Wednesday

After my usual daily jaunt through the streets of Rome, I return to the apartment around 4:30, hoping to spot Dylan.

When there’s still no sign of him at 6:00, I find myself staring across the courtyard at his apartment. This must be how sad dogs feel when they’re waiting for their owners to return. Somehow I’ve turned back into the little teenage girl I once was, my heart stolen away reluctantly by the dreamy football player who doesn’t know I exist.

The difference is that I’m too fucking stubborn to admit it. Back then I was just scared. Now it’s something else. Pride, maybe. Pride and self-preservation. There’s a reason I keep my heart under lock and key. It’s my equivalent of wrapping sixteen layers of bubble wrap around it; I don’t want it getting hammered by the cruel fist of a man.

The problem, I realize as I find myself glancing towards Dylan’s apartment again, is that he might already have broken through the bubble wrap. I can’t remember the last time I was so eager to see someone. The truth is that I missed him today. I wanted him with me while I wandered over to the Villa Sciarra and took in its architecture, its lush green gardens, and carved stone fountains. I wanted him to tell me about the building, to explain what this and that curve over the window was all about. I wanted to hear more about his own designs, his architecture firm, his plans for the future.

I want him to let me into his world. But I suppose I should probably reciprocate and let him in just a little, too.

His light doesn’t come on until after nine p.m. I have no idea where he’s been, and something inside me aches a little with an emotion too closely approaching envy. I envy the person or place that got to spend time with him, even if it was only the desk in his office.

For someone who’s just my friend, he sure manages to draw a lot of intense feelings out of me.

At about 9:30 a quiet knock sounds at my back door. My heart leaps, knowing it’s got to be him. But I pull myself up off the couch slowly, not wanting to appear overly eager to see him.

“Hey,” I say casually when I’ve opened the door to see his gorgeous face staring down at mine. He’s wearing an old, worn out white t-shirt that hangs just right on his muscular body, and cotton pyjama bottoms. From the enticing bulge in the front, I’d say he’s not wearing underwear. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I want to get my mouth on that bulge.

Some shitty friend I am.

“Hey, Loosy Goosy,” he says, grinning as my eyes slip over his everything. “I just realized I don’t have your number, email address, any of that.”

“Number…” I stammer. I think a spoonful of drool is about to slip out the side of my mouth. “Oh, yeah. Phone number.”

I turn and dash over to the coffee table, jot down the information on a piece of paper and hand it over when I’m standing in front of Dylan again. “What’s this for?” I ask.

“Just to keep in touch. I want to be able to text you if I need to.” He holds up the paper. “Thanks for this. I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Mmm hmm,” I reply, nodding.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’m okay.”

“Okay.” He smiles and turns away to walk back around the balcony.

No, I’m not okay. Not okay at all.

I’m in lust.

* * *

It’s Thursday morning. As promised, Dylan shows up at my place shortly after ten to bring me to our cooking class. He’s wearing khaki linen pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Basically, he looks like walking sex, as usual. We haven’t even cooked anything yet and I’m already salivating.

Today I’ve thrown on a short, strapless little white dress and a pair of red sandals. The dress should look cute under an apron. Maybe if I look sexy enough, I’ll get payback for his tormenting me last night with his too-thin pyjama bottoms and his very enticing lack of underpants.

“Where are we headed?” I ask as we jog down the stairs into the alleyway. The outside air smells fresh, cool and clean. A faint breeze is making its way to us, a nice change from the usual stifling heat of Rome’s streets.

“The restaurant is only a few blocks away,” he tells me. “A colleague of mine from work recommended it when I told him I had a friend visiting from the U.S.”

“Restaurant? We’re not cooking for paying customers, I hope.” I can just imagine how foul whatever I make is going to taste. Cooking was never my strong suit.

“No. This is purely for us, Loose,” Dylan says, throwing me one an amused smile. I think he likes it when I get frazzled.

“Do you know what we’re going to make?”

“Something Italian, I assume,” he tells me. “All I know is that I can’t wait to eat whatever it is.”

The kitchen where we’re actually going to cook, it turns out, is in a house next door to a little restaurant with an open front and small, intimate patio. The outer walls are covered in green ivy, and like so many buildings in Trastevere, it’s exquisitely beautiful.

And from the smell of things, we’re going to be in good hands.

“Why’s this area called Trastevere, anyhow?” I ask Dylan as I take in the idyllic setting.

“Tras—across, Tevere—Tiber. It literally means across the Tiber River.”

“That’s actually pretty boring,” I tell him, laughing. “I was sure it had something to do with poetry, or Caesar, or orgies, or something.”

“No, that’s a few blocks away, in Orgy Central,” he jokes. “The Italians call it Il Orgissimo.”

“If there’s such a place, I totally want to go there,” I reply, chuckling.

“I’ll bet you do, you naughty little vixen.”

As I’m laughing, a man comes out to greet us. He’s dressed all in white cotton, and his stubbled face lights up when he sees us.

“You must be Signor Capone. Paolo sent me—I’m…” Dylan says.

“Signor Emerson,” says the chef. “My name is Luigi,” he tells us before shaking our hands.

Dylan and I exchange a quick look of approval. A chef called Luigi. What could be better?

“Come, come,” Luigi orders, guiding us inside. “I’ll take you to the kitchen.”

“What are we making?” I ask.

“Pizza,” he replies. “Italian pizza. From…how do you say…scratch.” He rolls the R in the word, making it sound freaking delicious.

When we arrive in the enormous, well-equipped kitchen, I realize we’re the only ones there. Luigi immediately darts out of the room to get something or other. Hopefully he’s grabbing a Cooking for Morons book just for me. “Is this a private class?” I whisper to Dylan. “I thought we’d be part of a group or something.”

He nods. “We’re alone today. I hope that’s all right; I figured we’d learn more this way. Luigi doesn’t usually teach, but Paolo said he’s happy to oblige on occasion.”

With that, the chef pops back into the kitchen. “Mi scusi,” he says, “I’ll be leaving from time to time to look after things next door.”

“That’s okay,” I reply. “I figure that pizza is a pretty safe bet. I don’t suppose we can screw it up too badly if left unsupervised.”

He starts us each off with a bowl and a pile of ingredients: eggs, flour, water, tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, and a bundle of herbs.

As I mix the ingredients for the dough together, the flour explodes in small clouds around the bowl, floating through the air like a small blizzard. But eventually I’ve managed to combine everything, and I’m ready to knead my messy creation. Luigi leads us through the process, teaching us how important it is to work the dough exactly the right amount so that it comes to life but isn’t overworked. He even demonstrates how to throw it into the air above our heads, which is something I never thought people did in real life.

“That’s amazing,” I tell him as I watch him in action. “I always thought this was just for cartoons.”

“No, no. It’s molto importante. Now you,” he says, turning my way.

“Oh, no. I can’t,” I reply, looking sideways at Dylan, who’s grinning mischievously as he watches me. “I’ll screw it up. It’ll probably end up in the ventilation system or something.”

“No, signorina, it’s fine,” Luigi says. “Just try.”

I pick up my dough and toss it up in the air, just barely managing to catch it before it goes crashing to the floor. It’s now a stretched out, mutated blob in my hands.

“It’s a start,” says Luigi, who then commands Dylan to follow suit. Naturally, Mr. Football star kicks ass, throwing and catching exactly perfectly.

“You’re a natural,” I tell him as he spins the dough back up into the air.

“Yeah,” he replies, his tone cocky, “there are maybe two or three guys in the world who can fling a naked raw pizza like I can.”

“Showoff.” I’m laughing as he hurls it almost to the ceiling and catches it behind his back, winking at me. There’s something very sexy about a man who’s so gifted with his hands.

“The oven is ready,” Luigi tells us. “Just slide the pizzas onto the tray when it’s time. Keep your eyes on them, and you will succeed. With many apologies, I need to go down and check on the ristorante.”

“Of course,” I reply, wiping the back of my hand across my slightly sweaty brow. “Thanks so much for everything.”

Dylan thanks him as well, and then suddenly we’re alone again. We each spread tomato sauce over our pizzas in silence for a moment before he says quietly, “Loose, there was another reason I wanted to take today off work, you know.”

Oh, God. Is he going to suggest that we get rid of the friends-only rule again? There’s only so much a girl can take. “Yeah?” I ask, my tone innocent. “What is it?”

“It’s Renata,” he replies.

Okay, that was not what I was expecting. My heart sinks. Our perfect morning just got less perfect. Envy has set in again.

“Renata? As in the woman you were dating?”

He nods. “She took a week off work after our breakup. Said she was going to visit her sick grandmother. She was supposed to be back today, and I can’t say I’m too thrilled about seeing her.”

“Ah.” I swallow hard. If he doesn’t want to see her, does that mean he still has feelings for her? Wait, why do I even care? I’m the one who relegated Dylan to friendship status. I should be perfectly happy that he’s going to spend time with a woman he’s had sex with. It would simplify my life.

Wouldn’t it?

“It’s just…she’s pretty obsessive,” he tells me. “I don’t think she accepted our breakup very well. I have no idea how she’s going to be, and I have to admit that I’m sort of avoiding her. She can be really clingy. Anyhow, I wanted to tell you about it, because you and I are supposed to be friends and whatnot. I didn’t want to keep secrets from you.”

“I see.” I’m doing it again. Clenching my jaw, my heart racing as I try to convince myself that I don’t care about any of this. But the truth is that I’m feeling slightly sick.

Well, crap.

“Does it bother you to hear about her?” he asks as he sweeps a second layer of sauce over his dough.

“No,” I reply, lying my ass off like a coward. In my defence, I’m trying to be brave. Supportive. A good buddy. “It’s fine. We’re friends, like you said. We should be able to talk about these things.”

“Right. I just wanted to be honest and up front with you,” he tells me. “I feel like maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe if we’d been more honest seven years ago, things wouldn’t have gotten so messed up.”

“Right,” I reply.

“Anyhow, we’re friends now. Good friends,” he says, throwing me a smile that’s enough to take my mind off any painful reminders of the past. I grab a handful of flour, a grin of my own crossing my lips. “Good friends who cook together.” I step towards him, the menacing powder in my hand.

“Wait a minute,” he says, staring at my fist. “What exactly are you doing with that, woman?”

“Things have gotten too serious,” I tell him. “It’s time to lighten the mood.”

With one quick step I leap towards him and throw the flour, coating his face in white powder. A moment later he’s laughing, wiping his cheeks and forehead off. He puts down the wooden spoon he’s been holding and sticks his index finger in a bowl of tomato sauce, then pulls it out and moves threateningly towards me.

“I’m wearing white under my apron,” I protest, knowing it won’t do anything to dissuade him. “Dylan, be nice…”

He pokes his finger towards my face. As I try every evasive manoeuvre I know, he slips it over my cheek, laughing. I grab him by the wrist, pulling his hand away. He’s still got his index finger sticking up in front of my face. Hesitant, I stare at it for a moment, my mind racing.

Then, as if something’s possessed me, I slip my lips over the tip and suck the sauce clean off.

“Jesus,” he gasps as his eyes lock on the sight of my mouth wrapped around his finger. When I’ve finished I release his hand, and he grabs my face. He’s going to kiss me, I know he is. The way he’s looking at me, the desire in his eyes. I’ve seen that look before.

He moves closer, and for once I don’t back away. I want to feel those lips of his on mine.

But at the last second, his face swerves around mine and he slips his tongue along my cheek, licking off the tomato sauce that I’d forgotten was even there.

I let out a surprised laugh, and so does he. For a moment we back away from one another, staring into each other’s eyes. But then, possessed by desire, I step forward and press my hands to his chest.

His smile has faded, and so has mine. I’m looking at his lips now. The lower one is so biteable that I just want to take it between my teeth and suck on it. I want to tell him that I don’t like hearing about Renata. That I never want to hear about his relationship with any woman, ever.

I want to tell him that I should be the only woman in his life.

His heart is beating hard under my palm. I want to hear it, so I press my ear to his chest. The next thing I know, his arms are around me, holding me tight, and mine have slipped around his waist.

I don’t know how long we hold onto each other, but it feels like we’re standing there locked together for hours. Neither of us wants to let the other one go. Neither of us wants this moment to end.

But it has to, for too many reasons to count.

It’s Dylan who finally pulls away.

“We should get them into the oven,” he says, turning to face his not-quite-finished pizza as he wipes his hands over his apron, his eyes avoiding mine.

“Yeah,” I reply as I turn back to my own table. “I guess we should.”

While they bake, we do our best to return to banal topics. His day-to-day work, my plans for the future.

“What are you going to do when you get back to L.A.?” he asks me.

“Ideally I’d like to open that little clothing shop that I mentioned,” I tell him. “Something all my own, with designs for real women and not stick-thin models. But I can’t imagine I’ll ever be able to afford the lease on a storefront in a big city. I was thinking about moving to one of the little towns along the coast. Or maybe the Napa Valley. I’ve always loved it there.”

“Me too,” he says. “I think Italy’s reminded me how much I love that part of California.”

“But you’re going to be stuck in New York. Far from vineyards.”

“Far from vineyards,” he repeats, his eyes meeting mine. “Far from you.”

I open my mouth to reply, but the timer buzzes, cutting off my train of thought. We spring to our feet, no doubt both relieved to find that the pizza’s keeping us from getting too intimate.

Dylan slides both of our creations out of the oven and lays them on our wooden countertops. “Shall we?” he says. I nod, eager to fill my mouth with something—anything—that might curb my perpetual appetite for him.

* * *

That afternoon, Dylan guides me towards the famous Trastevere cathedral known as Santa Maria. We stop for gelato on the way, which I’ve quickly discovered is a daily necessity when dealing with the hot Italian sun. When we arrive at our destination, I’ve got a chocolate cone in my hand and am trying desperately to keep it from dripping all over my white dress.

The church isn’t so remarkable from the outside, but it’s situated on the edge of a picturesque cobbled Roman piazza, complete with a beautiful carved stone fountain.

“There are over two thousand fountains in Rome,” Dylan tells me as we approach. “More than any other city in the world.”

I look at him sideways and grin, which causes him to chuckle. “What?” he says. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No, I’m just laughing because you’re such a Rome nerd,” I tell him. “Like a walking trivia book.”

“Ask me anything about this city,” he says, turning my way as we both seat ourselves on the hexagonal platform that surrounds the fountain.

“Okay. When was this thing built?”

“1471. Easy.”

I raise my eyebrows, impressed, and take another lick of my gelato. “All right. What’s your favourite thing about Rome?”

“Also easy,” he replies, but he stops there. I turn to look at him only to realize that he’s staring at me, a sly smile on his lips.

“No, but seriously,” I say. “What is it?”

“You. Sitting here, eating gelato in your white dress,” he tells me. “That’s my favourite thing.”

He doesn’t add “in Rome,” and a tremor of pleasure overtakes me.

I’m falling in love with Dylan all over again, and it scares me to death.