Page 17 of Marry Me in Rome

I groaned. “Seriously?”

Strongly tempted to just let him go, I watched his form grow smaller by the second. Dante knew the city better than I did. Maybe he was going home. But what if he flew into the street? Matteo would never forgive me if his little buddy got hurt. Worse, I’d never forgive myself.

My shoes made a squish-squash sound as I jogged after him. Every step felt five pounds heavier than it should. I couldn’t wait to take my shoes off and empty them of half the Tiber.

A red Vespa with a white sticker on the front that said “Dominique’s Rentals” pulled over next to the sidewalk, its driver yanking his helmet off. Dante jumped right onto his lap and settled in a standing position in the narrow space between his lap and the handlebars. Matteo looked around Dante’s head to find me standing on the sidewalk and patted the seat behind him.

“An eight-minute ride or a forty-minute walk,” Matteo said. “Your choice.”

Riding a Vespa in Rome was like taking a gondola ride in Venice. I totally got that. It was one of those things I’d always wanted to do, actually. But not like this.

Riding this thing through Rome? Charming and romantic. But riding this thing through Rome while wet? Uncomfortable and cold. Riding this thing while wet and trying to look around a big, wrinkly dog would be a very bad idea under every single definition.

I could take my chances with a taxi. Or ditch him and walk back to the train station, although I’d more likely get lost without my phone’s map app to guide me. Besides, given the distance I’d traveled today, that would probably take hours.

I imagined myself trying to keep the blanket closed without falling off the bike and concluded that the blanket had to stay. With a growl, I dropped it onto the sidewalk, instantly feeling ten degrees colder, and swung my leg over the seat. He handed me the helmet, which I shoved onto my head but didn’t buckle. It seemed pointless to protect my head with the rest of me in this condition. Then I scooted as close to him as I dared before grabbing the metal back of the seat.

Matteo looked amused. “You’ll fall right off like that.”

I gave him my best glare, which he probably couldn’t see through the helmet. “I think I’ll fall off anyway.”

He removed his hand from the handlebars and grabbed my arm, gently detaching it from the back of the seat and relocating it around his waist. His hand stayed there for an extra two seconds, as if pressing it there so it wouldn’t move.

I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to. A dozen sensations threatened to overwhelm me. The skin of his hand on my arm. His back against my chest. His barely-damp hair that, surprisingly, held a bit of curl in the back that I desperately wanted to play with.

It almost made me forget the dog perched in front of him, looking at me, mouth open and massive tongue wagging happily.

“Ready?” Matteo called.

“As I’ll ever be.”

He pulled away from the curb, eliciting a honk from the vehicle behind us, and started weaving between parked cars before taking off on a skinny road jutting off to the right.

I’d seen the movies about taxi drivers in Rome making sharp turns at full speed and winding through narrow roads that were never originally intended to fit cars. But this brought all my senses front and center. My heart raced ahead of us, fully engaged in the thrill of it all, as my poor stomach limped to catch up.

Matteo expertly took us along the side streets to avoid traffic and curious eyes. Thankfully, the dog draped across him grabbed more attention than the wet woman clinging desperately to his back. The warm afternoon air even managed to dry me off a bit.

Minus those two things, this entire day felt very Roman Holiday and I felt very Audrey Hepburn. Without the whole I’m-a-princess-escaping-my-duties thing.

Finally, we reached a neighborhood with larger homes situated further apart, trees spanning the distance between them. I admired the tidy brick home fronts with their centuries of history, imagining backyards with expensive pools and garages full of Italian sports cars.

“Here we are,” he called over his shoulder, slowing in front of a wrought iron gate. He waved to an actual guard, who stepped aside as the gate opened to let us in. The trees cleared as we made our way up the winding driveway to reveal a huge four-story villa.

The rude Italian guy with the rude dog who walked all over the city and shot insults my direction at every turn was wealthy. From the looks of it, one of the wealthiest in the city. My mind barely grasped it.

We passed the front door and rounded to the back of the building instead, parking next to a side entrance. Matteo seemed almost tense as he slid off and offered me a hand, like a knight offering the lady a hand getting off his steed. This was so surreal.

“We’ll sneak in here.” He strode to the door and held it. I stepped inside and let my eyes adjust to the lower lighting. Tuscan gold walls greeted us with sharp moulding and crisp, contemporary framed art positioned over antique side tables with fancy chairs lining the hallway. A thoughtful, intentional balance of old and new. Kind of like Rome itself.

If the side entrance was this grand, the main entrance must be something to behold indeed.

Matteo led the way with a frown, his eyes darting about.

“Who are we hiding from?” I whispered.

“My mother could be home,” he muttered.

After climbing a simple set of stairs, we reached a hallway with several bedrooms. Every room we passed was meticulously cared for and obsessively designed. This place could serve as a crazy cool overnight rental location or Bed and Breakfast.

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