Chapter 2
Niilo
How unexpected this big American man is. Handsome enough to have heads turning his way as he walked by, and humble enough not to notice. He stuttered through the most awkward introduction I’ve had in a long time, and blushed like a schoolboy when I touched his hand.
Oh yes, Roman is a lovely surprise.
Although it would be a crying shame to take him out of that suit, I can’t imagine the view underneath is a hardship on the eye. Roman looks a little like a Viking—all messy dark hair, scruff, and arms a man could sink his teeth into. He’s got chest hair, I just know he has.
I hate working weddings, but the universe is apparently kind to those who bartend. I smile at my Viking, catching him checking me out again and earning another pretty blush.
“Have you enjoyed much of the country?” I ask, gesturing toward the green hills of Tuscany, washed out by the golden light of sunset.
“I only flew in yesterday,” he admits sheepishly, as though he’s committed a punishable offense by not having already completed a full holiday itinerary.
“Only staying for the wedding?” I ask. “What a shame to only see Tuscany. To only see the villa.”
I gesture vaguely behind me. The villa and surrounding vineyard are stunning, but they are also intended to appeal to rich people who can afford a wedding that costs more than most people make in a year.
It would be like only seeing Italy from the comfort of your couch and the television.
Pretty, but some things are better with your feet on the ground.
“Oh, no. Actually, I’ve got a couple weeks here. Staying here tonight—well, not here here, but in Tuscany—and then off from there.”
He gestures vaguely over the fence in front of us as though he’s going to hop over and start his adventure on foot. I grin around the mouth of my water bottle. This man is painfully charming.
“Off to…” I leave the end of that sentence for him to pick up.
“Not sure, to be honest.”
I laugh, and he looks proud.
“I am impressed! A holiday with no itinerary—that is rather brave of you,” I congratulate him.
“You say brave, I say stupid,” he replies, huffing out a deep sigh. “I’ve got a rental car, though, and I haven’t taken a vacation in four years. Before that, the last place I went was Chicago, so you can do the math there.”
I chuckle, happy to have found the one guest at the wedding who is handsome and a good conversationalist. Not to mention, into men, if the way he’s been looking at me all night is any indication.
“Well, I think there is much to be said about letting the road lead the way,” I admit, staring out at the now rapidly darkening sky.
“Where would you go if you were me?” he asks.
I turn to him, stepping a little closer and leaning my hip on the fencepost. A small breeze sends a waft of aftershave my direction, and I’m gratified to find he smells a little bit like a Viking, too.
Earthy and manly, like a campfire in the woods; with skin briny after a day spent on the sea.
“Mm, well, how high up on your bucket list is the Tower of Pisa?”
“So low, it doesn’t even make the top hundred,” he replies shortly. I smile and he returns it, eyes crinkled with joy.
“Oh, I knew I liked you, Roman.” I tease out another blush with that one, which is lovelier each time I see it. “You’ll find people divided on Pisa, but I thought it was rather underwhelming. Just my opinion. Florence is worth a visit, as is Siena. Both are in the Tuscany region.”
“Florence is where the David is located, right? I do want to see that,” he admits sheepishly, as though I might give him a hard time for wanting to see tourist destinations.
“You should,” I agree. “It is impressive. Some tourist things are popular for a reason. Others”—I teeter my hand back and forth in a so-so motion—“are less worth the effort.”
“I do want to see Rome. And maybe Lake Como, but—”
“—they are in opposite directions,” I finish, handing him the water bottle and watching his lips as he takes a sip. “If you wish to go south, there are many destinations worth your time, though. Amalfi, Puglia, Matera.”
“Pompeii,” Roman adds, perking up.
“Correct. Do you enjoy history?”
“I do. I’m a little bit of a hermit, to be honest. I work from home and don’t get out much, so I watch a lot of documentaries and Discovery Channel.”
“Do you watch with your partner?” I ask, tilting my head to the side and watching his face.
I enjoy flirting and having no-strings-attached fun with tourists, but I won’t be the ignorant third party in a relationship, no matter how disposable.
Holiday flings are meant for the single, not the spoken for.
Roman looks surprised by the question, at first, before his mouth tilts upward into a pleased grin.
“No partner,” he tells me. “You?”
“No. It’s just me.” And it’s been just me for a very long time. I love traveling and meeting new people, but a vagabond life is not favorable for fostering long-term relationships. Not unless your partner is traveling with you.
My bed has been little more than a revolving door these months on the road, and while I certainly enjoyed myself, I’m exhausted.
I’m tired of shallow, meaningless conversation with men who don’t bother to remember my name.
I’m tired of working weddings and watching people in love make vows of forever, while fielding advances from guests who think the staff belong to them.
I’ve been in Italy for months, and have worked four weddings in that time; not once have I given a guest more than a passing glance.
Not until Roman.
“Well, are you staying near here?” he asks hesitantly. “Maybe you’d like to go out to dinner tomorrow?”
“Aren’t you off on your adventure tomorrow?” I ask, arching an eyebrow and pretending my heart doesn’t burn with pleasure at the offer.
“I can wait another day,” he says quickly.
Oh yes, I got lucky indeed. I stare up at his eager face.
“Sure. Dinner would be nice.”
He beams at me. “Oh good. Do you want—”
A shrill laugh carries down to where we’re standing in the lengthening shadows at the end of the drive. Both of us look back in the direction of the party, and judging by the expression on Roman’s face, he comes to the same realization as me.
“We’d better get back to the party,” he says on a sigh, rubbing a hand over his bearded chin.
“You’re right. I imagine I might be needed to help the drunken guests further embarrass themselves.”
Roman chuckles, grabbing his suit coat off of the fence and giving it a very cursory dust-off.
He pulls it back on, and the poor garment screams in pain as it attempts to stretch around his broad shoulders.
We set off up the cobbled drive toward the sounds of merriment, walking side by side.
I have to hide a smile when Roman tries to put his hands in the pockets of his slacks, and discovers they are too tight to accommodate them with his thighs.
I think I may owe his tailor a thank-you card.
“So…dinner tomorrow?” he asks carefully, as we get close enough to the villa to pick out individual voices.
“Tomorrow,” I agree.
“How will I find you?”
“I will come to you. Where are you staying?”
“Oh, uhm.” Shifting to the side in an effort to make freeing his cellphone from his pants easier, Roman frowns as he taps through a few things. Instead of making an attempt to pronounce the Italian, he holds the phone out to me so I can read the booking confirmation. I nod.
“I know it. I will find you.”
He looks relieved at that, and more than a little pleased. I watch as he shifts uncomfortably, rotating his shoulder and tugging at the collar of his shirt.
“Do you mind if I choose the restaurant?” I ask. “Perhaps something casual?”
“Please,” he agrees. “Yes. This wedding fills my quota for wearing dress clothes for at least the next five years. Maybe more. Also, I’m pretty sure I bought the wrong size.”
“Mm,” I hum, glancing down and not bothering to hide my casual perusal. “It looks like the perfect size to me.”
He scratches a hand over his short beard again, as though wanting to cover up his cheeks and hide the pink. One would think I, with my fair skin, would be the one having trouble with blushing. It’s an endearing trait to find in someone who looks like him—big and strong and masculine.
“Roman! Come dance with me!”
I take a step backward as the bride herself yanks her dress up to her thighs, and comes down the stairs toward us at a pace that shouldn’t be possible in the shoes she’s wearing.
She’s glowing, cheeks flushed with heat and a smile wide enough to show off her dental work.
I take another step back, thinking I might quietly escape while her attention is on Roman.
The help isn’t meant to bother the guests, and certainly not the bride.
She reaches Roman and loops her arm through his, locking him in place.
Probably wise, judging by his expression.
He’d likely rather run for the hills than dance with her in front of this crowd.
Before I can fully retreat, she turns to me, eyes sparkling in the artificial glow of the lights strung above.
“Hi! I’m Olivia.” She holds her hand out to shake mine, keeping Roman pressed to her side with the other.
“Niilo,” I reply. “And congratulations.”
She beams. “Thank you.”
“Niilo is Finnish,” Roman puts in, before adding a small geography lesson, “From Finland, which is in Northern Europe, near Sweden. And Russia.”
Olivia looks amused as she pats his arm. Roman looks embarrassed enough to never open his mouth and speak again.
“Well, that’s interesting,” she says kindly. “What sort of wedding traditions do you have in Finland?”
“There are sometimes games,” I admit. “The guests might steal the bride, and the groom has to perform tasks to get her back.”
Olivia drops her head back and laughs, throaty and loud, the way someone entirely comfortable with themself would laugh.
“Well, shoot. Looks like I’ve blown my one and only wedding—nobody is going to try and steal me,” she says, pouting. “Come on, you. No more hiding. I was promised one dance and I mean to get it. Nice to meet you, Niilo, I hope you’re having a good night.”
She tugs Roman’s arm. He sends a somewhat pitiful look my way, but allows himself to be led. I mouth tomorrow at him and he brightens, sharing another small smile before he’s spirited away.
I stand at the base of the stairs, watching the back of him as he walks away. Skirting the edge of the party, I slide back behind one of the bars and smooth a hand down the front of my vest. For the first time since the wedding started, my smile is genuine.