Page 7 of Rome with Dad's Best Friend

“So,” he says. “Bella, what do you want to do tomorrow?”

That’s when I realize he was really serious about spending some more time showing me around. Today was wonderful enough, but I can’t work up the energy to protest against more. As much as it feels like it would be the polite thing to say, I can’t deny myself what I want. And what I want is to spend more time with Marco.

“I don’t know,” I say hesitantly. “What do you suggest?”

“You haven’t seen the big tourist sites yet, no?” Marco asks, reaching for the bottle of sparkling water on the table to pour me another glass. I had barely even noticed I had drained mine. “We can see all the great sights.”

“That sounds nice,” I nod, smiling. In my head, I’m frantically searching through the bag that I brought with me. Do I have nice clothes that I can wear? Something that will impress Marco? But at the same time, a voice in the back of my mind reminds me that to him, I’m his friend’s daughter – that he won’t be looking at me like that anyway.

I suppose I can still try.

“I’ll come and pick you up early in the morning,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about a thing, I will organize it all. I know where to go and what to do here.”

I flash him another smile. “Thank you for doing this,” I say. “And for dinner, too.”

Marco lifts his glass in salute. His is filled with red wine, not sparkling water. I suppose I could legally drink here if I wanted to, but it still feels too strange. “The pleasure is mine,” he says. “I get to have your delightful company. I’m getting the better deal, I promise.”

A flush fills my cheeks again at the sentiment. I wonder if Marco talks to everyone like this – it would certainly explain his success as a businessman – or if he really means it.

On second thought, I’m not sure that I want to find out. Much better to stay with the possibility that he could mean it than to have my dreams shattered.

After a dessert that is so exquisite I want it to last forever, Marco waves over one of the waiters and pays the bill without a word, laying his card across the top of a card reader with a practiced gesture and not a hint of a wince on his face at the total, which he doesn’t allow me to see. Still, I’ve seen the menu and I can begin to guess. I know that the meal wasn’t cheap.

I wonder just how rich Marco is, that he can simply pay for a meal like that without blinking an eye. Not that it has anything to do with how attractive I find him – the money is just an extra like a cherry on top.

“Well,” I say, with some reluctance, half-wishing he will contradict me. “I suppose I should go back to my hotel.”

“A good plan,” Marco says with a nod, throwing his cloth napkin onto the table. “You need your rest for tomorrow. Come. I will take you there.” He stands and extends an arm, helping me to my feet, even though I’m perfectly capably of getting up from a chair on my own.

He doesn’t let go of my hand even when I have moved away from the table, instead he threads it over his arm so that he can escort me properly out of the restaurant. The servers are all smiles, telling us ciao from all sides as we leave, but I can only really focus on the feel of my hand on his arm. His muscles are tough and bulging under my palm, swelling as he flexes them, and I can only imagine what he must look like under his neatly tailored suit. This mental fascination takes my attention until I realize that we’re sitting in the back of a cab again, and Marco is asking for the name of my hotel.

I flush at the realization that I almost didn’t even hear the question and say it clearly for the cab driver to hear, before settling back into my seat. This is it, now – only the last few moments before I have to leave Marco and go inside on my own. I feel a peculiar kind of ache at the thought. I don’t want him to leave. It seems almost childish to ask him to stay longer, so I fight down the urge, keeping my eyes on the streets flashing by, now lit with glowing orange lights against the darkness.

All too soon, my hotel approaches in the view through the windshield. “This is it,” I say, my stomach falling.

“Well, I hope you had a good night,” Marco says, fixing me with a smile that brings his dancing green eyes to life.

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