Local red wine, empty stomach, jet lag and eight flights of stairs all made for a deadly combination.

I was confident that the wine hadn’t gone straight to my head, but to my legs. I had excused myself from the meet-and-greet, muttering about going to find il bagno, while in reality I had every intention of sneaking up to my room, or dorm rather, and crashing into my questionably clean sheets and passing out. There certainly was an upside to drinking away your worries; with my fuzzy vision and the lights off, I could be sleeping at the Ritz for all I knew. According to Maria, who had outlined every minute detail of our Roman itinerary, the first day was a free day, meaning we could settle into our little rats’ nest, get acquainted with one another, recover from our travels/ hangovers and prepare ourselves for the following day of adventure. Cheers to that! Although now I was seriously regretting all those cheers.

Cheers to new friends!

Cheers to new adventures!

Cheers to Rome!

Cheers to a free day!

Holding on to the banister, I slid around rather ungraciously and plonked myself onto the bottom step of the staircase. I wasn’t going anywhere just yet.

‘That’s okay, Sammi, we’ll just rest up here for a tick until the room stops spinning and then we’ll be up those steps in a blaze of glory,’ I said, hoping that the lies I was telling myself would give me enough encouragement to make it so. But despite the broken terracotta tile poking me in the butt, I felt strangely comfortable resting my temple against the cool iron of the banister.

‘Just a little bit longer,’ I muttered, my eyes feeling slightly heavy as I blinked slowly. Zoning out into a glorious haze until I heard footsteps.

‘Oh, shit, Maria.’ I sat up straight, but then it occurred to me that they didn’t sound like Maria’s steps—they weren’t short and sharp and clicky like hers were. These were slower, heavier and more determined. I peered through the gap in the banister, squinting through one eye in an attempt to focus, but there was no need to—I would have recognised him anywhere.

Marcello walked like a jungle cat, stalking through reception, sliding on his coat, adjusting his collar and glancing back as if ensuring no one was seeing him go.

He was sneaking off too. Ha!

It was then that I recognised the white paper strip with black scrawl was stuck onto the breast pocket of his jacket.

‘Don’t forget your name badge,’ I called out, before cursing myself and clamping my hand over my big bloody mouth.

Marcello came to a halt so abruptly that his shoes screeched on the floor, his head snapping in my direction as he squinted into the darkness, confused.

I tried in vain to slide further into the shadows, but it was no use. I saw it the moment his brows lifted in recognition; he had spotted me. He slowly turned and started making his way over.

Oh, shit-shit-shit.

He came to stand before me, lifting his elbow to rest casually on the banister as he looked down with amused interest.

I didn’t know what to say now he was here, and I was in no fit state to hold a conversation. I should have let him go on his merry little way right out the front door. Then my foggy brain slowly made a connection between Marcello and his planned exit.

‘You’re not staying here?’ I asked, mainly to myself, but he had a wry smile lining his face.

‘At Luce del Sole?’ he said, looking around facetiously, like it was some glorious kingdom.

‘Si,’ I said.

He breathed out a laugh, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the banister. ‘No,’ he said.

I nodded. Smart man.

My next question was where he was staying, but I stopped myself quickly. I didn’t need or want to know. All I needed to worry about was where I was staying and how the hell I was going to get there.

I willed myself to stand, pulling myself up in the most inelegant fashion. I probably wouldn’t have made it if it weren’t for the firm grip of a warm hand on my upper arm.

‘I’m good,’ I lied, pulling away from his grasp and clutching to the banister with white-knuckled intensity. If I could anchor myself long enough for the room to stop spinning I could at least pretend I was okay; well, until Marcello walked off into the night. But, of course, he didn’t; he simply stood there on the lower step and slid his hands into his pockets, his dark, serious eyes ever watchful.

‘You don’t look so good,’ he said.

I instinctively ran my hand over the top of my head. Oh, God, did I look like a cockatoo again?

‘This bloody Italian summer air will be the death of me.’ Oh, yes, curse my life. Standing before a gorgeous Italian man in Rome with a belly full of wine: how torturous.

Sure, this isn’t the Taj Mahal, but get a grip, Sammi—you’re in Rome! Rome!

I smiled, allowing myself to sway and get a little giddy with the sudden realisation. Maybe it was the wine kicking in, but all of a sudden I felt very free. I swung on the banister, a little too far, it seemed, as I lost my footing and crashed into Marcello so hard that I swear I knocked all the air out of his lungs.

‘Shit, sorry,’ I stammered, trying to grab onto the railing again out of fear of falling once Marcello let me go. But he continued to hold on to my shoulders, glowering down on me with what I would have liked to think was concern, but looked more like anger. Sheesh, such a grumpy bum.

‘I’m. Fine,’ I said, trying to break free from his grasp, but this time he was more insistent.

‘I don’t think you are,’ he said.

‘I’m just tired—jet lag.’

‘And wine,’ he corrected.

‘A little.’ I measured an inch with my fingers.

Marcello rolled his eyes, his patience wearing thinner by the second. ‘Where is your room?’

‘I’m not telling you that!’

‘Well, I hope your travel insurance covers a broken neck,’ he snapped.

My mouth gaped. ‘Well, of course it …’ I stilled, a memory of John Buzzo giving me pause. He was wiping a jam stain from his tie and weighing up whether or not to put his doughnut aside to do it; multi-tasking was not his forte. I felt even less confident about what exactly I had signed up to.

I bit my lip, my hateful mood back in full swing. ‘Well, maybe just a little help.’

Marcello stifled his smile, measuring an inch with his fingers. ‘Maybe just a little.’