Page 1 of Royally Roma
CHAPTER
ONE
There was a prince in Julia Costa’s bed.
An actual prince.
He was stretched out right there beside her, with his royal head resting on one of the pillowcases she’d bought at the Porta Portese street market in Trastevere. Julia wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a more beautiful sleeping man.
She sat cross-legged on her side of the bed and frowned down at his unconscious form. It was as if Michelangelo’sDavidhad come to life, climbed down from his pedestal at the Galleria dell’Accademia in Florence, and settled for a nap right there in her bedroom. And he had her tiny Yorkshire terrier, Valentina, curled in the curve of his very manly, very royal elbow.
There was a prince in her bed.
And he was tangled in her sheets, dressed in nothing but his regal birthday suit. She allowed her gaze to travel down his perfect bare torso to the place where the bedsheets rode scandalously low on his narrow hips. All that sculpted male beauty on such flagrant display—inherbed somehow—made her head spin a little.
In what universe was this remotely possible?
This one, apparently.
But how? She was a commoner, for crying out loud. Actually, commoner didn’t even begin to describe her social status. She was pretty much an outcast in American social circles. Here in Rome, she was just a nobody. And she loved being a nobody. Being a nobody was pure bliss after what she’d been through back home in America.
She glanced at the copy ofNovella 2000in her lap and winced. Over a year had passed since she’d last looked at any kind of tabloid. She’d even sworn off all social media platforms once her family’s turmoil had become a trending topic. Maybe Chiara was right. Maybe she should read up on celebrity gossip more often, because the man on the cover of the magazine, the one right above a caption that screamedHis Royal Hotness, was definitely the same man who was in her bed. Same dark, tousled hair. Same straight nose. Same decadent, kissable mouth.
Not that Julia would be kissing it again anytime soon. Oreveragain, for that matter. Although she was tempted to touch his hair one last time. He probably used the expensive sort of shampoo and conditioner with olive oil that she’d never be able to afford. Even his bedhead looked regal.
She sighed at the utter injustice of it all. At the hint of Julia’s restlessness, Valentina opened her eyes. The dog gave Julia a cursory glance before swiping her tiny pink tongue on the prince’s perfect cheek. Julia herself might be adamantly against kissing the prince, but her man-hating dog apparently had no qualms about it. So much for loyalty.
“Traitor,” she whispered, pretending that the thought of licking the prince didn’t occupy the top spot of her own imaginary to-do list.
God, she hated herself.
Why, oh why did she fall for the wrong men? Every. Single. Time. Granted, the general population would consider a prince somewhat of a catch. Especially this one.
He didn’t so much as budge, but rather kept on sleeping in all his royal hotness. He was a glorious combination of sun-kissed skin, bone structure that would make any Renaissance artist weep, and a lovely smudge of coal black eyelashes. Perfect, full lips that less than two days ago had been partially obscured by a beard were now fully visible. He was clean shaven, with only the barest hint of a morning shadow. His mouth was closed, of course. Were princes even allowed to drool in their sleep or, God forbid, snore? Julia wholeheartedly doubted it.
She supposed she should have known. Normal people—commoners, such as herself—never looked that good when they slept.
But how could she have had any idea he was a prince? As a private tour guide in Rome, she met new people every day. She’d lost track of how many vacationers she’d taken to the Colosseum. She sometimes went there as many as three or four times in a single afternoon. And not once had any of those wide-eyed tourists turned out to be royal. As far as she knew, anyway.
Of course, none of those tourists had ended up in her bed either.
This isn’t how it looks.
Chiara had laughed when Julia had uttered those clichéd words. She’d laughed hard.
“Shhh.” Julia had gestured to the closed door of her apartment, directly across the hall from Chiara’s. “You’re going to wake him.”
A sleeping prince she could deal with. An alert one? No. Not quite yet. Not when simply looking at him made her forget how to breathe. She needed more time. Time to absorb this bizarre turn of events. Time to figure out what to do with him.
She needed more time, and he needed more clothes. Lots of them.
“You’ve got the man who occupies the top spot of Europe’s most eligible bachelor list in your bed, and you’re telling me you didn’t sleep with him?” Chiara had stared pointedly at the closed door to Julia’s one-room flat.
“It’s not like that,” she’d protested, even though it had been like that...sort of.
Okay, it had been completely like that. But sex with the prince really wasn’t any of Chiara’s business.
But that hadn’t stopped Chiara from shooting a long, lingering glance at Julia’s door and sighing. “You didn’t sleep with him. Then you’re either crazy or stupid. I’m not sure which.”
