Chapter 3
Roman
The problem with going out on a date while on vacation is I packed for vacation.
I packed for June in Italy—shorts, T-shirts, and athletic shoes that won’t give me blisters when I’m walking a lot.
The nicest thing I brought was my suit for the wedding, and Niilo said casual, which might not mean a suit, but it definitely doesn’t mean cargo shorts either.
I glance at the time on my phone, stomach falling. I don’t have time to sit here and panic about clothing. I need to get dressed, make sure my hair is lying right, and trim my beard so I don’t look like a lumberjack.
Wishing I at least had a polo shirt, I grab a plain black tee and the only pair of jeans I packed.
Jeans are better than shorts. Nobody wants to see my hairy calves on a first date.
Finally dressed, and feeling incrementally better because of it, I head into the bathroom to begin the process of turning a caveman into… well, into something more evolved.
By the time I’m sitting out front of my little hotel—rental car keys tinkling gently as I fidget nervously—I’m feeling like maybe I don’t look as good as I did last night, but I’m presentable; hopefully that’ll be enough.
Staring off into the distance, it takes a moment for me to break through my mindless stare and recognize the figure walking down the road.
Standing up, I shield my eyes and squint into the sun.
Niilo is walking on the side of the road, strolling along and looking like the most beautiful mirage.
I walk toward him, using my long legs to eat up the ground.
I didn’t realize he was walking. When he’d said he’d meet me, I’d assumed that meant he would drive over to my hotel.
I should have pushed him to let me pick him up.
“Hi,” I call, the moment I’m close enough to not need to shout.
“Hello,” he replies, lifting a pair of plain black sunglasses up to sit on top of his fair head.
It takes a very strong effort on my part to keep my eyes on his face, and not let them travel south.
He’s wearing a shirt that isn’t quite a crop top, but isn’t full size, either.
There is a very obvious, and very intriguing inch of skin visible above the waistband of his pants.
Not enough to offend anyone, but more than enough to make my mouth water and my fingers tingle with the urge to touch.
Of course, looking at his face is no hardship either.
I’d thought about Niilo all night, so I wasn’t likely to forget how he looks.
The white tone to his blond hair, and the silver jewelry adorning his ear and nose; the narrow, elfin shape of his jaw or the clear blue of his eyes.
The collar of his shirt is pulled off to one side and stretched enough to show a captivating bit of clavicle.
He looks like a partially unwrapped gift—just enough showing to give you a hint at what remains hidden; more than enough showing to make you want more.
“Well, you look stunning,” I tell him, the words falling out of my mouth without permission and quick enough that it takes my ears a few seconds to catch up. I nearly groan. If there is one thing I can count on in life, it’s me saying something awkward.
Niilo doesn’t look like it was the wrong thing to say, though. He looks pleased as punch, lips pressed together in a line and one corner pulled up in a half-smile.
“I do love a sweet talker,” he tells me. Stepping close enough to put a hand on the outside of my arm to hold his balance, he rises up on his toes and kisses my cheek. I almost put a steadying hand on his waist, but remember that bared strip of skin and refrain.
He doesn’t move away after dropping back on his heels, but stays close enough for me to see a faint shimmer of blue powder on his eyelids.
Paired with the mascara, his vivid blue eyes stand out in a remarkable way.
I almost laugh at my own pitiful attempts at making myself presentable.
All I did was trim my facial hair, and here Niilo is, ready for a runway.
“Uhm. You walked,” I comment, making sure he knows I’ve got at least two brain cells to rub together. “I would have picked you up. I should have picked you up.”
“Oh, it wasn’t too far and the weather isn’t bad today.
” He moves to walk back in the direction of my hotel, and I fall in beside him.
He doesn’t reach for my hand, which is probably good.
I’m clammy as all hell right now, and Niilo looks fresh and clean enough to have never experienced sweat in his life.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, unlocking the car and popping open the passenger door for him. He makes a soft noise that sounds like oh, and touches my hand unnecessarily as he climbs in. Hustling around the vehicle, I slide in and see him watching me.
“Of course,” he replies, clicking his seat belt into place. “Thank you for asking me. I have been looking forward to dinner all day.”
Unable to help the way my mouth curves into a smile, I try to resist the urge to throw my shoulders back and puff out my chest. Apparently, a beard trim wasn’t enough to leave my inner caveman fully behind.
“Oh,” he continues, reaching across the car to gently slide his fingertips through my hair, tracing the crown of my ear, “and you look gorgeous as well.”
Spontaneous combustion is looking more and more likely with each passing minute.
Nobody has ever flirted with me quite so boldly.
Certainly not someone who looks like him.
I clear my throat. His hand is back on his side of the car, resting safely in his lap.
Good thing, too. If he did that while I was driving, I’d send us off the side of the road.
“Uhm, right, so, where are we headed?” I ask gruffly, carefully turning the little car around until we’re facing the street.
“Not too far,” he replies softly, lifting a pale arm to gesture. Even seated, his movements are graceful and sure, like a ballerina.
I keep my hands at a careful ten-and-two position, radio off so I can listen carefully to his instructions. I would pay good-fucking-money to have his voice narrate my map application. Or read me books. Or whisper to me in the dark, accompanied by the slip of sheets and—
No, I’m going to stop that thought right there. I do not need to be thinking sexy thoughts before we have dinner in public.
It’s with a heavy sigh of relief that I park in front of what is apparently the restaurant. Wiping my palms on my thighs, I lean forward and look for a sign or something to indicate where we are.
“It’s down below,” Niilo tells me, unclipping his seat belt and checking the mirror before opening his door. I follow, now trying to figure out what he means by “down below.” When he leads me over to a stone-lined staircase, I raise my eyebrows at him.
“I’m pretty sure we aren’t supposed to go down there,” I comment, checking the railing in search of a sign. Niilo grins.
“Trust me. I have been staying at a hostel, and they told me about this place. I came here my second day with the others I share a room with. Trust me,” he requests again.
I follow him down the brick stairs, where he pushes open the scarred wooden door and makes as though to step to the side. Easily reaching over his shoulder, I press a palm to the wood and the other to his lower back, letting him enter first while holding the door as best I can.
“You see?” he asks, turning to me and smiling, eyes glittering in the low, intimate light of the room.
The restaurant is small. Tiny, even. Only four small tables occupy the space, with an L-shaped bar at the far corner leading back to the kitchen.
The walls and arched ceiling are stone, warm lighting provided by candles on the tables and old-fashioned wall sconces.
It’s dark, cozy, and romantic. And, judging by the table of patrons who are wearing shorts and tank tops, looser on the dress code than I would have guessed.
I look at Niilo, waiting patiently at my side as I take in the space, and reach for his hand.
Thin fingers slide between mine, and he gives me as much of a squeeze as his smaller hand can manage. I feel like a behemoth next to him—large and hairy, compared to his small, lithe frame. I think maybe he likes it though, if the way he gazes at me is any clue.
A man approaches us, glancing between us before settling his gaze on me.
“Niilo Ahonen?” he asks. “Party for two?”
“Sì, grazie,” Niilo answers, in perfectly accented Italian. The host’s gaze snaps to him, and he gestures for us to follow with a bob of his head. We barely have to walk ten steps from the door, before he’s pulling out our chairs for us.
“May I bring you anything to drink?” he asks, plucking out a wine menu from his apron and holding it out between us, as though waiting for one of us to take the initiative. I glance at Niilo, blushing. I don’t know a damn thing about wine, despite having spent all of yesterday at a winery.
“Would you mind if I ordered for us?” Niilo asks me, gently taking the wine menu from the waiter’s hand.
“Not at all.”
“Dinner too?” he clarifies, eyes sparkling in the glimmer of the candle between us. I can hear his earlier entreaty to trust him, whispered in his soft, melodic voice.
“Please.”
He smiles, pleased, and turns to the man waiting patiently next to the table.
Niilo falls into smooth Italian, eyes scanning the menu only barely, before he speaks directly to the waiter.
I watch his face as he talks, letting the words wash over me like ocean waves, cool and soothing and smooth.
In this lighting, his pale hair and skin are luminous, unblemished and lovely, like a rare gem that glows in the dark.
I give myself an internal shake as the waiter nods at me, before walking away and slipping behind the bar. Niilo sits back in his chair, far enough that I can see a strip of skin visible between the hem of his shirt and where the table is blocking the rest of the view. He smiles at me.