It feels like no time has passed since we were sitting together on that beach in California. Staring into one another’s eyes, just like we’re doing now. Only this time, it’s even better.

I want him as badly as I did then. Maybe more, if that’s even possible.

I want to throw caution to the wind and ask him to come back to my place with me. I want to make love at long last with Dylan Emerson, not just once but over and over again. I want to drag my fingertips over his eight-pack, sweep my tongue over his muscular chest. I want to know if he likes having his neck kissed. I want to hear him moan deep as I wrap my lips around his dick.

These totally insane thoughts are flying through my mind as I stare at him. Every word he utters is sex. Every movement of his hands, every twitch of his lips into that seductive smile of his. Every little thing he does makes me want him more.

But then I remember that we’re just supposed to be friends. Nothing more.

Stupid rules.

“How’s your food?” he asks after I’ve taken a few greedy mouthfuls to distract myself from the unending stream of lustful thoughts. I’d hardly realized how hungry I was, and damn, this pasta is good.

In response to Dylan’s question, I let out a little moan of pleasure, and he laughs. When I’ve swallowed, I reply, “Really damn good. Is all Italian food this delicious?”

“Most of it,” he says, nodding.

“I’m starting to think Italy is just perfection,” I tell him, looking around us at our surroundings. “This place is another universe. The smells, the sights. I feel like a naive, wide-eyed tourist.”

“Well, it’s what you are,” he says. “So am I, really. Even though I’ve been here for a while I feel like someone’s hit refresh on the Rome page. I’d forgotten what an amazing city it was. I guess my mind was immersed in my work.”

“Oh? So what’s changed?” I’m staring at him, trying to deduce his meaning. I feel like I’ve been doing that all along. Always trying to figure him out, like I want to keep one step ahead, in case he says something that stings.

“You, Loose,” he replies. “You’re here, and you just seem taken with Rome. Your energy is infectious.” He presses his elbows to the table and leans forward. “I’d forgotten how amazing you are too, you know.”

Ouch. That stung. It shouldn’t have, of course; it was a compliment, and a good one, at that. But if he thought I was amazing, why did he take off that night with…

Nope. I promised myself I wouldn’t think about the past, and I’m not going to.

“I’m not so amazing,” I tell him, gesturing to a woman who’s walking by, a red leather purse slung over one shoulder. “Now, that chick is amazing. Look at her clothes.” She’s wearing long, striped palazzo pants and a linen top that’s tied at the waist. In the States she’d draw stares for looking like a supermodel, but here she’s just another Italian woman walking home. “That’s sort of why I came here, the fashion, the style. It’s like Italians are just on another level from the rest of us. More highly evolved or something.”

Dylan smiles and turns his gaze to take in people passing us by. “You’re trying to distract me by pointing at other women,” he says.

“Yes, I am.”

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s play your game and people-watch. You tell me what clothes look good and which are awful.”

“Challenge accepted,” I reply.

“What about that one?” He points to a woman who must be seventy, wearing a low-cut khaki jumpsuit and leather sandals.

“Are you kidding?” I laugh. “She’s awesome. Not self-conscious in the least about her age. That’s how every woman should be, but we’re all tightly-wound idiots who worry that we’ll be judged. Hell, back home there are TV shows dedicated to teaching women to dress for their age, like there’s some kind of stupid rule about it.”

“You don’t think there is?” He asks the question, but I don’t get the impression that he’s judgmental about it.

I shake my head. “No. It’s all societal pressure that we thrust upon women to control them. It’s crazy, really. When I’m old I want to wear heels and colourful outfits and say fuck it to everything and everyone.”

“You’ll be a spitfire,” he laughs, sitting back. “I can see it now.”

“Maybe. I do find that I get less tolerant with age. Not that I’m so old yet.”

“Less tolerant? Yeah, I sort of noticed that earlier when you looked like you might castrate me with your fingernails.”

I chuckle as I swallow a sip of water. “Did I really? Oopsie. I guess I should apologize for that.”

“It’s okay. I think you’ve figured out by now that I’m not actually the devil.”

I narrow my eyes at him, pretending to study him for signs of pure evil. “No, maybe not. You’re going to have to work pretty hard to convince me once and for all, though.”

“I’ll get right on that. So, speaking of devilish men, have you had any major relationships since I last saw you, Loose?”

I look away for a moment. I’m not sure how much to tell him. Do I let him know that I’ve been a little fucked up, afraid of commitment, and basically a stupid girl all my adult life?

“I was dating someone a while back,” I tell him. It’s the truth. “A lawyer. For about two minutes I thought it might get serious.”

“And then?”

“He proved to me that he wasn’t worth it by being a total grade-A douche,” I say, smirking. “Which seems to be the story of my life. I get together with guys who aren’t good for me, knowing I’ll eventually end up breaking up with them. It’s my way of making sure my heart never gets broken by a guy who’s actually nice.”

I’ve never laid it out that way before, but what I just said was true. On the rare occasions that I get involved with a man for more than one night, I tend to pull him in for a quick intimacy fix, then push him away at the first sign of trouble. I’m always relieved when I can rid myself of the burden of commitment.

“I see,” says Dylan, studying me again. His amazing lips are twitching into the most gorgeous smile that I can hardly stand to look at him. To think I kissed those lips once. I remember perfectly how good it felt. I remember wondering what they’d feel like on my nipples. On my…

Stop it.

“What about you?” I ask, surprised that I’m able to pose such an intimate question without wincing. “Have you had any serious relationships?”

He shakes his head, his eyes locked on mine. “Nope,” he says. “No one appealed to me enough. No one ever held a candle to…” Fortunately, he stops himself before giving away the name on his lips. No doubt he was about to bring up some goddess, and I’m not sure I want to hear about her. “What about that one?” he asks, pointing to a guy who looks like he must be an American tourist, walking along in plaid shorts, a striped shirt and flip flops.

“Awful,” I say. “If I want to see guys who look like that I can just hang around Los Angeles.”

“Fair enough.”

A moment of silence passes between us before either of us speaks again.

“I don’t know much about fashion, but I like your clothes,” he adds, his voice a little soft, a little smooth. “If I had to pick, I’d definitely give you the title of Best-Dressed Woman in Rome.”

I look down at my outfit. “This old thing?” I say, all too aware of how much boob is showing.

“Yes, that old thing,” he nods. “You make the locals pale in comparison to your beauty.”

I allow myself a little smile. “Well, you’re being awfully complimentary, Pickle. Are you trying to make up for…” I stop myself yet again. Damn it, Lucy. The matter is supposed to be officially closed.

He looks confused again, like he has no idea what I’m talking about. I guess I should be grateful for his conveniently forgetful male brain. At least he’s not as neurotic as I am.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I was about to say something stupid.” That’s it. From this moment on I’m going to follow Katherine’s advice. I won’t judge Dylan, or anyone else, by their past. Only by their present and future. At least I’ll try.

“So you said you’re working in Rome?” I ask. “What can you tell me about that?”

“Ah. Well, long story. I guess you don’t know that I started up my own firm a few years back, in New York City.”

“New York?” my voice chokes with shock. There may be a little sadness in there, too. “I had no idea you’d moved so…far away. When did that happen?”

He pulls his eyes away and stares off into space, like he’s recalling something from the distant past. “I planned on staying around L.A. back in the day, for grad school,” he says, “but things didn’t go as I’d hoped, so I took off.” He turns back to me and gives me the strangest look, as if I was somehow involved in his decision to leave. Okay, now I’m the confused one. “I moved as far away as I could without leaving the country,” he continues. “Anyhow, getting my own firm up and running is something I’ve worked on for years. I’ve got fifty employees and counting working for Emerson Design.”

“Wow. So you can afford to pay that many people?” Some part of my chest swells with pride and admiration. “Good for you.”

“Thanks.” He’s smiling, looking so cute. Almost embarrassed, like he doesn’t want to boast about what an incredible achievement it is. “Anyhow, I’m here on a sort of work sabbatical, getting together with some Italian firms to study integrating classical design into modern buildings. I want to bring elements of Italian architecture back to New York. Everything’s gotten so damned big and modern, I miss the days when buildings were hard stone, strong and durable.”

“I do too,” I tell him. Again, my eyes move about, this time looking up at the buildings surrounding us. None of them is more than four storeys high, and I like it. We could just as easily be sitting in the middle of a medieval village as the centre of a bustling metropolis. “Maybe that’s why this place feels so good to me. There’s none of the new style of architecture. Rome has staying power. It’s so old, but somehow it’s just right.”

“Right, exactly,” says Dylan. His features are growing animated, like he’s excited to get to talk about his work. He leans in, and so do I. It’s possible that I’m enjoying this a little too much. Suddenly I feel close to him emotionally as well as physically. That can’t be good. “Don’t you wish you could wake up every morning in a place that looks like Trastevere?” he asks, looking around at the buildings that surround us. “Vines dripping down the walls, beautiful open windows, the smell of delicious food cooking?”

“Totally,” I say, allowing myself to be temporarily taken in by his fantasy.

“That’s what I want to create. A place to live that doesn’t feel oppressive or closed in. I want to live in a quiet, beautiful place that feels as relaxing as an Italian villa.”

My heart’s beating hard. What he just described is what I want, too. Well, maybe not in New York. But the idea of a peaceful oasis is perfection. It’s how everyone should live. Stress-free, beautiful surroundings.

“I get it,” I say, staring into his eyes. “I understand. I suppose that’s why I love the style here, the clothes, the everything. It’s so laid back but sort of…I don’t know, dreamy.”

“Loose,” he replies, leaning even closer. His blue eyes are penetrating me and pulling me in at once. Dangerous man alert. “I’ve really missed you, you know.”

Oh damn. Even more dangerous man.

Like a lever’s been pulled I draw myself backwards, smashing into the back of the chair as a sharp wave of pleasure passes over me. This is a little too good, too pleasant. Too near perfection. Which means that it can’t be good for me. Nope, I can’t let myself go back to that place. I’m not getting my heart hurt by him again. He seems different now, more grown up, more responsible. But so am I, and that means I’ve learned from my past mistakes. I know not to make them again, no matter how tempting it might be.

I’m here for me. For pleasure. For a vacation, alone and untethered to past hurts.

“I’ve missed you too,” I say quietly. But I don’t expand on the thought. I can’t. Because then he’d know how much I once cared for him.

We sit in silence for a moment before Dylan speaks up again. “Do you remember the time when we were in high school and we all went down to that ravine? The one that Jake Billings fell into?”

Lifting my water glass to my mouth, I laugh. “Jeez, I’d almost forgotten. We were teenagers then,” I say, taking a sip. I study his face. “I didn’t realize you even knew I was there. There must have been fifteen of us.”

“Oh, I knew. I always knew when you were around.”

“You did?”

Oh, God. He’s staring into me now with that same hungry look I saw in his apartment. The look that makes me want to pull my clothes off and tell him to take me in any way that he wants. “Always,” he says, his voice deepening. “I had the biggest crush on you. I can’t believe you didn’t know that. The only reason I never acted on it until…that night…was because you seemed so reserved. Aloof, even. I gave up on you and went out with girls I didn’t like that much.”

“I had a crush on you for a long time, too,” I lie. Crush, ha. I was madly in love with you like only a teenage girl can be. I had hopes and dreams pinned on you. I wanted you. I’d saved my virginity for you.

As the memory of the pain hits me again, I feel myself tensing up, my fingers curling into fists. I don’t want to revisit heartbreak when we’re having such a nice time.

Maybe we should quit while we’re ahead.

“Listen, I’m pretty tired,” I tell him. “Do you think we could maybe settle up and head back?”

He nods, drawing his body away as though to signal that it’s okay, he’s not going to make a move. He throws a hand up and gestures for the bill. “I’ve got this,” he tells me.

“Oh, no,” I reply, inadvertently reaching across the table to stop him. I don’t want to be in debt to Dylan Emerson.

“Please,” he says, reaching a hand out abruptly to land on my own. This is the first time he’s touched me, if you don’t count his slamming into me at the coffee shop or our handshake. Shocks drive through me, sending a mad, wonderful pulse to my core, reminding me what effect this man has on my very excited body. “Lucy, let me pay,” he says. His voice is as strained as mine feels.

“Okay,” I reply reluctantly. I feel like a turtle retreating into its hard shell, fear and excitement flooding through my veins like alcohol. I want him so badly, but I’m so damned frightened of what it means.

He strokes a thumb along my skin before pulling his hand away, as though he’s reluctant to let me go. “Listen, I want to see you again,” he murmurs. His voice has gone very deep, very low, its masculinity swirling like smoke around my mind. If I didn’t know better I’d say that he was making a demand. “I want to spend time with you, Lucy.”

I shake my head, unwilling to negotiate with emotional terrorists who take my heart hostage and don’t give it back. “I don’t think…” I begin.

“So don’t think,” he tells me. His voice is all but a growl. My eyes meet his, and he looks so sexy that I want to throw caution to the wind and give in. I want to take him back to my place and breeze my hands over his muscles, straddle him, dominate him, claim him for myself, just for one night.

I want that night I lost so long ago.

“You’re telling me not to think?” I ask. “All I ever do is think. It’s my downfall. It’s why…it’s why I’m so fucked up, Dylan.”

“You’re not fucked up,” he says with a crooked smile, the dimple in his right cheek springing to life. “You’re perfect, Loose. The only thing that would make you more perfect is if you tell me you’ll spend some time with me here, in Rome.”

“I’ll spend some time with you,” I say. His smile is now evening out confidently, his teeth making an appearance.

“Excellent,” he says. “Was that so hard?”

I swallow hard. “I mean I’ll spend time with you as a friend.”

Bye-bye, smile. You were nice while you lasted.

Still, he keeps his chin up. Tearing his eyes away, he says, “Well, that’s better than nothing. As a friend then. Tomorrow after I’ve finished working, let me take you out and show you the sights. By then you’ll have gotten some rest, and we can go for a good long walk.”

“Sounds good.” A wander through the streets would be okay. As long as he doesn’t touch me again. If he puts his hands on me, I’ll lose my mind and my resolve. All resistance will melt away, and I’ll lick him, or kiss him, or bite him. Or all three at once.

They say that every woman has one man in her life that she just can’t resist. The bad boy who’s just too attractive to give up. The problem is, I’m beginning to think Dylan isn’t bad.

I’m not so sure he ever was.