Page 6 of Rome with Dad's Best Friend

I hesitate. “Next week,” I decide. “In fact, clear my schedule for the rest of this week, too. Let people get a little uncomfortable. Why not? They will think I’m meeting with a rival company and be even more eager to work together when I return.”

Fran stops typing. “Are you sure you’re alright, Marco?”

I know she’s serious. It’s the only time she will call me by my first name, she’s normally far too formal for that. “Better than ever, my dear Fran,” I tell her with a smile, glancing through the window at Hannah. “I have a reason at last to skip work. After all these years, I think I earned it.”

I end the call, smiling at Hannah through the glass. I quickly move to join her again, feeling already that I don’t want to miss a moment of time by her side.Chapter SixHannahAfter an afternoon of lazily exploring the back streets of Rome, where Marco seems to know everyone and everything, it feels as though we are caught up. He knows all about my life up until this point, my dreams for the future, everything that someone could need to know about me.

And I know that… he works a lot, and is a friend of my Dad’s.

Actually, when I stop to think for a moment, I realize that he hasn’t given much away at all.

But I don’t have the time to call him out on it or try to learn more, because the afternoon has passed by in a daze, and now it seems that it’s time for our dinner reservations.

As we race across Rome in the back of a taxi, a sudden uncertainty strikes me. “Is this a fancy restaurant?” I ask, glancing at Marco in his impeccable suit. “I don’t want to be underdressed.”

Marco laughs gently. “It is a nice place, but don’t worry so much,” he says. “You look beautiful.”

I feel a blush spreading across my cheeks, but I won’t be distracted so easily. I’m wearing what is quite obviously a daytime outfit, not something suited to a swanky evening meal. I start to worry. People will stare, wondering about the fat girl who doesn’t know how to dress herself.

“Maybe I should go and get changed first,” I say.

“There’s no time,” Marco says. He gives me a funny look, his eyes cast in my direction with something unreadable in them. “You feel that you will be out of place?”

I shrug helplessly. I hate that he can see my insecurities – but I’m also glad because it means that at least he might be able to help address them.

“You won’t be out of place,” Marco assures me. “Some women show up in ridiculous gowns they can’t breathe in, eat three leaves of salad for fear of ruining the lines, and then spend the rest of the evening miserable. We are going to have a good time. For that, you look perfect.”

I feel a smile growing on my lips, in spite of myself. He knows just what to say to make me feel better, like magic.

At any rate, it’s too late to change my mind now, as the taxi pulls up outside a restaurant with floor to ceiling glass walls, showing off the diners within. To my relief, though I see that almost all of the men are wearing suits and a lot of the women are in evening dresses, and some of the other diners are also more casually dressed. Perhaps I won’t stand out like a sore thumb – even if I won’t be turning heads for the right reasons, either.

Not that I think I’ve ever turned heads that way.

The door staff greets Marco exuberantly, by name, ushering us over to a table which seems to have the best view in the place. From here we can see over the whole restaurant, including a glimpse through the open façade of the kitchen, and also out through the windows to the world passing by outside. But the glimmering chandeliers, extravagant customers, and plates piled with delicately arranged food can only capture my attention for a brief moment. Once we are seated, I really only notice Marco.

He’s a quiet and attentive man at most times – watching me, listening carefully to what I say. He’s perceptive and manages to recommend the menu items that sounds most appetizing to my tastes as well as hanging his jacket on the back of my chair to block out a slight draft that was coming at me from behind – even without me complaining about it at all.

I can barely remember what we talk about. The food, the restaurant itself, the city. Everything passes as if in a daze, including the delicious food. But as we finish our meal, he manages to get my attention so entirely that I hear every word branded into my memory.

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