Page 18 of Marry Me in Rome

A woman stood next to the last door with a tight smile. She gave a slight bow and said something in Italian.

“I’m not staying long enough for her to get home,” he told her in English. “Please help my guest find a change of clothes, and see if you can save her wet phone. Jillie, I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“Okay,” I said quickly. In minutes, Matteo had gone from relaxed, too-cocky tour guide to uptight gentleman ordering everyone about.

The woman gave a single, deep nod and stepped away from the door. He yanked it open and disappeared inside.

As we walked away, I caught a glimpse of a tidy room twice as large as the others, its colors more muted and masculine, with a generous sitting area and desk situated near the window. Then the door closed.

“I apologize to offer you clothes of his sister,” the servant said, her accent thick and heavy. Matteo spoiled me with his easy English. “The others belong to his mother or grandmother, and I believe you do not wish to have theirs.”

“You’d be correct.” I paused. “Is his sister here?”

“Not until night. She attends university.”

“And his mother is away?” I’d gathered that much from their conversation.

“Yes, she travels on business, but Matteo’s grandmother is here. One moment.” We stopped at one of the bedroom doors where the woman stepped inside, rummaged through a closet, and returned to hand me a stack of clothes. “You may use the restroom across the hall.”

I took the stack. “Thank you.”

The woman remained. “Your phone.”

Oh. Right. I slid my dead phone out of my pocket and handed that to her. Did they use the rice trick in Rome? No idea.

She did that ducking-her-head thing again, which I now realized was kind of a bow, but watched me with the sharpness of an eagle eyeing a lake full of fish. I shot one last look her direction before crossing the hall and closing the door.

I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t belong here, in this place with short patterned carpet and huge empty rooms, and we both knew it.

When I came out of the pink marble bathroom, freshly showered and wearing a T-shirt and yoga pants draped a little too long, I found a comb and hairbands sitting next to the door. I gratefully pulled my wet hair into a messy bun atop my head before grabbing my pile of wet clothes to bring downstairs. But when I turned to head for the stairs, the servant from earlier blocked my way.

“I wash those for you,” she said.

“Uh, okay. Thank you.” Did she do everyone’s laundry in the household? Had she handled Matteo’s underwear?

The thought made me giggle and blush, and the embarrassment of the woman’s stern look at my giggle made me blush even more.

Pull yourself together, Jillie.

Time to explore. I descended the steps we’d climbed earlier, noticing new details. The place was positively covered in carrera marble with beautiful inlaid designs—floor, walls, and evensome of the furniture. Statues lined at least two of the hallways. On the main floor, I passed through room after room designed for entertaining. Any second, I’d come across a king in his throne room giving audience to his people. But a modern, tasteful king. Someone who took the best of traditions and made them his own in the contemporary design of the rugs, sofas, and art. I could wander this place forever.

A murmur of voices down the hall drew me toward the sound. I crept toward it, the stone floor cold against my bare feet. A light, gentle voice whispered something, then Matteo’s voice boomed in Italian.

I slipped quietly into the room, which looked like yet another kind of sitting room, except attached to a massive modern kitchen this time. Neither the woman nor Matteo looked up as I entered. She wore her gray hair piled atop her head in a formal braided bun with a neat green sweater and loose skirt, and she practically perched on the sofa as if ready to jump to her feet at any moment. She shot something back at Matteo in a much firmer voice.

He leaned against the marble countertop, freshly showered and dressed, wearing a gray collared shirt and dark jeans. The lob of curls was gone, combed out and already dry. He fired off rapid Italian even as she spoke, wearing a deep frown. Their fiery conversation made my blood pressure rise a bit. Had I interrupted a disagreement?

The older woman’s gaze shot to me then, and she immediately switched to English. “Welcome, child. I’m telling my foolish grandson that he doesn’t need to push women into the river to get them to visit.” A huge grin crossed her face.

Okay, I liked her already.

Matteo threw his hands into the air. “I didn’t—oh, come on.”

“He just needed an excuse to remove his shirt and dive in,” I said.

“See? She’s no fool.” The woman rose and crossed the room to take my shoulders and give me the famous double-cheek kiss. “You are very welcome here. Matteo does not bring women around nearly enough.”

I knew Italian women were strong-willed and loud, and this one surely was. But there was a warmth there that immediately drew me to her. “Jillie from Arizona.”

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