Roman Crazy (39 page)

“For us,” he corrected—and kissed the rest of my lipstick away.

“ONCE A MONTH,
I want to do something super touristy,” I said, moving closer to Marcello as we strolled through town.

We'd left the party deliriously happy, hand in hand, and now he was steering us toward a part of town that I hadn't yet ventured to.

In Rome, everything was an adventure. I could live here for twenty years and never see everything. There was too much history, too much art, too much life to see. And how exciting to get to explore everything with him by my side.

We had a future to look forward to. Together, on equal footing, following our individual dreams as a team. I couldn't possibly have imagined a better life for myself.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, kissing the top of my head gently.

“When to have dessert,” I teased, slipping my hand beneath the back of his shirt. His skin was cool at first before heating up under my palm.

“
Avery,
you just had cannoli. And crème brûlée—”

“And half of your tiramisu.” I laughed at his surprised face. “Hey, mister, you were leaving for Brazil! I was eating my feelings.”

He stopped, tipping his head quizzically to the side. “I do not understand.”

“Never mind. I don't want to talk about anyone leaving anymore—unless it's us leaving and going to see your parents, my parents, or Daisy on whatever place she's off to next.”

“That's a deal.”

“So about dessert,” I purred, pulling him into an alley just outside an ice cream shop. “I need some sweetness here first, then inside.”

“Insatiable girl,” he said, leaning down to kiss me up against the bricks.

“And you love me.” I sighed as he scattered little kisses along my neck, making me squeal a little. I crossed my arms around the back of his neck, watching the moonlight play along my fingertips.

“That I do,
tesoro
. That, I do.”

“Mmm, you crazy Roman.”

WITH A SCOOP OF PISTACHIO
gelato for me and two scoops of coffee for Marcello, we joined the crush of tourists on the street. The sea of people and their cameras were all moving toward the same area.

“Where exactly are we?” I slipped a spoonful of gelato into
my mouth. The street was absurdly crowded; people blocked the tourist signs and the ceramic plates on the buildings.

I glanced over to see him watching me intently, his eyes burning before he dipped down to kiss me again. Would we ever get enough of each other? I hoped not. I sincerely hoped that we would always be in that fevered state of love.

We drifted along with the crowd, not minding the slow pace or the constant bumping. If anything, we enjoyed being pushed closer together. When we finally reached the end of the street he turned, looking serious.

“This
is
touristy,” he began, stopping just before the main line of the crowd. Whatever was around the corner was a huge attraction. “But I saw your list of places—”

“Oh my God, is it the Clooney?” I jumped up and down to see over the crowd, the motion making my pistachio gelato slop out of the cup. “Damn it!” With a big blob of green on my pretty white dress, I stood on tiptoes, trying in vain to see what was ahead.

He laughed. “You are ridiculous. Enough with that man.” After tossing our cups into a recycling bin, he pulled a napkin from his pocket and cleaned my dress, dabbing the pistachio drips away from the linen. I let him; he needed to be able to take care of me from time to time. And from time to time, I wanted him to.

He threw away the napkins, then made me promise two things.

“Take what is in my hand with no questions, and close your eyes.”

“Okay. . .” I said, closing my eyes and holding out my hand.

He took my hand, kissed my palm, and then my wrist. And then he lightly kissed up my arm a dozen more times before he put something in my hand and stepped away.

“You do that and then expect me to function?” I said as he pushed me gently forward.

I opened my eyes only slightly, trying to see where he was leading me. I could tell that the crowd was parting a bit to let us through.

“Once I realized that I couldn't leave you, I thought about bringing you here,” he whispered into my ear. “And I see you peeking.” He slipped his hand over my eyes.

“
So
not fair.” I laughed, enjoying the feeling of him behind me, guiding me.

The locals and tourists who surrounded us were whispering in Italian, French, Chinese, German, and I was getting desperate to see where we were.

“You are shaking,” he said, rubbing his hands over my bare arms. “Cold?”

“I'm excited.”

“We're almost there.”

I heard trickling water. We must be near a fountain, but which one? They were in nearly every piazza: Tritone, Navona, Barberini, the one we just left at the Pantheon. To see the icon by the light of day was impressive, but at night, it was magnificent.

Marcello stopped, lifted his hand away, but I squeezed, holding on to it and smiling at him.

We were at
the
fountain. The Trevi Fountain, possibly the most famous in all of Rome.

It was everything I thought it would be. Intricate carvings, statues, and cornice pieces adorned the iconic structure, and I couldn't pull my eyes away from it.

Until I felt him tap my hand, and I remembered he had placed something there.

I looked down, opening my hand to reveal two coins. “I love it! I used to do this at Disneyland with my parents as a kid. I toss in the coins and make a wish like Snow White?”

I plucked one from my hand and wound up, ready to hurl it into the water. He took my hand gently, shaking his head.

“Slow down, princess. This is no Disney fountain. The Trevi has history, traditions to abide by. As a man of Roma, I cannot let you mess with the tradition.”

“I love it when you sound like a professor. Teach me, Dr. Bianchi,” I purred, loving the sight of his nostrils flaring and his chest expanding.

Oh, it was going to be a very good night.

Doing his best to ignore my shameless flirting, he turned me so that he was behind me, pressed tightly against me, lined up
perfectly.
“With your back to the fountain, you must toss a coin with your right hand over your left shoulder,” he instructed. “If one coin goes in, that means you'll return to Rome.”

He waited while the group of people who were listening to him—and swooning, I might add—followed his instructions. A flurry of coins sailed into the air and landed with little plops in the water.

As I held on to my coins, they waited intently for step two.

“Two coins in, and you'll return to Roma
and
fall in love,” he added, dropping a kiss on my lips.

As the group tossed their second coins in, couples embraced and kissed. Some women were scribbling on papers, trying to get Marcello's attention. He laughed, waving them off and breaking dozens of hearts.

“Now that you know the rules, it is your time.” He moved away a bit to give me room.

I made a show of pocketing the coins.

His brow furrowed, confused, he asked, “Avery, you do not want to—”

I silenced him with a kiss. “I don't need a coin to bring me back to Roma. I don't plan on leaving. And the second coin?” I teared up when I saw the expectant look in his eyes. “I already fell in love in Rome—and I'm never letting go.”

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