Curiously, we were standing back at the double doors.

‘You will have to excuse the mess—I’m not expecting anyone until tomorrow,’ he said, rubbing the back of his neck and seemingly stalling for time. He was a fascinating character study in a moment like this; in his home Marcello seemed almost like a small boy, vulnerable and uncertain.

‘What’s tomorrow?’

‘I have a class. A tour group is stopping by.’

‘Oh, really? That sounds awesome.’

‘Yeah, my friend Giovanni runs some day tours around Rome. He has kindly included me on one of his days.’

We continued standing there, neither one of us moving, until it started to get a little ridiculous. Just as I was about to tell him that he didn’t have to show me if he didn’t want to, Marcello pushed the giant doors inwards, stepping into the room and revealing what lay beyond.

‘Oh, my …’

My words fell away; it took me a moment to step forward, to take in the entire space. Dust particles danced in the air in beams of sunlight, momentarily distracting me from the scene. Drop sheets, easels and flecks of paint dotted the aged wooden floors and shelves of paints and brushes, charcoals and pallets overflowed on industrial-style shelving. I could imagine that Marcello was now wishing he kept his things in better order. But aside from the impressive space, the sprawling art supplies and the eclectic energy imbued in every corner of the room, it was nothing compared to what stood on the easel.

‘Oh, yeah, that’s not finished yet.’ Marcello came to stand next to me, scratching his jaw and fidgeting in great discomfort. I tore my eyes away from the canvas to look at him, hoping that he could see the sincerity in my eyes when I said, ‘This is incredible.’

Marcello stared at me, his eyes flicking across my face as if looking to see if I was joking. But I was deadly serious.

‘So, you like it?’

I turned back to the giant painting, a scenery of oranges and yellows offset with blue and grey skies, broken by green pops of trees that twisted up into the air. It was colourful and textured, structured yet natural; it was like it was breathing, it was the strangest thing.

I shook my head. ‘Marcello, you need to change your business card.’

Marcello stared at me, my meaning completely lost on him.

‘Why is that?’

‘Because it needs to read Marcello Bambozzi: Motherfucking ARTIST!’

I think I shocked him—no, I know I did—his brows disappearing into his hairline. I thought it might have been a step too far, a bit too crass, but then the biggest, broadest, most blinding smile appeared.

‘So, how would you say that in Italian?’ I grinned, turning fully to him now.

‘Madre cazzo d’artista.’ He almost sang it with pride, and it sounded kind of beautiful. A gasp sounded by the open doorway and we turned to see Rosalia standing with a drink tray, mouth agape and shaking her head, casting us a look so severe it could strip lead paint. She waddled away, the tray clinking all the way to the kitchen.

Marcello winced, then we looked at each other like a couple of naughty schoolkids who had been caught out.

‘Oh, dear, I think Rosalia is going to think I am a bad influence on you.’

Marcello burst out laughing. ‘Well, I really hope so,’ he said, a devious sparkle in his dark eyes.

I could feel myself blush, knowing that when Marcello was on game I never stood a chance against him. Thankfully he saved me from myself, breaking the tension.

‘Do you want to see my inspiration?’

I tilted my head, intrigued.

‘Sure.’

And although he didn’t need to, he grabbed my hand and laced his fingers with mine. It was the strangest sensation, to be touched in such a simple way, yet to be so grounded by it. I didn’t want to feel it last night, that connection, knowing I would have to let it go, but now it was back. I lost my breath, and I know he felt it too—I could see it in his face. Gone were all traces of humour; instead, he simply pulled me into step, breaking the trance a little.

‘Let’s go.’

As the elevator door closed behind us, I grinned from ear to ear, my delight apparent when I turned to Marcello.

‘What?’ he laughed.

‘You have an elevator.’ I beamed.

Marcello shook his head. ‘You are mad.’

‘True, but happily mad!’ I said, delighted that I had been saved from the ludicrous amount of stairs.

‘Still, Rosalia must be grateful for this.’

‘You would think so, but she refuses to use it.’

‘What?’

‘She will use only the stairs—she calls the elevator “la trappola mortale”.’

The elevator reached the top floor, bouncing to a stop, the doors slowly sliding to the side.

‘And what does that mean?’

Marcello stood to the side, placing his hands on the divider to keep the doors open.

‘Death trap,’ he said with a cheeky wink.

That was all the translation I needed, and I dived out of the elevator. ‘Ah, you know what, I think stairs are underrated. Good exercise and all that.’

Marcello’s laugh echoed down the wide, expansive space. I squinted a little, the sun reflecting off the marble floor. My shoes clicked on the floor, so I could only imagine how Maria’s would sound. Marcello reached a thick iron door, pushing at it with considerable effort; a cool breeze blasted us, whipping my hair from my shoulders as we stepped through.

‘Marcello—’ My breath caught. And although I wanted to turn to him, to say something, it just wasn’t possible, I was too much in awe of what I was seeing. Before me was Marcello’s muse, the same view portrayed in his painting. It was breathtaking, made even more beautiful by his interpretation of it.

‘It’s funny, depending on the cloud, or sun, the colours are always changing; I could paint this view a thousand different ways.’

I shifted my eyes from the view, turning to him. ‘You have to paint them all.’

He laughed, but it petered out when he saw my serious expression.

I stepped closer to him: he had to know. ‘You have to, Marcello, you have to paint them all. You’re so bloody talented, yet you have a business card sitting on the desk of a shitty hotel and the whole world is passing you by. I reckon Maria has done you a favour: you shouldn’t be wasting your time on hungover backpackers who are more interested in the next power hour at a nightclub.’

I had probably said too much, getting involved in something that wasn’t my business, but the thought of Jodie or Nate slouched in Marcello’s studio painting penises on their canvasses made my blood boil.

‘You make it sound so simple.’

‘It is simple!’ I as good as shouted. ‘Look at this place, it’s amazing; where do you host your classes?’

‘In the studio.’

I grabbed his arm. ‘Bring them up here.’

Marcello’s eyes went from my hand on his arm to the horizon, his focus intense, the cogs in his mind turning.

‘Target the right age demographic. Charge them double and offer Roman terrace workshops. You can offer a traditional Italian feast prepared lovingly by Rosalia.’

A small smile curved the corner of his mouth. ‘It would stop the waste of our food.’

‘Yes! See? Do it!’

‘How is it that in the space of one afternoon you have managed to come up with the solution to all of my problems?’ He looked at me now like I was some kind of mythical unicorn; it was the kind of look a girl could get addicted to.

‘Because sometimes something wonderful can be in front of you the whole time—you just don’t see it.’

As stunning as the view was, the ever-impressive panorama of the Eternal City blasted with colour, in that moment nothing compared to the beauty of Marcello’s eyes. So soft, yet dark and intense, I swear they were the one thing I would never forget about my trip; the next being the bow shape of his lips or the way it felt when he brushed the back of his knuckles against my cheek as he was now, moving into me and running his fingers down my neck and across my collarbone. His eyes traced the path of his fingers, only to lift and lock with my eyes once more as he leaned into me, his lips oh-so-close to mine, his breath hot against my mouth.

‘I see you,’ he whispered, and just as he leaned in to close the small distance between us, a loud, jangly tone rang in the air, killing the moment and slicing the serenity of the rooftop terrace. Marcello cursed, drawing back and reaching into his pocket, annoyed until he checked the screen, his eyes flicking up to me. ‘It’s Maria.’