Chapter Six
Niilo
A week flies by in a haze of tourist traps, lesser-known attractions, and more local cuisine than should be possible to fit in our stomachs. I’d agreed to this trip with the appropriate amount of trepidation involved for traveling with a stranger. That is, I knew there was a strong possibility that, after a few days spent entirely in each other’s company, we’d run out of things to talk about, realize we have nothing in common, or just get sick of one another.
Instead, the times we’ve spent apart—nights in separate hotel rooms, or solo trips to the bathroom—I find myself missing him. I lie in bed, curled up and willing my tired body to convince my mind to rest, and think about how nice it would be to have Roman snuggled around me. I don’t even need it to be a sexual sharing of the bed, I just want him near. I want to see his scruffy face and broad chest first thing, and not have to wait for a knock at the door.
Having always considered myself a pragmatic, and level-headed individual, I’m not quite sure what to make of the way my mind and body keep reaching for Roman. Only one more week to spend in his company, and every drop of sand in the hourglass weighs me down a little more.
“Have you ever been in love?” he asks me now, as we drive down a winding road. This is how all of our vehicular conversations go—posing random questions to each other, and letting them lead us where they may.
Yes, I think, looking at the strong curve of his forearms, and the laugh lines visible at the corner of his eye, even when he’s not smiling. I wonder, where along this twisting road did I leave my sensibilities behind? He glances over, deepening those lines by grinning at me. I try not to sigh. It’s not his fault he’s perfect and I want him.
“No,” I tell him, because answering yes, you, I’m in love with you , would light the fuse on our perfect vacation, and I am not cruel. “Have you?”
“Only once,” he says, chuckling. “Sixteen years old and found the love of my life at the Jiffy Lube.”
Startled, I laugh. “What on earth is a Jiffy Lube?”
“It’s an automative franchise,” he replies, the words tinged with laughter. “They change your oil and stuff. My first car was a 1991 Buick, and that baby had the freshest oil around once I discovered the Jiffy Lube.”
“Oh my.” Smiling helplessly, I shake my head. “How often did you bring it in?”
“Had her in once a week for three months before my dad caught on,” he says stoutly. I burst out laughing.
“Oh no,” I comment. He nods, trying to look serious, but losing the battle with his smile.
“Oh no,” Roman agrees. “Hardly my fault, though. Porn was great and all, but the sweaty mechanic at the Jiffy Lube? Who wore a dirty white tank top under his coveralls? Teenage me never stood a chance.”
“And adult you? Do you often frequent automotive shops to ogle the natives?”
“Definitely not. I have a very specific preference these days, and it doesn’t include layers of oil, sweat, and dirt.”
“A type? Do tell.”
It’s only because I can’t tear my eyes away from his profile that I catch the smirk hidden in the beard.
“Blond. Blue-eyed. Shorter than me,” he lists off. I raise my eyebrows, but he’s looking resolutely at the road. “Uhm, let’s see. Smart, funny. Beautiful with makeup or without. Probably has a propensity for wearing clothing that makes me want to die.”
I snort. It’s true that I’ve devoted myself to wearing the least amount of fabric possible this week, and it’s also possible that I’ve enjoyed Roman’s reactions. I wasn’t trying to kill the man, but I suppose it does feel nice on the ego. I sit up a little straighter and adjust the seat belt stretched across my chest, biting my lip as Roman’s eyes immediately slide over and snag on my stomach.
“Accent,” he continues, clearing his throat. “Definitely has an accent. Always smells like he pulled his clothes fresh from the laundry.”
“My, this is quite specific,” I note. “I think we can narrow your search down to twinks, though, so that may help.”
“Finnish twinks,” he says with finality, making me laugh. He blushes a little bit, looking pleased when he glances away from the road and catches my eye. “Lucky for me, I successfully abducted one last week.”
“You are ridiculous and a flirt, Roman.”
“I’m actually pretty terrible at flirting. Luckily, you do seem to be picking up on the subtlety, though.”
I raise one eyebrow. “Does subtlety mean something different in America?”
“I’m just a simple Viking, Niilo,” he teases. My cheeks are starting to hurt from how often I’ve smiled and laughed today. How dare he be so handsome and silly and easy to like.
Our arrival in Rome successfully derails any further flirting, as chatting becomes harder when Roman is trying to navigate the city. We end up looping around our hotel three times, as he misses the turn and gets flustered by the narrow streets and brave pedestrians, striding out into the street. When he finally parks the little car, he pauses, taking a second to inhale the first breath I’ve seen him take in ten minutes, before turning to me.
“We can hit all the important stops on foot, if you like,” I offer, grinning when he practically radiates relief.
“Why does driving here feel so much harder than driving back home?” he asks, as we climb from the car and gather our bags. Or, Roman gathers them, as he seems hell-bent on never letting me lift a finger. “I swear I’ve driven in big cities before. I’m from Seattle!”
“I’m not a fan of driving in any city,” I admit, following Roman into the hotel and gazing around. The lobby is lit by an ancient-looking chandelier, the stone walls and floor faded with age. Already, I can tell this will be both the cheapest hotel we’ve stayed in, and my favorite.
This is confirmed when Roman calls me over to assist with the check-in, and the stressed-looking hostess hits me with rapid-fire Italian that even I have trouble following. Beside me, Roman stands perfectly still, listening with an adorably confused expression on his face, and his ID clutched in his hand.
“There was a problem with the booking,” I summarize. “She apologizes profusely, but there is only one room available.”
I do my best not to sound too happy about this, but I clearly fail, if the blush sneaking up from Roman’s beard is any indication. I shrug, because a single hotel room sounds like a marvelously good idea to me. In fact, I’d been hoping for it ever since I first sat in the passenger seat of his car. What can I say—I have a type, too.
“Oh, well, that’s okay?” he asks hesitantly. “Or…?”
“Or nothing.” I turn back to the hostess, who looks relieved that we aren’t about to throw a fit. “One room is just fine.”
Of course, in the nature of European hotel rooms and holiday mishaps, the room in question is hardly bigger than a kitchen pantry. There is a rickety-looking metal patio table tucked into one corner, the chairs small enough that there’s no way they’ll accommodate Roman’s size. A quick glance into the bathroom shows a space similarly proportioned—so tiny that barely a third of his body will get wet when he stands under the showerhead.
But the best part of the tiny room, is the equally tiny bed. The single tiny bed. Hands on my hips, I grin at it. Rome is quickly turning into the best leg of this journey, and we’ve only just arrived.
“Did she tell you there was only one bed?” Roman asks, glancing around the room as though thinking the second bed is merely hiding.
“Oh, she might have mentioned it,” I reply flippantly, waving a hand. She did, in fact, mention it. Unfortunately, I have a very serious condition called selective hearing, and chose to ignore it.
“That’s a really small bed,” he notes, voice caught somewhere between amused and alarmed. I trace his tall frame with my eyes and come to the conclusion that his feet will, most likely, hang off the end. I’ll fit perfectly, particularly with that big body hopefully wrapped around me.
“I’m not mad about it,” I admit, which sets Roman off laughing.
“I promise I didn’t do this on purpose,” he eventually tells me, eyes wide and earnest. “I booked two rooms and two beds.”
“That’s what they all say.” I sigh, blowing out a single hard breath and shaking my head. Placing a hand over his eyes, Roman chuckles.
“I’m not mad about it, either,” he agrees. “Now let’s get out of here. It’s too early for sleeping, and I can’t be in this room with you, unless we’re going to be in the bed.”
Rome is hot. The height of summer brings waves of heat and tourists, everyone flocking toward the popular destinations like flies to honey. Because of this, I have a love-hate relationship with the city, and although I would probably have skipped the tourist sites on my second round through, I’m not going to begrudge Roman the chance to experience them. It has to be said, the tourist spots in the city are popular for a reason.
Our tour guide at the Colosseum makes a comment about Roman being a gladiator no less than three times. By the time he’s gearing up for a fourth, I’m considering ripping the man’s tongue out of his mouth; maybe scratching his eyes out for good measure. I’ve had quite enough of the appreciative looks and the flirting.
“If that man makes another comment about your biceps, I’m pushing him off this ledge,” I tell Roman waspishly, pointing toward the ledge in question.
We’re walking along the top tier of the Colosseum, sun hot on our faces, and skin tacky. Roman’s white shirt is damp enough to stick to his chest in an obscene manner, and lends some handy visual aids to our guide’s fantasy of him as a sweaty gladiator. I scowl at the man’s back. I might be small, but I’m strong for my size and everyone knows jealously is the best motivator.
“I’m definitely throwing him over the edge,” I declare, before Roman can respond.
“Well, to be fair, I probably would make a good gladiator,” he replies, sounding proud of himself. I roll my eyes and he laughs, grabbing my hand despite how dismally hot it is. Our sweaty fingers slide together, but I don’t mind either. Not when someone glances back at us and notices, frowning. That’s right, I think tartly, find your own gladiator, this one’s taken.
Half an hour later, we exit the Colosseum, caught along in the stream of bodies. Brushing a hand up the back of my neck, grimacing at the way the hair that escaped from my bun is sticking to my skin, I say a silent thank-you to past-me for keeping the makeup to a minimum this morning. People who visit Rome in the height of summer are crazy. I am crazy. The big Viking turned gladiator next to me is definitely crazy, if the smile on his face is any indication.
“What next?” he asks enthusiastically, pulling up his trusty notes app and looking at me with eager, brown, puppy-dog eyes. I melt a little bit at that look, despite needing no help in that department, and sidle closer to take a look.
“Let’s do Palatine Hill, the Arch of Constantine”—I point at the arch, within a stone’s throw of where we’re standing now—“and the Roman Forum. All of that is right here. Also, the Basilica San Clemente is close as well, and worth a visit. It’s not on your list, but the basilicas are like standing works of art around here. Not to mention, they house a lot of art worth seeing as well.”
“You don’t have to convince me!” he says excitedly. “I want to see it all. Anything you recommend, let’s do.”
Smiling, the feathers that had been ruffled by our Colosseum guide smoothing down, I retake his hand and tug him toward the arch. I know quite a bit of random knowledge about the sites in Rome, having swallowed a guide book during my own inaugural visit here, and I mean to use the knowledge to make myself appear a touch more intelligent than I really am.
“Wow,” Roman says, eyebrows raised as he looks between me and the Arch of Constantine, after I word vomit a history lesson on him. “I didn’t know half of that.”
“It’s only one of three remaining arches in Rome,” I add, gesturing toward the massive structure. “It’s also the largest.”
“Only three? Wow,” he repeats, “that’s sad. No wonder they have the fence around it.”
We walk slowly toward Palatine Hill, the heat rising in visible waves off the stone paths. July in Rome is truly hellish. Only the thought of our tiny, blessedly air-conditioned hotel room keeps me pushing forward. Well, that and the lovely little single bed we’re going to be cuddled up in tonight.
“Okay,” Roman prompts, once we’ve reached the top of the hill. Almost unconsciously, he reaches out and uses a finger to tuck a stray bit of hair behind my ear. I flush, body heating up further, as though he did that with his tongue. “Tell me about the hill.”
Taking a deep breath in an attempt to reroute my blood back to my head, I glance around. We’re stopped in the shade—bless these trees—and the crowds are noticeably thinner up here, just like they were last time I visited.
“I don’t remember much,” I admit, “but it’s said to be one of the seven founding hills of Rome. The first hill, if you believe the legends. Oh, and Cicero lived here.”
“Who the hell is Cicero?” Roman asks.
“I haven’t a clue.” Tipping his head back, he laughs loud enough to draw the attention of a family walking by. Still chuckling, he whips out his trusty cellphone and snaps a picture of the tree we’re standing under. “Some of the emperors also had homes here: Augustus, Caligula, and a few others I can’t remember.”
“Maybe Cicero was an emperor,” Roman comments, adjusting his position so the Colosseum is behind me in the distance, and taking another picture.
“Maybe,” I agree, waiting for him to finish this series of photographs, before leading him along.
“Whoa,” he says on a heavy exhale, when we reach the balcony overlooking the Roman Forum. I smile, ignoring the ruins in favor of drinking in his expression. There’s nothing quite like introducing something magnificent to someone else, and getting to watch the magic light up their eyes.
“Welcome to downtown ancient Rome.” I gesture toward the ruins, enjoying the way he’s smiling and snapping photos like his life depends on it.
Indulgently, I let him steer me around and take pictures of me with the forum below, and even snag us a pair of tourists to take some of us together. Roman, fully unconcerned with the pool of sweat that has made its home on my lower back, drapes his arm around my waist and pulls me in. I put a steadying hand on his stomach and wrap my free arm around his hips, which makes our photographer coo happily.
“So cute!” she declares, handing the phone off to Roman, who bravely asks her to take a few more from a different angle.
“Wow. This is so cool. So cool,” he repeats, once we finally make it down into the ruins.
“It is,” I agree. The Roman Forum is one of my favorite attractions in the city, and although it is nice to visit on a guided tour, I feel a case could be made for enjoying it like this.
We stroll through leisurely, stepping back in time and seeing an ancient Roman market; hearing the echoes of prayers in the temples, and treading the same paths that were walked hundreds of years ago. The going is slow, as we stop and admire each half-crumbled building, carving, and stone pillar.
“This one is my favorite,” he declares, as we stop in front of the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina. I bite back the urge to drag his face down and kiss the hell out of him.
“Mine too,” I whisper, squeezing his hand and staring at the church.
Silently, we stand at the foot of the ancient stairs and crane our necks, heads tipped backward as we take in the columns of stone. I wait for him to look his fill, before we continue on our meandering way. Somehow, we’ve managed to time our visit with some sort of celestial miracle that kept the rest of Rome away—the paths are relatively clear and only a handful of visitors pass us. I haven’t seen a guided tour in thirty minutes, which probably means it’s time for us to leave, since they’re likely hoofing it over here as we speak.
“Niilo?”
“Mm?” I look up at him, squinting, fighting with the sun that’s currently nestled in the crook of Roman’s shoulder.
“Hungry?”
“Starving,” I agree, as my stomach gives a helpful little gurgle.