Chapter Four
Niilo
“ W ait, wait. You’re going on a road trip with a complete stranger? With a man you met during a job ?”
Carefully, I roll up my T-shirts and tuck them into my bag. Bent over my cot in the shared room, the only part I can see of my roommate is his waist and the fists currently planted on his hips. I glance up at his face, smirking at his expression. Mathéo glares.
“You were a stranger until a week ago,” I remind him, hiding my grin when he scoffs and throws up his hands, muttering in French. “And I had to live with you.”
I gesture at our small room, indicating the two twin cots and single nightstand between them. Mathéo’s hands find his hips once more and he walks a few paces back and forth, trying to come up with an argument.
“But he is American!” is what he comes up with, making me laugh.
“You love them,” I remind him, thinking of all the nights he made me watch American football on his laptop. What a horrendously boring sport.
“I think you need to stay. Come with me to Naples, yeah? Or perhaps we are done with Italy. Perhaps we?—”
“I am not done with Italy. At least, not for the next couple of weeks, I’m not.” Finishing with the shirts, I begin folding my boxers into small squares, before tucking them into the bag. “I’m going on a road trip with Roman. If he ends up being awful, I’ll just have him drop me off and make my own way. It’s not as though we haven’t both had to do that before.”
Mathéo, like me, finished university and immediately hopped onto a plane to kick off his travel year. Unlike me, he’s missing home and will likely be traveling back to France sooner than I’ll go home to Finland. He makes a small, disgruntled noise in the back of his throat that somehow gives the impression of a rude hand gesture. I grin at the socks I’m folding together.
“Fine. I can see you aren’t going to be swayed. I promise to say something nice about you when they interview me for the podcast episode about your murder.”
I skirt around him to snag my charger from the wall, thinking about the pact Roman and I made the evening before. He could be crazy, I suppose, but trusting my gut has gotten me this far and served me well on the journey. I trust him. Even without anything to base the feeling on, I trust him.
Mathéo trails after me like a disapproving shadow as I gather my few belongings, packing them safely away. He helps me strip my bed, the way guests are required to do when they vacate, and even goes so far as to give me a grudging hug when it’s time for me to leave.
“You don’t have to hang around,” I tell him, fixing my hair after a few strands get pulled loose from the partial ponytail. He rolls his eyes, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the wall.
“I need to see the American, so I’m able to identify him to the police.”
Snorting, I lift my phone and use the camera to check my face. Given that Roman and I are probably going to be doing nothing more than sitting in the car all day, I probably didn’t need to put quite as much effort into my appearance as I did. But I’m nothing if not vain, so I’m wearing a pair of shorts that will border on obscene when I’m seated in the car, another crop top like the one I wore last night, albeit shorter, and makeup. Roman gave me no less than six compliments on my makeup last night, which means I’ll be wearing it for the entire journey, no matter the activity we’re doing.
I catch Mathéo’s reflection in the screen, rolling his eyes again, but a car pulls into the small lot before he can offer a comment. Lowering my phone, I stand and smile at the little wave Roman sends through the windshield as he parks. He pops the door and unfolds his big frame from the vehicle, cheeks already a little red underneath the dark beard.
“Hey, Niilo,” he greets me, eyes flicking up and down as he takes me in. The blush crawls down his neck, which is ridiculously satisfying. I knew the shorts were the right decision.
“Hello,” I reply cheerfully, gesturing toward Mathéo with a casual flick of the wrist. “This is Mathéo, who is confused and thinks he is my father. Ignore him.”
Roman laughs, but tries to cover it up with a cough. We share a look before he gamely attempts to introduce himself to my friend. While they’re shaking hands and puffing out their chests at one another, I sling my bag over my shoulder and head toward the rear of the car.
“I’ve got that,” Roman says, rushing over and holding out his hand for my things. I pass it over, pleased, and raise my eyebrows at Mathéo, who pretends to gag. Squeezing Roman’s forearm in thanks, I walk over to Mathéo.
“Text me,” he requests, pulling me into a hug with a hand on my shoulder. After a squeeze that threatens to leave me with a few cracked ribs, he adds, “You didn’t tell me he was hot.”
Grinning as I slide into the passenger seat of Roman’s car—after he held the door for me again, like the sort of gentleman I didn’t realize actually existed—I waggle my fingers at Mathéo through the window. He sends a rude hand gesture back, because he loves me.
“Your friend seems…nice,” Roman tries valiantly, once we are pulling away from the hostel. I laugh. He glances over, grinning, cheeks still a little pink. The car, which is a normal-sized vehicle, feels tiny with his broad shoulders taking up two-thirds of the space.
“My friend is jealous because I’m off on an adventure with a Viking, while he’s stuck behind and in line for a new roommate.”
“Viking, huh?” he asks, sounding pleased. “I can work with that.”
The Italian countryside flies by, but I’m barely paying attention. One leg cocked up on the seat so I can sit at an angle, I forgo the view in favor of watching Roman. We’ve been chatting about everything and nothing, the conversation ricocheting between topics like a bouncy ball. I’ve learned enough about Roman’s middle school experience to know that it was a place only a small step above hell; I know his favorite color, food, and animal—both wild and domesticated. I know he struggles with public speaking, and likes to read, although he finds himself watching documentaries more often than picking up a book these days. I know he’s not close with his family, nor does he feel like he’s got any friends who would, in his words, miss him if he were gone.
By the time dusk is crawling over the hills with fingers tinted pink, we’ve had what I consider to be a successful first day. The drive from the vineyard to Florence is quick and relatively painless, if one is to make a straight shot of it, but that’s not what we did. We took detours based on nothing more than a hunch, or a comment along the lines of “huh, I wonder what’s down here.” We stretched an hour-long drive into five, and stopped no less than four times to eat.
Climbing out of the car, I reach my arms over my head and stretch. I hold the pose a little longer than strictly necessary, enjoying the way Roman seems unable to look away from my stomach. He grabs both his bag and mine as we head into the hotel, the fingers of his free hand resting very gently on my upper back.
“I booked two rooms,” he mutters under his breath, stopping and setting the bags down so he can tap at his cellphone. “Last night, after I got back from dinner.”
Amused, I watch him check in with the hostess at the front desk. I glance around at the shiny marble floor, and potted plants. The arched doorways draw my eyes upward, to a ceiling painted in the fresco style. I step a little closer to Roman as he checks in, listening in on the off chance he needs me to interpret anything. He doesn’t, nor does he apparently need any help carrying the luggage as we take the stairs up to our floor.
“I can carry my bag,” I tell him. He looks at me, eyebrows slanted downward.
“No,” is all he says in return.
“What do I owe you for the room?” I ask somewhat nervously. This is an expensive hotel, and I don’t need to check the internet listing to know so. I’m not bereft, by any means, but this is more luxury than I’ve encountered outside of a work uniform.
“Nothing. I want to pay.” He smiles and nods toward a door, dropping his bag with a thump and handing me a key for what is apparently my room. I’m disappointed we aren’t sharing, which is even more ridiculous than heading off on a tour of Italy with a stranger. It’s a good thing we have separate rooms. Safer.
“Coming in?” I ask, somewhat desperately. After spending all afternoon eating, neither of us is hungry enough to go foraging for an early dinner. But I don’t want the day to end here.
“Want to walk?” he asks hopefully. I relax, relieved that he’s not sick of me after an entire day spent in my company.
“Absolutely.” Bringing my bag into the room, I give the space a cursory glance before joining him back in the hallway. “Fancy,” I comment, which makes him chuckle.
“Not a lot to choose from when you’re booking the night before,” he admits. “I didn’t exactly shop around—kind of just went with the first one that looked cool.”
“Well, it certainly looks cool,” I confirm.
Roman barely steps a foot into his own room, next door to mine, before tossing his bag in and closing the door. I watch him re-lock it, wondering how anybody could manage to be this appealing without actively trying. He catches me watching and smiles softly, holding his hand out, palm facing upward.
As we did the night before, we stroll hand in hand through the streets. Having already been to Florence, I’m familiar with the city, but there’s something undeniably magical about visiting it with someone who hasn’t. Roman keeps a tight hold of my hand and his head on a constant swivel, as though tonight is his one and only opportunity to take it all in. I’ve never seen eyes so wide.
The only time he lets go of me is when he needs both hands to steady his cellphone as he snaps pictures. Adorably, he appears to want a picture of everything, including things as innocuous as parking meters. He also wants a picture of us with everything, which gives me the kind of feelings I would be better off ignoring for now.
We take a selfie next to every piece of architecture Roman likes, which admittedly, is all of them. He’s going to be sore, from all the squatting down he’s had to do, to put his face close enough to mine for a photograph.
“This is incredible,” he says for the dozenth time, gazing fondly around the Piazza del Duomo. When he notices an angle he somehow missed getting a picture of, he brings his phone up and snaps six in quick succession. I wait—feeling painfully fond of him—for what I know comes next.
“We need someone to take our picture together,” he says, glancing around. Gamely, I stop a young lady and ask, in careful Italian, if she wouldn’t mind assisting us.
As he’s done each time, Roman puts his arm around my shoulders and leans down so his head is against mine. I wrap my own around his wide waist and don’t even have to reach for a smile—it’s as easy as breathing.
“These are so good,” he comments, flicking back through his album and glancing up to smile at me.
“You’ll have to share them with me.”
He peers down at his phone, looking confused for a second, before hacking out a delighted, and somewhat embarrassed, laugh.
“I don’t have your phone number,” he says wonderingly, holding his phone up for a visual. I bite my lip to contain my own answering laugh.
“We’ve really gone about this in a backward fashion, haven’t we?” I muse, Roman chuckling gleefully as he hands me his phone. I type in my number, as well as my full name—which he heard me use at the restaurant, but might not know how to spell—and add my email address for good measure. I stop at putting my home address in Finland, but it’s a close thing. I want to make sure he always has a way to get hold of me.
“Perfect. Niilo Ahonen,” he reads. “Thank you. Now you’re stuck with me.”
“Perfect,” I echo, as my phone chimes with forty-seven air-dropped photographs.
Roman knocks so lightly on my door the next morning, I question whether it was a knock at all. Pausing, eyeliner pencil millimeters from my eye, I wait and see if I imagined the noise. It comes again, a little more sure, so I drop the pencil and answer the door with only one eye finished. Roman beams at me, holding his hands up to show me the coffee and paper bag he’s carrying.
“Good morning,” I greet him, stepping back to let him inside. “You’ve already been out, I see.”
“Wanted to bring you breakfast,” he says, as though the hotel he’s paying for doesn’t offer that service on-site. Walking back over to the table I’ve got my mirror propped up on, I pass my hand over his lower back on my way by.
“That was kind of you, thank you.”
I don’t think I’m imagining the way the words make him straighten, or the way his smile brightens, as though I’ve bestowed an incredible compliment. Maybe he does consider being called kind as the highest of praise, which only makes me like him more.
“So, I wasn’t sure what your coffee order was and I was scared I’d wake you up if I texted you.” He faces me, lifting the cup held in his right hand. “We’ve got two options. This one is a cappuccino, and this one”—he holds up the left—“is an espresso. Or a caffé, as the barista called it. Pretty sure it doesn’t have milk, but honestly, I have no idea.”
“I’ll drink either, so you choose,” I offer, grinning when he immediately passes off the caffé, as I suspected he would. “Thank you.”
“I also got some stuff from the bakery,” he tells me, taking a sip of the cappuccino and eyeing my makeup array with interest. I wave him toward the chair opposite as I sit back down and pick up the eyeliner pencil. He sits down, big fingers fiddling with a bronzer. “You won’t mind if I watch?”
“Nope. Watch away,” I tell him, swiping a black line across my eyelid with a practiced flick. In my periphery, I see him lean forward as though hoping for a closer look. I bite the inside of my cheek and try not to poke my own eye out.
He stays mostly silent, and I work fast, having a lot of practice from the last couple years. When I catch his eye, he smiles, scratching idly at his bearded cheek.
“Not trying to make you uncomfortable, but this is all very sexy,” he tells me.
Drinking my shot of espresso, I sit back in my chair and reach for the cornetto he left for me, smiling around a small bite. Worried that him finding the makeup sexy will make me uncomfortable? Adorable.
“Some guys don’t like it.” I shrug when he frowns, looking even more the Viking than he usually does. “But I do, so that’s why I do it.”
“You were beautiful without it,” he tells me, gesturing toward the door to remind me I answered with a single raccoon eye, “and now you just look unreal. Like we should be propping you up on a plinth next to David , and charging ticket fees.”
“Half the price, though, since I’m not quite as tall,” I joke. He scoffs.
“Triple the price. You’re worth ten of that marble bastard.”
Wearing a smile that is wide enough to hurt, I toss everything back into my bag and fold up the mirror, clearing the table in case we want to use it later for anything other than pampering. Leaning forward, edge digging into my chest, I wait for Roman to meet me halfway. It’s not a kiss so much as a peck—a good morning, “hi, how are you?” familiar kiss you might share with someone you’ve kissed a thousand times.
“Ready to get out of here, and meet that marble bastard?” I ask, before he kisses me again, smiling into it.