Dylan’s gone back to his apartment and away from me. Gorgeous, perfect, infuriating, frustrating, sexy Dylan, whose abs and biceps I want to lick, even though he once crushed me like a wilted flower.

Thank God he’s gone. I can breathe again.

My knees are still shaking. I feel like I’m going to throw up. My heart’s pounding. All because of a guy I’m not supposed to give a fuck about.

Over the years, I’ve told myself more times than I can count that I’m over him, but it’s become clear in the last few minutes that I never really succeeded at pushing him out of my heart. Maybe it’s because he was the first and only man I ever loved. Maybe it’s because I was saving myself for him. I don’t know. All I do know is that the moment I set eyes on him, all those old feelings flooded back through my system like a fast-moving freight train. I don’t know whether to be happy or miserable, horny or frigid.

Or all of the above.

I throw myself onto the couch like a rag doll, grab a throw pillow and hug it tight to my chest. Right now, this pillow is my only friend in the damned world, and I’m not willing to let go of it for anything.

Dylan was so friendly, so casual just now. Not at all like a guy who crushed my soul seven years ago. Could he possibly have forgotten what happened that night? The very thought that he must have cared so little makes me want to shed bitter tears and throw things at the wall.

Of course, I’m not going to, because I’m not an immature idiot like I was in college. I’m not innocent or naive or stupid. I’m a grown-ass woman who knows how to handle herself.

With a deep inhale, I remind myself that I’m also a woman who just got asked out by a hot Italian stud-muffin. I have a date with a sexy, curly-haired, swarthy man called Giancarlo; I don’t need to lose any sleep over a guy whose only claim to fame is the time he fucked me over without actually fucking me.

That’s it, I tell myself. I’m going to take a page out of Signor Smellissimo’s book and learn to give no fucks whatsoever. Dylan has no power over me, not anymore.

What sticks in my craw is that clearly I have no power over him, either. He’s just proven that he didn’t actually give a crap about me back when we were college kids. The night we kissed I was just another potential notch on the bedpost, another conquest to mark his post-high school years—at least until he got a better offer from his skanky ex. As soon as she came along, Dylan took off for Sexville, leaving me in a trail of dust and snivelling girl-tears.

I’m sure the bastard never gave me a second thought after that.

Right. No fucks given. This is my place now. My damned holiday. No one is going to ruin this for me, not even a sexy man with a perfect smile, perfect ass, perfect abs and perfect everything else. There’s definitely no way I’m going to let myself fantasize about how good he probably is in bed by now, after seven years of post-college experience. How amazing his tongue probably is at caressing a woman’s sex. What it feels like to have his hips gyrating over mine as he thrusts his massive…

STOP IT, LUCY.

Stop thinking about the past. Dylan is old news. Just because he’s hot as hell and his smile makes you want to offer him the best blowjob of his life doesn’t mean you should. He doesn’t deserve to lick your flip flops.

As I’m staring blankly at the wall and forcing away thoughts of him, my phone starts belting out All by Myself. Shit, I really need to change that ringtone. It screams “Hello, my name’s Lucy. I’m single, my life is a pathetic abyss of loneliness and torment, and by the way, I’m still totally horny for Dylan Emerson, even if I pretend I’m not.”

When I click on my phone to answer it, a familiar name pops up. It’s Katherine from the Single Ladies’ Travel Agency.

Damn it. She’s making a video call, and I’m a frazzled mess.

Although I’ve never met her in person, I’ve already determined through a couple of Skype chats that Katherine is about the coolest chick I’ve ever known. She’s smart, funny, and always seems to have her shit utterly together. I wish she taught a master class in how not to be a total disaster. I’d pay big bucks for the premium course.

Convinced that I can at least fake it for now, I wipe my damp eyes, pinch my cheeks and click on the reply button. “Hello?” I say as the image flares to life on the screen. A beautiful, ivory-skinned woman with blue eyes and a shock of red hair is staring me in the face. I’m as aware as ever of how attractive and well put-together she is.

“Hello, Lucy?” she says. I’d almost forgotten about her accent, which is the coolest blend of English, French and something unidentifiable. It’s like a mish-mash of all the places she’s lived over the course of her far-more-interesting-than-mine life.

“Hi!” I reply, a broad smile sweeping over my face, trying to cover up any residual discomfort from my close encounter with Dylan. I’m more grateful for the sound of her voice than I’m willing to say out loud. She’s come to feel like a friend by now, and God knows I could use one of those.

I set the phone down against a pile of books on the coffee table and tuck one leg under myself as I ease back down onto the couch.

“Listen,” she says, “I wanted to make sure you’re settling in okay. Did everything go all right with check-in?”

“Oh, totally,” I chirp. “Everything’s just…great.”

“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound convincing in the least.” Her expression tells me she’s genuinely concerned. Or quite possibly psychic. “Anything the matter with the flat?”

“Oh, God no. The apartment’s amazing. It’s just—” I let out a massive sigh, like sixty tons of oxygen have been trapped inside my lungs for the last several minutes and I’ve just now managed to unleash them into the atmosphere. Should I tell her? Probably not, but I will anyhow. “There’s a man I know, or at least used to know, staying across the way in the same building.”

There’s something about Katherine that just seems so damn trustworthy that I want to open up to her. But I immediately regret mentioning Dylan. All of a sudden I’m looking down at my hands, which are fidgeting with the edge of the couch’s upholstery. Too embarrassed to look at a stupid phone screen.

Give no fucks, I mutter under my breath.

I hear a sort of chuckle on the other end of the phone that tells me she’s amused by my torment, but not maliciously so. “I take it he’s not someone you particularly wanted to see?” she asks.

“No, not particularly, to put it mildly. He’s probably the last person I wanted to see, unless you count the Angel of Death as a person.” I dare a look at the phone. Thankfully, her expression is sympathetic, her eyes full of kindness.

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry to hear it,” she says. “Is he awful?”

“No, not at all. Actually, he’s the opposite of awful.” For all my horror at seeing him, it is the honest answer. Dylan is gorgeous. Amazing. But saying it out loud might summon a demon that will possess me and make me want him all over again. It took me a long time to banish that demon the first time, and it’s not a war I’m prepared to fight again.

“So what’s worrying you?”

“Oh, nothing,” I say, not at all convinced that I mean it. “It’s not important. It was just a little bit of a shock to see him, but I think I’ll survive. There are worse things than having a gorgeous, ripped, successful man living fifty feet away, I suppose.”

Shit. I said it out loud.

Demon summoned.

“Gorgeous, you say? Uh-oh. Those are the most dangerous kinds of men, aren’t they, darling?”

I sigh, surrendering to my weakness. “You don’t know the half of it. I was…sort of, kind of in love with him a long time ago.”

“I see. And now?” She asks the question like she’s a trained therapist, opening up the floor to let me reveal everything. I don’t know where she acquired this amazing skill, but hell, I need to vent, so I’ll vent.

“And now? Well, I don’t know him anymore. It was seven years ago, and we’ve both changed since then. I’m stronger than I was; I’m not a delicate virginal flower. Besides, all we ever did was kiss once.”

“Uh-huh,” she says as she watches me babble on about how little I care about a man I obviously care about.

“Well, whatever,” I add, like I’m talking to myself more than to her. “If he’s forgotten, I guess I should too. It was just a kiss, after all. It’s not like we were married and he cheated on me.” Somehow while I’m rambling, I’m almost managing to convince myself that I mean every word.

“You said just a kiss,” scoffs Katherine. “As if there’s such a thing. You know as well as I do that there’s no simple kiss, not for a young woman. We tell ourselves that kisses mean nothing, but that’s a pile of bollocks.”

“Yeah. Why is that? What the hell is wrong with us?” I ask her, letting out a cynical laugh.

“Conditioning, my dear. We learn vey early on how important kisses are. A kiss awoke Sleeping Beauty. A kiss saved Snow White from certain death, or at least a permanent coma. A kiss changed a frog into a prince, for fuck’s sake. Kisses are life-changing events for young women. We fantasize about our first kiss from the time we’re able to walk, and convince ourselves that the meeting of lips is the most important event in a young life. It’s a sign of true love. A connection deeper than anything, and don’t fool yourself—that includes sex. So when a kiss from an important man is ruined for us, the moment sticks in our minds like a trauma that can never be erased.”

“So what do I do?” I ask, helpless. She’s just brought me back to square one.

She throws me an encouraging smile. “You embrace the memory and move on. As you said, you’ve both grown. I’m sure you’ve had lots of sex since then.”

I nod, not wanting to acknowledge just how much the nickname Loose has come to suit me over the years.

“Tell me,” she says, “is he still single?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Does it matter?”

“You tell me.” She’s giving me a sly, wicked smile, like she already knows the answer.

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” I reply. “It would be better if he’s not, actually. Easier for me.”

“Ah, but if he is, you may rekindle something that only ever sparked but never grew into an all-out flame. Maybe fate has brought you to Rome for a very good reason.”

“I’m not sure I believe in fate, Katherine.” I want to roll my eyes, but her sincerity prevents me.

“Well, if you don’t believe in fate, I hope you at least believe in fucking.”

My eyes bug out as I take in the words. “That was very…explicit,” I choke-laugh.

“Come on,” she says. “You know you’ve at least considered fucking him. You said he’s sexy.”

“Well, yeah. He’s unbelievable.”

“So open yourself up to the possibility that you can and should get naked with him. Sexy men aren’t as common as all that. And sex is very, very nice, particularly on hot Roman nights. Think of it as a long-overdue rebound romp with a man who probably wants you for all the same reasons you want him.”

I can’t say I’m not tempted to make up for lost time. I’m certainly more practised at the art of seduction than I used to be. I’ve probably had a few too many one night stands over the years. Those have become my specialty. They’re my way of controlling the male sex: seduce a guy into thinking he’s the one picking me up, when the whole time I know I’m the one in control. Go back to his place, fuck him once or twice, give him a fake number and a wink, and high-tail it out of there. I’m like a vampire who bites, sucks out my fill, then disappears off the face of the earth. A sexual vampire. That’s me.

The question is, could I detach myself enough from Dylan to use him for my own selfish desires?

Probably not. I’m not sure he’s one night stand material. He’s the man I used to love. The only man I ever loved.

The only man who ever broke me.

“I don’t know, Katherine. I think maybe I should look elsewhere to satisfy my sexual cravings.” My mind wanders over to young Giancarlo, who’s all charm and looks, and little else. He’s safe, probably a little boring, definitely hot, and best of all, there’s little to no chance of my falling in love with him.

“Whatever you do, just be sure to enjoy yourself,” she tells me. “Well, listen, darling, I was calling partly to let you know that I’ve just arrived in Rome myself. I’ll be here for a week or two, depending. What say you and I have a little nibble at some point soon and we can talk further about all this?”

“That sounds great,” I tell her, my heart doing an excited leap in my chest. “I’ll be so happy to have a familiar face around that isn’t…his.”

“Great. I’ll pop by when I get a chance. In the meantime, settle in, ignore all horrible men, accept the alluring ones into your life, and enjoy Rome. You know what they say…”

“When in Rome?” I ask.

“Do as the Romans do.”

I let out a laugh, wondering if Romans ever throw projectiles across courtyards at sexually frustrating neighbours who once spurned them mercilessly. “What exactly do Romans do?” I ask.

“Whatever the hell they want.” She winks. “You need to relax, woman. Open up, accept pleasure into your life. The Italians know how to enjoy themselves. You should figure it out as well.”

“Aren’t you wise?” I ask.

“Not wise, but I am a hedonist par excellence,” she tells me, flicking a lock of red hair behind her shoulder in mock-triumph. “I don’t believe in suffering for my past sins and I certainly don’t believe in punishing others for theirs. Whatever this man did to offend you, perhaps you should go easy on him. Time changes all things. Men grow up.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

When I’ve hung up I realize that I feel better already. Good enough to mosey around the apartment and check out all its nooks and crannies with fresh eyes. By some miracle, Katherine has managed to cleanse me of my stupid worries. All of a sudden I want to jump up and down, to let out a joyful shriek.

A laugh bubbles up in my throat with the realization that after all this time, after being so frightened of what might happen if I ever saw Dylan again, I’m fine. I’m better than fine, actually. I’m good. And holy shit, I’m in Rome on my own. I’d all but forgotten that major accomplishment.

With a determined stride I head over to my suitcase, wheel it into the bedroom, toss it onto the bed on its side and unzip it. This is going to be a good month. Nothing will weigh me down, damn it. Not Dylan, not even my mother’s morbid warnings that I’ll be murdered by every man I see.

I don’t give a fuck about anything, and it feels great.

The bedroom is gorgeous. Larger than I’d anticipated, with high ceilings, a set of windows looking out onto the courtyard. Vines drape over the glass like curtains, giving me a sense of privacy that I need after finding out that Dylan is so close by.

The walls are white, uneven plaster that looks like it’s been repainted recently. Like all of Rome, I get the impression that this building could survive a bomb blast or a serious earthquake. It’s hardy, and has all sorts of stories to tell. Hopefully I’ll add to its repertoire by creating some tales of my own.

After I’ve unloaded my clothes into the closet and dresser, I decide to shower, get dressed in some clean clothes and go out for a walk. I’m going to wander the streets until I find a nice-looking restaurant, and then I am going to eat the best Italian food ever, drink a little too much wine and stare longingly but distantly at handsome Italian men as they walk by me and show off their sun-kissed bronze bodies. I’m going to celebrate the fact that I’m totally over Dylan Emerson, maybe for the first time ever.

If and when I see him again, I should probably thank him for the heartache he thrust upon me way back when. If it weren’t for the fact that he let me down, I probably wouldn’t have become the cynic that I am today. I might not have grown the balls to come to Italy on my own, either. I suppose he did me a strange, cruel sort of favour.

Thanks, Dylan, for breaking my heart.

You bastard.