Page 39 of Marry Me in Rome

With my decision made, I felt a rise of determination and a little thrill of excitement.

Your play, Matteo,I thought, lifting my face to his for another kiss.

I stoodoutside Matteo’s studio, a stone section of building situated on a busy corner. It had no letters and no sign anywhere. Black and white art hung in two large windows flanking the double doors were the only indication of its wares, although the doors themselves looked to be works of art as well. Planks of wood offset at a diagonal made up most of the surface and wrought iron designs lined the outside, likely holding the wood together. Above the doors stood a section of glass panels in the shape of a half flower. On either side of the doorways were contemporary, squared-off columns. Like the designer took Rome’s history and made it his or her own, both honoring and updating it all at once.

One of the doors opened and a couple stepped out, revealing the interior of the building. At least a dozen people browsed the art on the walls, all dressed in conservative and expensive gala attire.

I looked down at my rose pink gown and smoothed the silk. The dress hung off-shoulder with a slight notch in the center, accentuating my assets. A high slit ran up past my thigh on the left leg, and I held the other side of the skirt bunched in my hands so the hem wouldn’t sweep the dirty streets. My matchingpink high heels with ankle straps made me feel flirty and fun, and I held a simple black clutch containing my phone and wallet. Everything screamed prom queen and not necessarily Italian gala material, but I didn’t care. I’d done it—shopped alone in Rome, put together an outfit, and made it here only a few minutes late. If I stood out like a tattooed biker at church, so be it.

I felt like a princess.

Taking a deep breath, I yanked the door open and stepped inside, letting my dress fall to the floor. Indeed, the other attendees—all dressed in black, might I add—glanced my way before letting their eyes settle on my gown.

Yes, I know. One of these things is not like the other.I looked past them, searching for a familiar face in the crowd.

As the whispers began and figures moved aside so I could enter, the art on the walls caught my eye. Clean, crisp frames and thick white mattes kept the focus on sections of Rome—crumbling ruins in the background with shoots of green coming up in front. The new contrasted with the old, all thoughtfully composed and captured in Matteo’s careful, meticulous way.

What a fool he must have thought me as I struggled to get good photos with my old camera. He stood there, a professional photographer, and said absolutely nothing. I could punch him. The guy had probably earned dozens of awards with these.

The majority of the crowd stood near the back wall, where a massive print hung. I could only see the top above the attendees’ heads, so I pushed forward, ignoring the irritated mutters of those I passed. Then I stopped as the art unfolded fully in my view, yanking a startled “Oh” from my throat.

A distant medieval castle emerged from a green valley, framed perfectly by trees. Birds traveled toward it from the right and a burst of flowers filled much of the photo. Matteo hadn’t bothered with black and white with this one. Instead, a burst ofbrilliant color filled nearly every inch of the frame. The contrast between spring color and the more muted stone of history made for a beautiful pairing. New and old, fleeting and permanent. Just like Rome itself. A poem in a single photograph. If this was how Matteo saw the world, I was in serious danger of losing my heart here and now. I had to remind myself to breathe.

“Il Parco della Caffarella,” Matteo said, appearing at my side. “My favorite place in Rome. I even sneak there at night to look at the stars sometimes.”

My voice was a whisper. “Not ruins and not a church, but the outdoors. The perfect place for a wedding.”

He nodded. Just like his art, I detected a world of meaning in those dark brown eyes. Layers beyond layers. His usual confidence, of course, flanked by doubt and a little bit of fear. Surprise and delight at seeing me here, dressed like this. Concern and hope for what this meant. All emotions likely reflected in my own eyes.

We knew what lay in the past. But could there also be a future for us?

“You’re here,” he said softly.

“I did some research,” I said. “You know this studio makes the whole put-down-the-camera-and-see-Rome-with-your-own-eyes thing a little weird, right?” I grinned to cover my sudden breathlessness at seeing him in a well-tailored, expensive tuxedo that brought out the broadness in his shoulders. Even the way he moved, so confident and at ease, made my legs weak. The man could compete with anyone Hollywood placed in front of me, hands down.

“You have to see Rome with all of your senses first. It’s only after you know her well that you can capture parts of her like this.” He didn’t motion to the art, instead keeping his eyes firmly on me as if nobody else in the room existed. Out of the cornerof my eye, I noticed the crowd backing up to give us space, their whispers growing louder.

“I want to know Rome that well,” I said softly. “And you too. But that would require time.”

Hope sprang to his dark eyes. “Yes, it would.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

He took a step forward and slid his hand around my waist. It sent a tingle of pleasant shivers across my body in every direction. “I don’t want you to leave either.”

My voice was barely audible now. “You never asked me to stay.”

He blinked, understanding finally dawning. Hope swelled in his eyes as he stared into mine. I closed the distance between us, placed my hands on his chest beneath his tux’s bow tie, and slid them upward to hook around his neck. Then I pulled his head downward toward mine.

His mouth slammed onto mine just as it had the first time. Our lips communicated in perfect unison, exploring and enjoying every microsecond together. One of his hands slid below my waist, bringing me firmly closer, while the other lifted to my jaw, stroking my cheek, turning my face so he could reach me more easily.

I really could kiss this man forever.

The crowd around us murmured. A smattering of applause began and rose in volume. A couple of people hooted in approval.

Matteo’s mouth lifted into a grin as he pulled away and placed his forehead against mine.

“Jillian Travell,” he said. “Would you?—”

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