Sunday July 30 2017

My name is Lucy Horner. I’m twenty-seven years old, and I’m about to die at the hands of a psychotic cab driver.

Correction: a psychotic Roman cab driver.

I’ve just arrived in the Eternal City. I’ve heard more times than I can count that Rome is the most beautiful place on earth, but I have absolutely no idea if that’s true, because for the last several minutes I’ve been covering my eyes with my trembling hands. That’s right, I’ve turned into the sort of wussy girl who avoids watching the most gruesome part of slasher movies, because I know someone’s about to die in a horrible, bloody mess.

I’ve silently dubbed my insane driver and would-be murderer Signor Smellissimo. To put it mildly, he’s a scruffy man. His aromatic scent is a potent mix of garlic, cheese, cheap cologne, and cigars, not necessarily in that order. On top of that, his stubble seems to have grown a layer of moss. Or is that mold?

The worst part is that his appearance isn’t nearly as offensive as his driving. Every time I dare a peek from between my tense fingers, I become more convinced that Signor Smellissimo is deliberately plummeting me towards an early grave along twisting streets and masses of other insane motorists. To add to it, as if to taunt me, vespa riders veer in and out of traffic around us, trying to prove that they’re even more reckless than my taxi driver. Those guys are definitely vying for the Who’s the Craziest Fucker in Italy Competition.

One person did warn me about this place, of course: my mother. The most overly protective woman who’s ever breathed air, she’s also the most paranoid. When she found out I was coming to Rome alone, she informed me in no uncertain terms that I’d be robbed, killed and left in an alleyway only to be eaten by ravens after my body had been defiled by a lengthy series of evil vagrants with rusty knives and a hunger for American woman-flesh. Of course, my mother’s pretty convinced that the same thing could happen to me on the streets of Los Angeles, so this isn’t exactly anything new.

She’s also convinced that the one and only reason my life is in constant peril is that I’m single. Single women, it seems, have targets painted on their foreheads that scream “Please murder me in the most horrible way imaginable. I am helpless and pathetic.”

As for my pending demise on the streets of Rome…frankly, I’m okay with it. If I’m going to be the victim of a grisly crime I’d rather succumb in an exotic locale like this one than on the smelly streets of summertime L.A.

I can’t help but chuckle to myself as I hear my driver throwing out curse after Italian curse at the traffic, even as he makes illegal turns, swerves in front of oncoming cars and wreaks general havoc on my nervous system.

I have to say, for all his lunacy, I sort of admire Signor Smellissimo. The man gives no fucks about anything, and some part of me aspires to his level of sociopathy. I’ve spent my whole life caring way too damned much about what others think of me, and he’s mastered not giving a shit like it’s a fine art.

Still, I wish he cared just enough to consider the fact that he’s scaring the hell out of me with his maniacal race car driving.

In an attempt to steer my mind away from my upcoming death, I tear my hand away from my eyes and pull out the sheet of paper that outlines the information about my apartment here in Rome. At the top is a company logo for the Single Ladies’ Travel Agency, the organization that set me up with this trip. Their motto is “Ladies, It’s Time To Do Something Just For You,” and that’s exactly what I intend to do on this holiday of mine. That is, if I manage to make it out of this cab alive.

I’m going to eat, walk the streets, eat some more, drink, stare at handsome men and then probably eat again. At some point I might even throw caution to the wind and have sex with a stranger. That is, if I can find a stranger who doesn’t smell like an overheated garbage can. So far I’m batting zero on that front.

After weaving his way through the maze of city towards the pretty area known as Trastevere, my pungent driver finally pulls to a stop next to a tiny little car that apparently offends him by virtue of its very existence. He’s growling at it, some deep resentment setting his face into a horrible scowl.

My head spinning with relief, I push out a long exhale, pop open the door, slide out of the back seat and step onto the dark grey cobblestones that make up the narrow street.

“Ecco undici,” the driver grunts, pointing to the number on the building next to us as he slips out his side and raises a fist at a vespa driver who’s just come perilously close to castrating him with his side mirror.

Signor S. is pointing to a small iron eleven screwed to the stucco wall. Yes, that’s my building—I guess. But all I see is a closed wrought-iron gate that looks like it leads down a dark corridor to the depths of hell. Oh, goody. It’s the alleyway where my mother warned me I’d be slaughtered like a cow on steak night. Well, I’m committed to my fate now. No way am I getting back into the cab with ol’ Smellykins; I’d rather sleep in a mound of discarded spaghettini.

“Grazie,” I reply, mustering a nauseated smile.

He dumps my luggage on the street and, after I’ve handed him a wad of euros, motors off, leaving me alone, baffled and confused. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do now. But it doesn’t matter. I’m here to have an adventure, and apparently locating my temporary home is Part Two. This bit seems less dangerous than the drive, at least.

Opening up the screenshot I took of the agency’s directions, I’m reminded that Katherine, the woman in charge of getting me here, told me to head to number thirteen to get the key. Exhausted from too much time spent in transit, I sling my pack onto my back, wheel my giant suitcase over to the next building, and press the buzzer.

“Pronto!” a voice says through the intercom. Pronto? Shit. I have no idea what that means. I hope someone here speaks English, because my Italian is limited to gelato, spaghetti, mamma mia and a pile of cab-driver curses that probably mean I’m going to have sex with your goat, you bastard.

“Uh…my name is Lucy Horner,” I say, pressing my face towards the speaker. “I’m here for the keys to unit two-oh-three.”

“Ah, si, si!” says the voice. A moment later a very wrinkled, very short woman is popping out the door with a set of two keys in hand. She’s all dressed in black, her face both stern and friendly at once. The lines on her skin tell me that she’s experienced every emotion known to humankind over the course of her long life. Her face is a topographical map of her history of love, sadness, happiness, laughter and probably a little gas, from the looks of things. Her hair is pulled back under some sort of dark scarf, and she looks like she stepped right out of 1950.

I already love her. I want to ask her to make me a home-cooked Italian meal that involves a lot of tomatoes and oregano. But apparently she’s not so in love with me. Her expression turns judgmental as she hands me the keys, looks me up and down, eyes my luggage, then unceremoniously turns away to call to someone hidden in the depths of her dark flat.

“Giancarlo! Vieni qui! Vieni, vieni!”

I have no idea what that means, but I hope she’s not asking a porter to give me a piggy-back ride up the stairs. I may be tired and desperate, but I have my pride.

My face lights up when almost immediately the most gorgeous, olive-skinned, dark haired, blue eyed, perfect Italian man is standing in front of me with a crooked smile on his face. His hair is curly and a little unkempt, his eyelashes dark, outlining bright eyes. His lips are full and a little pouty. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t speak a word of English, but damn, who the hell cares? Maybe he could teach me the language of love.

Actually, upon further inspection, he looks about twenty-one. That might just be a little too young and inexperienced for me. I’d end up teaching him new positions. I’m not really here to become a part-time sexual tutor.

Wait, who am I kidding? It would probably be awfully fun to give lessons to a guy who looks that good. Besides, in return he could teach me how to say reverse cowgirl in Italian.

Go home, brain. You’re drunk.

“Vai! Vai!” Shrieks the old lady, and without a word Giancarlo, brawny and submissive Italian god, grabs my suitcase. The thing weighs more than I do, but he carries it like it’s a tote bag full of feathers and guides me towards the iron gate that leads into the building next door.

“Keys,” he says, turning and grunting the word like Tarzan as he extends a hand towards me. Hmm. If he were Tarzan, he’d take off his shirt. He should totally do that.

As we make eye contact, his expression softens. A sexy, seductive smile spreads across his lips again. Okay, for a young, innocent man-boy, he sure knows how to make a woman’s panties melt with nothing more than his eyes. For a moment I’ve totally forgotten what he wanted or even where I am.

Oh, right. Keys.

When I’ve handed them to him, he unlocks the gate and guides me down a long stone passageway that ends in two sets of stairs; one leading to the left, the other to the right. I follow him up the stairs to the right, marvelling at the antiquity of this place. The walls are made of plaster, the stairs marble, worn down to sloping centres from hundreds of years of tired feet. My mind can’t help but envision the hundreds—no—thousands of people who’ve walked up and down these steps over the centuries. Women in corsets, men who’ve just slipped off their horses. Children who’ve long since grown up and darted away on romantic adventures.

History whispers to me from the walls. Sigh. I love this place already. I sort of want to marry Rome. I’ll live on pasta and Italian coffee and luxuriate on a brass-framed bed all day while I moan about the heat. Giancarlo can be my lover and/or fetcher of cold beverages and/or loin cloth-wearing servant man who fans me with a palm frond.

When we reach the second storey the young buck unlocks unit 203 for me and hands me the keys before carrying the suitcase inside and setting it down next to the open door. Turning to smile at me again (oh God, that smile is the nectar of the gods), he speaks, this time in a full sentence.

“What is your name?” he asks, throwing a couple of extra vowels in, as if to prove just how sexy his accent is.

“Lucy,” I tell him.

“Ah, Lucia.” Only he says it like Loo-Chee-Aaaaah. He presses his arms against the doorframe, displaying his hard, lean, young body. “La bella Lucia.”

“Si,” I reply before realizing that bella means pretty. I’ve just confirmed that yes, I am beautiful, thank you very much. “This apartment is lovely,” I blurt out, trying to mask my embarrassment.

“Si, si,” he repeats. “My family owns it. I hope you like.”

“I like very much.”

He edges towards me, the scent of some very powerful cologne hitting my nose. I guess strong scents are a thing in Italy. At least he’s not wearing Eau de Trash Can, like a certain taxi driver I know. “Lucia, would you like to have dinner with me some night?”

Wow. That was forward. And a little weird. I’m pretty sure Giancarlo and I have exactly zero in common, aside from the fact that we’re two horny adults. At least, I’m an adult. He could be fresh off the puberty boat, for all I know.

My head immediately tells me that a date with this guy is a bad idea, but my long-neglected body screams fuck yes. If by dinner he means a twenty-four hour sex fest with a slightly older woman, my lady parts are totally in.

“I…yes, maybe. I mean, I’m not sure,” I stammer, my eyes moving to everything but him. When they finally focus on his face, that smile, that body of his, leaning towards me, I blurt out, “Yes. Dinner would be great.”

“Molto bene. But not tonight,” he says. “I am working.” Oh, thank God you’re old enough to have a job. “But I will come see you soon, and I will eat you out.”

I stifle a snort. “Do you mean take me out to eat?” I ask, a little too amused at his highly suggestive choice of words.

“Si, si. Take you out. Sorry, my English…” He throws me another smile, which sets my insides on fire.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, pressing a hand to the table next to me, trying to look a little sexy, though I’m pretty sure that I just look like I need to pee.

Which I totally do.

He leaves without uttering another word. I have no idea if I was supposed to tip him, but if I had it would have been something along the lines of “Here’s a tip: next time you show up, do it without clothes, you studly young deity.”

When Giancarlo’s tight, perfect buttocks have disappeared into the stairwell I shut the door behind him, spinning around to take in the full glory of the apartment. My first stop is the bathroom, which is fitted with everything I could possibly want. Fluffy towels, a hair dryer that looks like it was designed by Versace. Every kind of body lotion and shampoo you can imagine.

When I’m done in there, I head back out to the living room. Katherine, the goddess in charge of the travel agency, did tell me during one of our chats that the apartment was exceptional, and she wasn’t lying. It’s all arches and exquisite lines, its windows looking out towards a beautiful, vine-coated courtyard. Like a crazy person in heaven I flit over to push open a tall, hinged set of windows, my heart soaring with pleasure as I stare around the amazing space. I’ve discovered a hidden treasure at Rome’s heart.

This is my home for a month. A gorgeous young man has just asked me out. What could be more perfect?

The only downside is that the courtyard is, of course, surrounded by the windows of other apartments. A long balcony wraps around this entire storey, stretching its way to each and every one of the other flats. Any one of their residents could wander by my place at any moment, which is a bit unfortunate. But it also means that I can walk out and take in the beautiful courtyard any time I want.

I’m about to turn away from the window when something in the apartment across from mine grabs my attention. The windows over there, like mine, are wide open, and someone—a man—is wandering about his living room, his back to me. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of khaki shorts that sit low on his hips, showing off a tapered waist and an ass to rival Giancarlo’s. His back is taut, muscular and definitely in desperate need of claw marks from my enthralled fingernails.

I’m beginning to think there’s something wrong with me. First Giancarlo, and now this. Rome has reawakened dormant hormones in me, reminded me that I’m a single woman at her sexual peak. I want every man I see. Well, every man except for Signor Smellissimo. I do have some standards.

I’m still staring at the hottie with the perfect physique, curious to see the face that matches that body. Please, hot man, show me your features. And please be single. And please be over twenty-one.

As though he’s heard my silent plea, the sexy creature pivots to his left and leans down to grab something off the coffee table before pulling himself up to turn in my direction. My gaze slides up his torso, taking stock of his sinewy muscles. Wow. This guy is ripped. His front is definitely as good as his back.

Nice abs.

Nice pecs.

Nice…face.

Oh, my God.

I spin back around, hoping he hasn’t recognized me, and reach for the curtains to wrench them shut. The whole time I’m mumbling Please tell me he didn’t recognize me. Please, please, please.

Hesitant, I wait a few seconds before pulling the curtain open a crack to peer across the way once again.

Big mistake.

He’s still staring. He totally recognized me; I know he did. I can feel it in the air between us.

He’s pulling on a t-shirt now and still looking this way, his expression inquisitive, searching.

Damn it, why did I look at him for so long? Why did I let him see me? Why didn’t I dive behind the couch or throw myself off the balcony like any sane person would have done?

I’m officially screwed. My month-long vacation is screwed. My head is screwed.

My heart, especially, is screwed.

Dylan Emerson is in Rome. And he’s staring at me.