that wasn’t mine. This day could not possibly be further from what I’d imagined.

“This is all your fault,” I told Dante. Nobody would buy Matteo’s excuse about the dog trying to save me from the river by knocking me into the river.

To his credit, the dog stood obediently next to my leg, panting, looking calm like he stood around the streets of Rome with strangers every day. Matteo had been gone for at least twenty minutes, yet his dog didn’t seem the least bit concerned.

“He could be making fools of us, you know,” I continued. “Maybe he’s at a store right now, changing clothes. Next he’ll be eating pizza at that restaurant we passed, laughing and taking his sweet time while I babysit you.”

The dog closed his mouth and turned to look at me. I’d swear he looked annoyed. Maybe he considered himself the babysitter.

“I wanted us to be friends, you know. But when you knocked me into that river, you kind of sealed the deal.We’re officially enemies now. You and Matteo.”

At least, I’d started out despising Matteo. Then I kind of endured him with a tolerant . . . resignation? Like, if my sisters didn’t want to hang out with me, at least I wouldn’t be alone. But I couldn’t say how I felt about him now.

He was right about one thing. I hated being alone. Abandoned, left behind, forgotten, yes. But especially alone. Even thinking about it made old feelings of dread fill the empty spaces inside. Even now, only Dante’s presence held the panic at bay.

Jillie, stop being dramatic.

As if hearing my thoughts, Dante stepped closer to my leg, his tail wagging.

“Look, I’m not completely opposed to liking you. I had a dog once. He disappeared when I was five. I always thought he would come home someday, but he didn’t. Swore I’d never get another dog after that.”

Dante looked up at me with his big brown eyes, then nudged my leg with his head.

“I guess we’ve been abandoned together,” I told him. “Kinda helps with the whole enemy thing. Maybe someday I’ll even be able to forgive you.”

Slowly, carefully, I lowered my hand to his head and scratched behind the ears. He didn’t seem to care about that one way or another, so I patted him awkwardly on the back instead.

“Distant friends, then,” I told him firmly. “Best I can do right now.”

His ears perked and he stared down the road. Then he took off running down the sidewalk, tearing the leash from my hands. The tag on his collar jingled in double-time as he sprinted away.

I groaned. “Seriously?”

Strongly tempted to just let him go, I watched his form grow smaller by the second. Dante knew the city better than I did. Maybe he was going home. But what if he flew into the street? Matteo would never forgive me if his little buddy got hurt. Worse, I’d never forgive myself.

My shoes made a squish-squash sound as I jogged after him. Every step felt five pounds heavier than it should. I couldn’t wait to take my shoes off and empty them of half the Tiber.

A red Vespa with a white sticker on the front that said “Dominique’s Rentals” pulled over next to the sidewalk, its driver yanking his helmet off. Dante jumped right onto his lap and settled in a standing position in the narrow space between his lap and the handlebars. Matteo looked around Dante’s head to find me standing on the sidewalk and patted the seat behind him.

“An eight-minute ride or a forty-minute walk,” Matteo said. “Your choice.”

Riding a Vespa in Rome was like taking a gondola ride in Venice. I totally got that. It was one of those things I’d always wanted to do, actually. But not like this.

Riding this thing through Rome? Charming and romantic. But riding this thing through Rome while wet? Uncomfortable and cold. Riding this thing while wet and trying to look around a big, wrinkly dog would be a very bad idea under every single definition.

I could take my chances with a taxi. Or ditch him and walk back to the train station, although I’d more likely get lost without my phone’s map app to guide me. Besides, given the distance I’d traveled today, that would probably take hours.

I imagined myself trying to keep the blanket closed without falling off the bike and concluded that the blanket had to stay. With a growl, I dropped it onto the sidewalk, instantly feeling ten degrees colder, and swung my leg over the seat. He handed me the helmet, which I shoved onto my head but didn’t buckle. It seemed pointless to protect my head with the rest of me in this condition. Then I scooted as close to him as I dared before grabbing the metal back of the seat.

Matteo looked amused. “You’ll fall right off like that.”

I gave him my best glare, which he probably couldn’t see through the helmet. “I think I’ll fall off anyway.”

He removed his hand from the handlebars and grabbed my arm, gently detaching it from the back of the seat and relocating it around his waist. His hand stayed there for an extra two seconds, as if pressing it there so it wouldn’t move.

I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to. A dozen sensations threatened to overwhelm me. The skin of his hand on my arm. His back against my chest. His barely-damp hair that, surprisingly, held a bit of curl in the back that I desperately wanted to play with.

It almost made me forget the dog perched in front of him, looking at me, mouth open and massive tongue wagging happily.

“Ready?” Matteo called.

“As I’ll ever be.”

He pulled away from the curb, eliciting a honk from the vehicle behind us, and started weaving between parked cars before taking off on a skinny road jutting off to the right.

I’d seen the movies about taxi drivers in Rome making sharp turns at full speed and winding through narrow roads that were never originally intended to fit cars. But this brought all my senses front and center. My heart raced ahead of us, fully engaged in the thrill of it all, as my poor stomach limped to catch up.

Matteo expertly took us along the side streets to avoid traffic and curious eyes. Thankfully, the dog draped across him grabbed more attention than the wet woman clinging desperately to his back. The warm afternoon air even managed to dry me off a bit.

Minus those two things, this entire day felt very Roman Holiday and I felt very Audrey Hepburn. Without the whole I’m-a-princess-escaping-my-duties thing.

Finally, we reached a neighborhood with larger homes situated further apart, trees spanning the distance between them. I admired the tidy brick home fronts with their centuries of history, imagining backyards with expensive pools and garages full of Italian sports cars.

“Here we are,” he called over his shoulder, slowing in front of a wrought iron gate. He waved to an actual guard, who stepped aside as the gate opened to let us in. The trees cleared as we made our way up the winding driveway to reveal a huge four-story villa.

The rude Italian guy with the rude dog who walked all over the city and shot insults my direction at every turn was wealthy. From the looks of it, one of the wealthiest in the city. My mind barely grasped it.

We passed the front door and rounded to the back of the building instead, parking next to a side entrance. Matteo seemed almost tense as he slid off and offered me a hand, like a knight offering the lady a hand getting off his steed. This was so surreal.

“We’ll sneak in here.” He strode to the door and held it. I stepped inside and let my eyes adjust to the lower lighting. Tuscan gold walls greeted us with sharp moulding and crisp, contemporary framed art positioned over antique side tables with fancy chairs lining the hallway. A thoughtful, intentional balance of old and new. Kind of like Rome itself.

If the side entrance was this grand, the main entrance must be something to behold indeed.

Matteo led the way with a frown, his eyes darting about.

“Who are we hiding from?” I whispered.

“My mother could be home,” he muttered.

After climbing a simple set of stairs, we reached a hallway with several bedrooms. Every room we passed was meticulously cared for and obsessively designed. This place could serve as a crazy cool overnight rental location or Bed and Breakfast.

A woman stood next to the last door with a tight smile. She gave a slight bow and said something in Italian.

“I’m not staying long enough for her to get home,” he told her in English. “Please help my guest find a change of clothes, and see if you can save her wet phone. Jillie, I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Okay,” I said quickly. In minutes, Matteo had gone from relaxed, too-cocky tour guide to uptight gentleman ordering everyone about.

The woman gave a single, deep nod and stepped away from the door. He yanked it open and disappeared inside.

As we walked away, I caught a glimpse of a tidy room twice as large as the others, its colors more muted and masculine, with a generous sitting area and desk situated near the window. Then the door closed.

“I apologize to offer you clothes of his sister,” the servant said, her accent thick and heavy. Matteo spoiled me with his easy English. “The others belong to his mother or grandmother, and I believe you do not wish to have theirs.”

“You’d be correct.” I paused. “Is his sister here?”

“Not until night. She attends university.”

“And his mother is away?” I’d gathered that much from their conversation.

“Yes, she travels on business, but Matteo’s grandmother is here. One moment.” We stopped at one of the bedroom doors where the woman stepped inside, rummaged through a closet, and returned to hand me a stack of clothes. “You may use the restroom across the hall.”

I took the stack. “Thank you.”

The woman remained. “Your phone.”

Oh. Right. I slid my dead phone out of my pocket and handed that to her. Did they use the rice trick in Rome? No idea.

She did that ducking-her-head thing again, which I now realized was kind of a bow, but watched me with the sharpness of an eagle eyeing a lake full of fish. I shot one last look her direction before crossing the hall and closing the door.

I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t belong here, in this place with short patterned carpet and huge empty rooms, and we both knew it.

When I came out of the pink marble bathroom, freshly showered and wearing a T-shirt and yoga pants draped a little too long, I found a comb and hairbands sitting next to the door. I gratefully pulled my wet hair into a messy bun atop my head before grabbing my pile of wet clothes to bring downstairs. But when I turned to head for the stairs, the servant from earlier blocked my way.

“I wash those for you,” she said.

“Uh, okay. Thank you.” Did she do everyone’s laundry in the household? Had she handled Matteo’s underwear?

The thought made me giggle and blush, and the embarrassment of the woman’s stern look at my giggle made me blush even more.

Pull yourself together, Jillie.

Time to explore. I descended the steps we’d climbed earlier, noticing new details. The place was positively covered in carrera marble with beautiful inlaid designs—floor, walls, and even some of the furniture. Statues lined at least two of the hallways. On the main floor, I passed through room after room designed for entertaining. Any second, I’d come across a king in his throne room giving audience to his people. But a modern, tasteful king. Someone who took the best of traditions and made them his own in the contemporary design of the rugs, sofas, and art. I could wander this place forever.

A murmur of voices down the hall drew me toward the sound. I crept toward it, the stone floor cold against my bare feet. A light, gentle voice whispered something, then Matteo’s voice boomed in Italian.

I slipped quietly into the room, which looked like yet another kind of sitting room, except attached to a massive modern kitchen this time. Neither the woman nor Matteo looked up as I entered. She wore her gray hair piled atop her head in a formal braided bun with a neat green sweater and loose skirt, and she practically perched on the sofa as if ready to jump to her feet at any moment. She shot something back at Matteo in a much firmer voice.

He leaned against the marble countertop, freshly showered and dressed, wearing a gray collared shirt and dark jeans. The lob of curls was gone, combed out and already dry. He fired off rapid Italian even as she spoke, wearing a deep frown. Their fiery conversation made my blood pressure rise a bit. Had I interrupted a disagreement?

The older woman’s gaze shot to me then, and she immediately switched to English. “Welcome, child. I’m telling my foolish grandson that he doesn’t need to push women into the river to get them to visit.” A huge grin crossed her face.

Okay, I liked her already.

Matteo threw his hands into the air. “I didn’t—oh, come on.”

“He just needed an excuse to remove his shirt and dive in,” I said.

“See? She’s no fool.” The woman rose and crossed the room to take my shoulders and give me the famous double-cheek kiss. “You are very welcome here. Matteo does not bring women around nearly enough.”

I knew Italian women were strong-willed and loud, and this one surely was. But there was a warmth there that immediately drew me to her. “Jillie from Arizona.”

“Gee-lee,” she said, and I immediately loved how my name sounded on her tongue. “You may call me Nonni. I apologize for my grandson. His papa did not teach him manners as he should have. Perhaps you are hungry, yes? You like pizza? You are American. You like pizza.” She barreled decidedly toward the kitchen.

Even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have gotten in that woman’s way in a hundred years. It would be like stepping in front of a bulldozer. “I love pizza, but please don’t go to any trouble.”

“It is no trouble. I find any excuse to use this kitchen at this time of day, when the light is right through the window. You will join me.” She retrieved a folded apron from the pantry and tossed it to me. As I slid the straps over my shoulders, I shot Matteo a glance. He wore a blank expression with a practiced air of uncaring. But I detected a softness in his eyes that he probably meant to hide.

This wasn’t how we had planned to spend what remained of the afternoon, but I couldn’t leave without fixing my phone situation anyway. And when it came down to seeing tourist sites or having an authentic Italian cooking lesson with a charming Italian grandmother, there was no contest. She already stalked about the kitchen, completely in her element as she hummed a tune I didn’t recognize.

She stopped and glared at Matteo. “Will you help us, or do you intend to ogle our guest all day?”

I hid a chuckle.

Matteo’s gaze slid from the apron down my waist, and he seemed to shake himself. “I have something to take care of.” Without another word, he strode through the door and disappeared.

His grandmother muttered something under her breath that needed no translation, then washed her hands in the sink. “Come. I will show you how pizza is made. The real way.”

The next thirty minutes passed as if in a dream. I felt like a movie character, watching Nonni throw the crust ingredients together without a care. The oil, she said, was the secret.

“Speaking of secrets,” she began, “let us exchange a few. I once fell in love with the Queen of England’s cousin’s son. Sadly, he didn’t love me back. Your turn.”

Matteo had asked a similar question at the Mouth of Truth. Maybe falling in love was a common topic of conversation in his family. I chuckled at the thought. “You say that so casually. I’m assuming you found someone else?”

She stopped kneading the dough to look at me. “Obviously, but that’s a different question. Your turn.”

“Hmm. I’ve lived in the same house my entire life, and the whole thing is probably the size of your living room.”

Nonni gave a disappointed shake of the head. “A safe answer.”

“Maybe, but when it comes to love, I don’t have any good stories. I certainly haven’t dated any royalty.” If by some miracle I dated Matteo, he would be the closest thing to it. This family clearly had old blood rooted deep in Rome’s history.

Except I did not—repeat, not, intend to date Matteo. No matter how charming I found his grandma.

“My mother spent time in prison.” Nonni sprinkled more flour onto the dough.

This woman! How did one keep from laughing around her? “What did she do?”

“A shady business deal. Rumor says it was a favor to her lover at the time.”

“Everything seems to connect back to love in your family.”

She whirled to face me. “My dear, you are in Italy. Love is everything. Now tell me your next secret.”

“My mom did something that drove my dad away, but I still don’t know what it was and I’m not sure I want to know.” The words had slipped out, and I immediately wished I could pull them back.

Nonni patted the dough and smiled sadly. “Did she love him?”

Honestly, I couldn’t say. “I think she did at first, but by the end? I don’t know.”

“Then she didn’t. When you love someone, you don’t let them escape. You love your father, though, yes?”

A more complicated question. “The same answer, I guess. We were close at first, but there were times that I wondered if I mattered to him at all.” My voice turned bitter. “Then he left and answered that question loud and clear.”

Nonni finished kneading the dough, then rolled it out and slid her hand underneath. “Time for the spinning.” She tossed it into the air with both hands, sending the dough flying, rotating in midair. Just as I thought it would splatter on the ground, she caught it with a few pointed fingers.

“You try,” she said.

Oh, boy. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I told her. “I’ve seen those movies.”

She cocked her head. “Movies?”

“You know, where the main character throws it into the air and it gets stuck on the ceiling or breaks a window or something.”

She leveled a stern gaze on me. “You will try.”

Right. You didn’t tell Nonni no. “I’ll try,” I reluctantly agreed, then tried to remember where my fingers were supposed to go as I took the dough from her. A gentle grip in the middle and a tiny pinch on the edge, a gentle motion with my hand, and . . .

Please don’t embarrass me. Please go where you’re supposed to go. Please ? —

I tossed the dough into the air.

I held my breath.

The dough flew high across the island, gaining altitude and distance like a shot put?—

And landed flat on Matteo’s face.

He stood there, his head completely covered in floury dough. Then slowly, deliberately, his fingers rose to peel it off and reveal a stony expression.

“Sorry,” I said, my face flaming. How long had he been standing there, watching?

“That apology I’ll accept.” He set the dough on the marble countertop, retrieved a dishtowel, and started scrubbing at his face.

“There you are,” his grandmother said. “So rude, to leave your guest.”

“I had a quick errand. I didn’t know I’d be assaulted when I returned.” I detected a grin in his voice. He finished with the towel, turned, and scooped up the crust again. He handled it in his fingers, weighing it, then tossed it into the air. The dough spun perfectly upon his command. He caught it but immediately launched it again, this time toward Nonni. She intercepted it with three fingers of a single hand.

“Bravo.” I clapped and then coughed at the sudden puff of flour in the air.

Matteo walked around the island, retrieved a gift bag with a black bow that I hadn’t noticed before, and slid it across the countertop. “For you.”

Aww. “You don’t have to do this. It’s okay. I’m okay.” If anything, I should be buying him an apology gift. “Sorry for making you jump in after me.”

“You’re doing it again.” He stood there, waiting, refusing to take no for an answer.

I wiped my hands clean on a towel and slid the bow open. With a soft gasp, I pulled out the contents. “My camera?”

But it wasn’t mine. This one didn’t have the characteristic scratch on the screen, nor the wear marks on the corners. A brand new version.

Matteo was a walking contradiction—one second disapproving of my camera, and then replacing it. Considering mine cost almost three grand, that was no meager sacrifice. Surely he could afford it after looking at this place, but still.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

“I know it won’t replace what you lost, but at least you can remember some of Rome.”

“Very kind of you.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. The countertop separated us, but I fought the urge to skirt around it and throw my arms around him. Not just because he was hot, but because he was a decent guy who tried to make things right. Not with a verbal apology, exactly, but an apology nonetheless.

Nonni headed for the door. “Matteo, I have a phone call to make. You will help her finish the pizza. Save me a slice.” She disappeared down the hall.

“Yes, Nonni,” Matteo said, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“There’s no arguing with that woman, is there?” I asked with a chuckle, turning back to my new camera. It could never replace the one Mom gave me, but receiving it as a gift from someone who seemed to care helped soften the blow.

“I learned very quickly not to try.” He cocked his head. “Is this the right one?”

“It’s perfect.” I pushed the button and powered it up. He’d even installed the battery. At the bottom of the bag sat a pair of lens filters, a set of extension tubes, and macro couplers.

Either he’d asked the salesperson at the shop, or he knew exactly what a photographer would need. Interesting.

My stomach chose that moment to emit a loud growl. I groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t hear that.”

Matteo’s lips curved into a smirk. “I did, and that means it’s time to let you in on our secret family ingredient.”

“Oil,” I said. “Nonni already told me.”

“Nope. White truffles. Which, by the way, are a mushroom and not a type of?—”

He ducked just in time to avoid a wooden spoon being chucked at his head.