If only my parents knew. I was drunk in a dodgy hotel being escorted to my bedroom by a complete stranger. Maybe I had binge-watched far too many true-crime documentaries but by the sixth floor I decided to try to bring some safety into my plan.

‘Here I am!’ I lied, moving away from his protective hover to stand by a door. ‘Thanks for helping.’ I beamed, waiting for Marcello to descend the stairs.

‘Well, goodnight,’ I said, grabbing the door handle and waiting, but he was unmoving.

‘You best get inside, lock the door behind you. I’ll wait until you’re in and safe.’ There was some kind of glimmer in his eyes, something that said he saw right through me, and he was loving every minute of catching me out in my lie. I stared him down.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, I am quite safe.’ And with that the door whipped open, and I was suddenly face-to-hairy-chest with a furious-looking man, a towel wrapped under his big belly.

I wasn’t sure what he was shouting, but it surely wasn’t friendly as the force of his rage had me stepping back until I hit a wall—the living, breathing wall of Marcello. I heard him chuckle against my back. Was he seriously laughing?

‘A friend of yours?’ he murmured into my ear. I spun around, cutting him down with a hard look.

‘Some help you are,’ I snapped, before quickly sidestepping away from the still-shouting man. The adrenaline from the incident sobered me, and with a new determination of getting distance between myself, the sixth floor and Marcello, I bolted up the last two flights, breathless, but almost home-free. The end was in sight and I could see my door—right before I tripped, stubbing my toe and faceplanting hard. A flash of pain struck me with such intensity that I swear the Pope heard my scream from the Vatican.

While earlier I had been preoccupied with the filth of the place, I sure as hell didn’t care about it now as I rolled around on the grimy floor, clutching my toe and crying.

‘I hate it here,’ I sobbed, feeling utterly defeated. The stubbed toe was the final straw in what had been an horrific journey thus far. The gravity of my misery was magnified the moment Marcello trotted up the last of the steps, his easygoing nature and humour falling away when he looked down at me in agony.

‘You clearly cannot be left alone.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ I groaned. The last thing I needed was his smartarse comments, no matter how cool everything sounded in his creamy, rich accent. Or the fact that when he smiled it transformed his entire face. But lucky for him he wasn’t smiling now; he simply sighed, moving to sit on the top step near me.

‘Let me see,’ he said, motioning for me to show him my toe.

‘I think I broke it clean off—can you see a pinky lying around somewhere?’ I gritted.

‘I hope I didn’t step on it on the way up,’ he joked, looking down the stairs, then around him.

‘It hurts so bad,’ I said between sobs. I didn’t have the energy to resist as Marcello gently lifted my foot onto his lap, watching my face for signs of additional pain. I breathed out, trying to control myself as Marcello brought his attention to my foot.

‘Please don’t touch it.’

‘It’s okay, I’m just looking,’ he said, softly touching the ankle and turning it to the side.

‘How on earth am I going to stump my way around the cobblestone streets of Rome with a bung toe?’

‘Well, tomorrow is a free day, so you can rest up,’ Marcello said, while I tried to ignore the fact that him massaging my inner sole felt so incredibly good.

I thought about being stuck in the hotel, lying on a bunk bed with the mould and bed bugs, and I swear the pain faded instantly. ‘I can think of nothing worse than being bedridden in here.’

The throbbing wasn’t so bad right now, but I wasn’t ready to tell Marcello that; maybe just a little more foot caressing.

He twisted his face, deep in thought. ‘More wine?’

‘Ugh, no more wine,’ I pleaded. The combination of the fall and the flee from the psycho on the sixth floor had me fatigued, and the lazy circles Marcello’s clever fingers drew on my foot were working wonders. Despite the misadventures of the day, sitting next to Marcello, my eyes bloodshot from tears and too much wine, I felt oddly safe. His skin was touching my skin, warm with the friction of his caress, and as I looked up and caught his eyes they sparkled with an old familiarity, which was absurd considering he was a complete stranger to me. But when we looked at each other in a silence stretching beyond any normal measure, there wasn’t anything strange or awkward about it. From the very first time we made eye contact at reception, there was no urgency—we were just two people existing in the moment; whatever that moment was, I couldn’t say. My eyes broke from his and I glanced up the hall, mentally calculating the steps, or hops, I would need to get to my door. I breathed out a laugh, rubbing my eyes and wishing so badly this day would come to an end.

Marcello squeezed my foot gently with a little smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth. ‘What?’ he asked.

My shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘I’m going to need your help.’

And boy, didn’t he love me saying that.

At least twenty-three hops would do it, but I needn’t have worried. After helping me to stand, Marcello swiftly lifted me over his shoulder as if I weighed no more than a feather. I squealed at the unexpectedness of it, but the sound quickly died as all the air was pushed out of my lungs, his long strides moving down the hall. Soon Marcello had managed to open the door and dump me on the springy mattress, eliciting a belly laugh from me that seemed to be catching. I heard his laugh for the first time, not his low chuckle from the sixth floor, but a real hearty laugh, the warmth of it hitting my cheeks as his hands grasped my shoulders while he looked down at me, gaining his balance. I couldn’t see his face in the dark room, only the fuzzy silhouette of his thick, curly hair from the hall light that glowed behind him, but I could totally imagine what his eyes might have looked like, and I wasn’t laughing anymore. The smile slowly slid from my face and I was holding onto his forearms like some kind of anchor. I felt dizzy in a way that I knew had nothing to do with the wine, and breathless from something other than pain. My cheeks were burning, and I didn’t realise I had voiced the feeling until Marcello reached out and cupped my cheek.

‘You’re a little warm, but it is summertime.’

‘True,’ I said, feeling my bones melt into the mattress. I couldn’t quite believe I could feel so at ease with a man lingering over me, his arms caging me in, no less, but I didn’t feel threatened; in fact, I didn’t want him to go, which meant he absolutely must.

‘Goodnight!’ I squeaked abruptly, and perhaps a little too loudly. It was not a subtle hint, and Marcello didn’t have to be told twice. He edged away and I peeled back the blankets and hopped underneath, lifting the sheet up to my chin as a protective barrier.

‘Have a good night,’ I said, cringing as the words tumbled out of my mouth.

Have a good night? Seriously, Sammi?

Marcello laughed. ‘Are you sure you’re feeling alright?’ He leant down, pressing his hand to my forehead.

‘Absolutely, I’ll be pounding the pavement by morning,’ I said.

Ugh, seriously, Sammi, stop talking!

Marcello stepped away. ‘Very good,’ he said. I may not have been able to see his face, but I could tell from his voice he was smiling. ‘Buona notte, Samantha.’

He was saying goodnight, and nothing sounded sweeter, but there was one small thing I had to say before he left.

‘Marcello?’

He paused at the door and turned to me, half his face illuminated by the light from the hall.

I smiled, even though I knew he couldn’t see it, but maybe he too would hear it in my voice when I told him, ‘Call me Sammi.’

And with the twist of his mouth I was so glad I could see, and a quick nod of understanding, he slowly stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him.