Page 4 of Rome with Dad's Best Friend

“Your father should have called me,” I say in reproach. “I would have made sure that you had everything you need.”

“I didn’t even remember you still lived here,” Hannah laughs. I can’t say it doesn’t sting just a little, but why should she? To her, I’m just her father’s old friend. “Anyway, it’s fine. It wouldn’t be much of an independent journey if I relied on someone else to organize everything.”

The corners of my lips twitch into an amused smile. “I suppose that’s true.”

“It’s kind of wild that we just met on the street, isn’t it?” Hannah asks. Her eyes are wide, earnest, and innocent. Full of the spark of life. I think I dimly remember that feeling.

“The world is a smaller place than we like to think,” I smile. “But you’re right. It’s often bigger, too. We might have crossed paths a hundred times and not even realized it if we hadn’t both turned at that moment.”

“It must have been fate,” Hannah grins.

The waiter returns to us, and I listen with half an ear as Hannah orders the Bolognese as I recommended. I put in my own order for a glass of sparkling water and a slice of Luccio’s hearty lasagna, remembering the way her curves had put me in mind of it. I can work it off in my personal gym later. Why not?

I run my eyes over her again as Hannah studies the menu, a flustered spot of pink appearing on her cheeks as she hurriedly decides what she wants to drink. Over her full, pink lips, her chest straining inside her blouse, the pale, soft skin swelling above the neckline. For a moment a fantasy comes over me, of my hands sinking beneath that fabric, pulling her milk-white breasts free to the surface.

I shake my head to clear it as she decides what she wants, putting myself back into the right frame of mind for conversation. One thing is clear to me. I want to make Hannah mine. I want to claim her, take her home right now, and bend her over my kitchen counter, take a bite out of that juicy ass.

Right or wrong, I want her. And I’m not the kind of man who doesn’t get what he wants.Chapter FourHannahI look at the steaming plate of perfectly-formed Bolognese in front of me. It’s like something out of a cartoon. Exactly what you would envisage, the loops and whorls of spaghetti, the meatballs rested at perfect intervals on top, the sauce poured over it all with precision. Not only does it look good, but it also smells amazing. I snap a couple of pictures with my phone, wishing there was a way to capture this scent.

It’s only when I’ve taken my first bite, the spaghetti coiled around my fork and a meatball balanced on the end of it so that I can try all of the flavors at once, that I realize Marco is watching me intently. I flush. I probably look like a pig. I just read somewhere that it’s better to taste a dish by eating a little piece of every flavor on the plate first, to see how they burst together in your mouth.

And I have to say, whoever wrote that was a genius because I forget how self-conscious I am when my eyes slide shut in pure pleasure. Marco was right – this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.

“Good?” Marco asks.

I open my eyes and blush again to see him still watching me. “Good,” I say, once I’ve swallowed my mouthful, nodding rapidly.

Marco flashes me a grin, then starts eating his own meal. “So, how long is your vacation?”

“Just a week,” I say, making a face. “It barely seems long enough, after the flight. But I came in yesterday, and my flight leaves Sunday evening.”

Marco shakes his head. “Definitely not enough time for this beautiful city,” he says teasingly. “What are your plans?”

“I didn’t really plan anything,” I shrug. “I looked up the opening times for all of the tourist attractions I was interested in, and now I’ll just play it by ear, I guess.”

Marco looks horrified. “But you’ll be lost in queues, waiting to get in, if you don’t plan properly.”

“Really?” I blink. “Is it that bad?”

“Rome is one of the busiest cities in the world,” Marco tells me. “Both a blessing, because who wouldn’t want to visit our beautiful city? – and also, a curse. There are lines everywhere. If you go too late to the Vatican City, you won’t even get in before closing.”

“Oh, no,” I say, my face falling. “I was going to go there. And I was going to book one of the guided tours. That wouldn’t get me to the front of the line, would it?”

Marco shakes his head, making a face. “No guided tours, please. Overpriced and delivered by bored teenagers. You need a local guide.”

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