‘Marcello, wait. Don’t make me run—I have a sore pinky!’

It wasn’t the kind of impassioned cry you’d see in a movie script, not something you’d hear Deborah Kerr yell as she ran after Cary Grant. But this was the world according to Sammi Shorten and, as much as running after a gorgeous Italian man in a darkened street in Rome wasn’t exactly a usual Friday night, here I was.

Marcello stopped, turning to take in the sight of a lone woman running down the street, shoes in hand, hair wild, sunburned skin on show, pulling up in front of him with hands on knees, breathless. How he didn’t turn and run I will never know. Instead, he simply stood there and looked at me like he didn’t know exactly what to do with me; I probably looked like an item that belonged in a lost property pile. And with me standing next to the unwrinkled, well-cut, tall, dark and handsome figure of Marcello, no wonder people were laughing at me—it was a bloody joke. In the light of an illuminated bar sign, it was painfully clear. He was not for me; he was not in my league and despite the courage of a few drinks, chasing after him with some romantic, whimsical notion was utterly insane. It was a sobering moment, one that had me stepping back and shaking my head.

‘Sammi?’ Marcello edged forward.

‘No, never mind. I’m good,’ I said, holding up my shoes and spinning so quickly in the opposite direction that I didn’t see the blinding light of the buzzing Vespa in my path. It happened all too fast: lights, screaming, horn blasting, tyre skidding, the vice-like grip swooping around my body and dragging me backwards and slamming me against something hard and cold. All the breath was knocked from my lungs, and loud, angry Italian shouts echoed in the streets between the rider and Marcello, insults exchanged in a wall of infinite noise as the world spun and shock settled in. I felt painfully aware of everything. The noises, the lights, the rough edge of the doorway I was pressed against, the warmth and protection of Marcello holding firmly onto me, keeping me up, my shaking body held by his firm grip as he slid his hand up to cup my cheeks, tilting my ashen face to meet his.

‘Are you okay?’

Was I? I wasn’t so sure, so I answered in the only way I could communicate. My chin trembled and I shook my head. Marcello breathed out, like ten years of his own life had been robbed from him, smiling and caressing the side of my neck; nestled under the thick mane of my hair, he simply mirrored my head shaking, drawing me into him and wrapping me into a tight, warm embrace.

‘You are a disaster.’ The vibration of his words were warm against my temple.

‘I know,’ I agreed, anchoring myself to him. I couldn’t stop shaking. I didn’t want to lose my shit but I lifted my head anyway, tears welling in my eyes; no use trying to hide how truly pathetic I was.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, I was just thinking that …’ My voice broke; I wiped at my cheek and looked away.

Marcello lifted my chin. ‘Thinking what?’ he asked gently.

‘I have no faith that my shitty travel agent’s insurance covers serious maiming by a Vespa.’

Marcello’s mouth twisted. ‘You mean, you didn’t tick the “maiming by Vespa” box?’

‘I can pretty much guarantee it.’

‘That’s a raw deal,’ he agreed.

‘I didn’t sign up for this,’ I sniffed.

‘What? You didn’t sign up for being wedged up against a doorway by a handsome stranger?’

My eyes flicked up to Marcello’s face, smiling beyond my misty vision. I saw a lightness in him; the dimples were there and they were the best kind of distraction.

‘Well, no, I did actually sign up for that,’ I joked. ‘That was extra.’

Marcello’s thumb made slow, lazy circles against the nape of my neck. ‘Extra?’

I nodded, pressing my lips together, I was shaking for a whole other reason now, my chest rising and falling in laboured breaths that were out of rhythm against Marcello’s. If this was what the aftermath of being saved from certain death was all about, I would have thrown myself into the path of a Vespa a long time ago.

And as if his eyes, and his hands, his heat—and, God, did he smell amazing—weren’t all too much, he bloody smiled as he moved in closer, lowering his head and whispering against my mouth.

‘Well, I hope it was worth it,’ he said, lips lowered onto mine, kissing me so softly, so sweetly, stopping me from breathing. In that moment I knew, feeling his arms circle around my waist, that it was worth it. It had all been worth it. Letting go, being free, throwing caution to the wind, running down a street shoeless and almost getting run over, it had all been worth it. I felt it in the warmth of his body against me, in his deepening kiss as my hands scooped into his hair, encouraging him with the small sounds of approval as his hands fisted at my dress, pulling me closer to him. Softness, careening into a heated hunger. My shoulder rubbed against the coarse stone doorway, verging on pain, until I felt the press of Marcello’s thigh between my legs, and his tongue delve into my mouth. I had all but forgotten my name as he kissed a trail down along my neck, a scorching path that had me catching my breath and blinking the stars from my vision, feeling the delicious friction between us. I didn’t know the laws here; was it sociably acceptable to have sex on a darkened doorstep? I knew you weren’t allowed to eat food on the Spanish Steps; surely this was far more depraved.

I blocked out those voices inside my head—No time for negativity—as I shifted, moving to push Marcello against the door, so hard his back hit. I took great delight in the way his brows rose in surprise. I giggled against his mouth, taking control and being far less gentle than he had been with me. Maybe it was the alcohol that gave me the courage, or the brink of something ready to explode inside me that had me so ready for this, whatever this was.

Rome had never looked so good: Marcello’s hands sliding up across my dress towards my breast, kissing me back harder, faster and more eagerly. The moment was broken by the echoing, drunken singing that would haunt me long after this trip was over.

‘When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore!’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Nate.’ I breathed out a laugh, glancing back at Marcello who had frozen, listening to the approach of the nearing chorus. I expected to see those dimples, for him to laugh and shake his head. But instead something flashed across his face when I looked at him, and the act of him breaking away from me so fast was like a slap. He moved to lean against the alcove of the door, his hands in his pockets. I stood there, chilled by the sudden exposure I felt now that he had put space between us; was he that embarrassed to be seen with me? I frowned at him, offended and ready to ask what the hell he was doing when Nate appeared, his arm slung around Kylie’s shoulder, who seemed to have miraculously recovered from her heartbreak over Johnny.

‘Marcelloooooo, come stai,’ Nate sung into the air.

Marcello smiled at me, trying to include me into the moment, but I wasn’t exactly feeling the funny vibe, too pissed to be lighthearted right now.

‘Oops, we weren’t interrupting, were we?’ Nate whispered, or at least attempted to.

‘Of course not,’ I said, wrapping my arms around myself and pushing away from the door. ‘Are you guys heading back?’ I asked, moving to stand with them in the street.

‘Si,’ Nate said, followed by a hiccup.

‘Good, I’m coming too.’

‘Sweeeet, party at Hotel Luce del Sole,’ Nate yelled.

Kylie looked between me and Marcello, her bloody woman’s intuition not missing a beat, the air so thick with tension I could see her brain ticking over in thought.

‘You’re not coming, Marcello?’

I hated her in that moment, but not more than I hated him when he answered, ‘No, I think I’m going to call it a night.’ His eyes flicked to me, but I wasn’t interested in the staring game right now. I simply walked away, not even giving him the courtesy of saying goodnight.

I marched with my arms braced around myself, warding off an invisible chill, so angry I had to make sure I didn’t let my rage step me too far away from Nate and Kylie, who followed behind. They were there, I could hear them, but I wouldn’t look back to check where or how far. I was done looking back.

I might be many things—a joke, a snake—but I would never be someone’s dirty little secret in the dark.

Ever.