Page 9 of Sinful Escape

“So, why don’t you?”

It was a good question. Without a specific answer, I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

That wasn’t entirely true. I had dozens of reasons why I didn’t go out during my breaks. Too tired. Too cold. Too windy. Too wet. I’d rather read romances about women full of confidence, overcoming their worst fears and getting it on with a hot, sexy book-boyfriend. That was my idea of heaven.

I had more excuses than a backpacker had hangovers.

To avoid any more of Roman’s inquisitiveness, I needed to control the conversation. It was a trick I’d learned in my teenage years. People loved to talk about themselves. Keep the questions flowing and they were unlikely to ask any in return. “What did you do before this job?”

His eyes lit up. “Anything. I live in a small town, so I take whatever jobs come my way. Bar and restaurant work. Cleaning. Boatbuilding. Driver. Handyman. You name it, if it pays money, I’ll do it.”

I scrunched my nose. “What made you want this job?”

“One of my sisters owns an Airbnb. She had a New Zealand couple stay who’d just done a Contiki tour and raved about how much fun it was. When I saw the advert for this job, I applied. Never thought I’d get it, though.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“Living in a small town doesn’t offer great job opportunities, so my resume wasn’t exactly relevant.”

“Where do you live?”

“Manarola. It’s a small fishing village along the Cinque Terre. Have you heard of it?”

I’d seen a lot of Italy, and I knew the Cinque Terre on Italy’s coastline, but the town name didn’t ring any bells. “No.”

“The population is only about three hundred or so. Except in tourist season. It triples in those months. There’s not even a McDonald’s or a Starbucks. Everybody knows everybody.”

It sounded glorious. Except for the everybody knowing everybody bit. “So, what do you do in your spare time?”

“I wish I had spare time. I’m usually helping Mamma. She’s always entertaining. Long lunches. Big family dinners. I’m sure you know.”

I couldn’t even imagine the scenario. My mother never had friends over. Not female friends anyway. And never to share a meal. “You’re lucky. My mother’s culinary skills consisted of cooking meals that came in a box and required just a microwave and a fork.”

Many of the trailers we lived in didn’t even have an oven. Thankfully TV dinners were a thing, or I’d likely have had Coco Pops for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“Jeez, I can’t imagine it. My mamma is the opposite. Every meal is a grand event. Some meals take a whole week to prepare.”

It sounded wonderful. I hadn’t thought of my childhood meals as unusual until my first boyfriend, William, had invited me to dinner with his parents. We’d sat down together to eat roast pork and vegetables that his mother had made herself. That meal alone had blown my mind. Before the pictures of William swirling across my mind made my heart swell until it exploded into a painful mess, I asked Roman another question. “Do your sisters help?”

He huffed. “No. They’re all married with many bambini, so they’re always busy.”

“You’ve got a big family, huh?”

He smiled, and for the first time since I’d met him, it seemed genuine. “Si. Six nieces and seven nephews.”

“Woah. They’ve been busy.” My family consisted of just three people, and even that was a lie.

“Yeah, Sunday night dinner is chaos. And Mamma. . . she’s crazy.” He slapped his forehead. “She wanted everything clean. Even vacuuming under the sofa. No idea why. Only Pesto and Saucy see under there.”

I blinked at him.

He flashed his model-worthy smile. “Our cats. It’s a wonder they fit under the sofa; they’re enormous. Mamma feeds them all the leftovers.”

He chuckled, but as I laughed along with him, I reflected on my childhood. My mother’s housework regime was non-existent. So much so, that eventually the cleaning would be beyond salvaging, and she’d announce it was time to move again.

As Roman guided our bus through a roundabout and onto the A2 motorway, my mind snagged on a long-forgotten memory. “I wasn’t allowed pets.”

“Oh really?”

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