Page 5 of Rome with Dad's Best Friend

“I don’t know anyone here,” I say, sighing. Maybe I wasn’t quite prepared for international travel on my own, after all.

“You know me,” Marco says, popping a perfectly square-cut bite of lasagna into his mouth.

I stare at him for a moment. Was he…? No, he couldn’t be offering. He had to be busy. He had work, after all. This was his life.

“But you must be so busy,” I manage to blurt out, realizing he hasn’t said anything else and is looking at me expectantly.

“Yes,” Marco says, then shrugs. “And no. Everything can be changed. I wouldn’t mind showing you some more of the city.”

I barely know what to say. It would be a big ask, and here he is offering it freely. Can I really be so lucky as to get the chance to spend more time with this gorgeous, handsome man?

“Just say yes,” Marco says, watching me with a twinkle in his green eyes. “You don’t have to be conflicted. Simon made a lot of things easier for me when I was in the US. The least I can do is to return the favor for his daughter.”

I shoot my eyes back down to my plate, feeling like someone just poured a bucket of ice water over my head. Of course, just when I was beginning to feel like something might be aligning in the stars to bring us closer together, he has to remind me that he only sees me as my father’s daughter. A child. Not at all somebody to try to get close to for a hot vacation romance.

“So, what’s your impression of our beautiful Rome so far?” Marco asks me.

“I think I’m starting to fall in love with it,” I say, absent-mindedly, twirling another piece of spaghetti around my fork. It’s true. Rome isn’t like other old cities. It’s not stuffy and trapped in time, reliving the days of its prime and refusing to move with the times. It’s not boring, but modern, a breath of fresh air. You can almost forget how old it is until you see those telltale signs because it feels so much younger. And it has a totally sexy accent.

Alright. I may not be thinking about Rome anymore.

But sitting across from a man like that, can you blame me?Chapter FiveMarcoI know there’s no way I’m going to be satisfied with leaving Hannah after this meal, just going back to the office and waiting to meet her again tomorrow. Because it would have to be tomorrow – tonight I have an important business dinner, and it will keep me occupied for hours.

But there’s no chance I’m walking away like that.

Now that I’ve spent some time with her, I know it more than ever, I want to possess her. To have her by my side at all times, to show her off on my arm, to let other men know they dare not even look at her without my permission. Something about her triggers my caveman side, my built-in instincts. I have to clench my hands under the table to stop myself from getting up and pulling her into my arms right here and now.

“I’ll just make some calls, bella,” I tell her, dumping my napkin on the table next to my empty plate. “I’ll be back in a moment to pay the bill.”

“My name’s Hannah,” Hannah says, blinking at me.

I laugh as I get up, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “Bella means beautiful. It’s what Italian men say to attractive women,” I tell her. Then I straighten and walk outside, because as tempting as it is to linger and watch her flustered expression, I think it’s much more effective to let those words sink in.

I call my assistant, Francesca. Despite her name – which I always think sounds like that of a young woman, ready to party – Fran is actually in her sixties. I keep thinking she will want to retire, but so far she shows no sign of stopping, and I’ve never had a more reliable assistant in my life.

“Sir,” she says, in rapid and no-nonsense Italian. “I have three messages for you. The director of the -”

“Wait, wait,” I tell her. “Pretend you never spoke to me. Tell me the messages at another time. I just need you to cancel everything for tonight.”

There’s a pause at the end of the line. “Everything alright, Mr. Chelimeo?”

“Quite alright, Fran,” I tell her. “Something more important came up. In fact, keep the restaurant, but change the reservation for two. I will still attend tonight. You can tell the others I am unwell. I’ve never used that excuse in fifteen years, so it might be nice.”

I hear the sound of Fran typing on her computer keyboard, and I can picture her with the receiver tucked under her chin, her steel-grey bun piled on top of her head as always. “Should I reschedule for tomorrow?”

---