When I return to my apartment at five p.m., I say good-bye to Dylan then follow my usual routine of showering the Roman funk off my body and throwing on a cotton robe. For a few minutes I recline on the couch, resting my tired feet and contemplating the day I just spent with a man who’s quickly become the biggest puzzle in my life.

Part of me wonders what would have happened over at Luigi’s if we’d kissed. Would I be over at his place now, naked with his head between my thighs? Or would it just have ruined everything that’s been building up slowly between us?

All I know is that it was as close to a perfect day as I’ve had in a long time. I was happy today, relaxed. Okay, at some points I was shaking, nervous, terrified. But I felt at home with Dylan in a way that I never did when we were younger. It turns out that he’s a good friend. No—a great friend. He gets excited when I talk about my plans, and he genuinely wants to know what’s going on with me. He’s not some self-centred, egotistical douche-canoe looking to spend time with people who’ll sing his praises all day long. For a guy as talented, good-looking and clever as he is, he’s the most modest person on earth.

It’s been all of fifteen minutes since I last saw him, and I already miss him.

I’m seriously considering popping over to his place to see about using his washing machine again when a knock sounds at my door. Maybe that’s him. I guess it’s possible that he feels the same way, that he misses me, too, and wants to have dinner together.

As I walk over to see who’s here, I remind myself that dinner with Dylan might not be a great idea. Maybe we’re getting just a little too close.

But when I pull the door open, I see that I have nothing to worry about. It’s not Dylan.

It’s Giancarlo.

Holy bruschetta, I’d almost forgotten that the Italian stallion existed. And I’d definitely forgotten that I promised to have dinner with him.

Oh, shit.

He’s standing there, his body a loose web of sinewy muscle. Linen shirt, stylish jeans, his dark hair dangling in front of his forehead like something that Michelangelo designed. He throws his head back like a horse and the curls go flying. Suddenly he looks like something out a commercial for shampoo.

Dog shampoo.

Okay, that’s not fair. He’s gorgeous. But as Katherine said, he knows it. He’s the polar opposite of Dylan, this guy. He thinks he’s god’s gift to women, to clothes, to cologne.

Yet I have to admit that the idea of a roll in the hay with him still appeals to me a little. Maybe I could vent a little of the pent-up desire I’ve been building for a certain other man’s body…

“Lucia,” he says, and I realize I’ve just been staring at him for about ten seconds. The Italian pronunciation of my name does just a little something to my insides, both good and bad at once.

“Hi, Giancarlo,” I reply.

“I saw you come in a little while ago, with a man. Is he gone?” He pokes his head into the apartment and glances around. Meddlesome, mischievous Giancarlo. I can’t help but laugh. He’s so oddly innocent; the kind of guy who thinks he knows everything but actually knows nothing.

“He’s a friend of mine,” I reply, “and yes, he’s gone.”

“Good. Then you will come to dinner with me tonight.”

I’m not sure if it’s a language issue or a Giancarlo issue, but where I come from, a man usually asks instead of commanding.

“Excuse me?” I blurt out.

“Mi scusi,” he apologizes, “I did that poorly. May I try again?” He straightens himself up, clasping his hands over his heart. “Please, per favore, bella Lucia, would you come to dinner with me this evening?”

I don’t quite know what to say. I’ve just said good-bye to Dylan. Dylan, my platonic buddy. My pal. My good friend who’s supposed to mean nothing more to me than a cooking companion.

A man who’s told me I’m more beautiful than Rome itself, who makes me so crazy with lust that I’ve come close to tearing his clothes off about a thousand times in the last few days.

The man I’ve promised myself I’d never get involved with again.

“Dinner…” I repeat.

“Si, dinner. Just a quick dinner. That is all.” Giancarlo flashes me his perfect, white teeth, no doubt bleached by the mediterranean sun.

“Okay,” I say. “Just give me a minute, would you? I just have to put on some clothes.”

“Of course,” he replies, eyeing my robe. “I will wait downstairs for you.”

As soon as he’s gone, I run to the bedroom and throw on a little red dress, check my hair and makeup and slip out the back door to jog around the balcony and knock on Dylan’s door. He opens it a moment later, a giant smile on his lips.

“Well, well, Loose couldn’t get enough of me,” he says, his tone jokingly cocky as he thrusts out his chest like a preening peacock. “I knew you’d come back for more of Big D.”

“Big D? Ha!” I reply. I’m about to tell him why I’ve really come when I realize my mouth doesn’t actually want to utter the words.

“What’s up?” he asks, pressing his forearm to the doorframe as he looks down at my face. Suddenly he looks concerned.

“I…Giancarlo just asked me to dinner tonight,” I tell him. “I wanted to tell you. I said yes.”

“Ah. I see.”

It’s amazing how three syllables can hold so much meaning. I hear pain in his voice. Envy, sadness. Everything but joy.

“I just…for some reason I thought I should tell you.”

“You’re going now?” he asks.

I nod. “It’s just dinner,” I tell him, my tone a little too insistent, too apologetic. “That’s all it is.”

“If it isn’t, it’s okay, Lucy,” he says. “You do what you need to do. What you want to do. I know that I don’t own you. I’m not even sure I deserve you.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I’m not sure any man deserves you,” he says, taking my chin in his hand and staring into my eyes. He looks broken up, somehow, like we’re saying good-bye forever, and it’s killing me.

“I’m not his,” I blurt out. “I’m not Giancarlo’s.”

“No?”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. “No,” I tell him.

“Well, you’re not mine either, are you?”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

“Just do one thing for me,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“Tell me about your date afterwards. Unless there’s sex. I don’t want to hear about the sex, okay?”

“I doubt if there’ll be sex, Dill Pickle.” A minute ago it was a possibility. But now, standing here looking into his eyes, I can’t imagine how I could have sex with any man but him.

He raises an eyebrow and musters a smile. “Yeah? We’ll see what Giancarlo has to say about that.”

“Listen, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I reply. “Promise.”

Under any other circumstance I might run back to my apartment, spritz a little perfume on my wrists and hope to get laid tonight. But that’s not really what I need.

All I really need is someone who’ll take my mind off Dylan for a few minutes.

Because I want him way too much.