Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
A pproaching Monaco had me stressing like a hostel barmaid on Saint Paddy’s night.
Maybe Roman sensed my anxiety because he became Mr. Chatty. Last time we left Monaco, I was in a real downer of a mood. Maybe he was worried I’d hit that funk again.
Roman chatted about all sorts of random topics as we cruised the long stretch of highway between Lyon and Monte Carlo. He told me about his mamma’s weird obsession with snow globes. Apparently, she had nearly two hundred snow globes from all over the world even though she’d never left Italy. Her friends bought them for her when they traveled. Roman’s expression had grown dark when he’d mentioned that. But he bounced right back to smiling when he talked about his nieces and nephews.
It must have been wonderful to have an uncle like him.
I’d never had that pleasure. I didn’t even know if my parents had siblings. If they did, they never spoke of them. They never spoke about their folks either.
I’d never thought of that as weird until I’d met William and attended his grandmother’s eightieth birthday. Over a hundred of his direct descendants and their partners had gathered in a park. It had been impossible to remember all their names, let alone understand where they stood in the family tree.
In comparison, my family tree was barely an undernourished sapling.
It was nice hearing Roman’s stories, and for a change he didn’t grill me with his twenty questions. We were passing the turnoff for Nice when he turned to me, all serious. “Are you going to the casino tonight to see that guy, Oscar?”
“Hell no.” Shit! I hadn’t meant for my response to be so dramatic.
His eyebrows launched upward. “No to the casino, or no to Oscar?”
“Both.”
“Interesting.” His gaze lingered just a fraction too long, and I braced for an onslaught of questions. “What are you doing tonight then?”
That wasn’t the question I’d been expecting. I thought he’d ask all sorts of random stuff like ‘was Oscar’s dick too small?’ or something just as humiliating. Curling up in bed with my current book and getting the night over with was at the top of my to-do list.
But his comment about me getting old whizzed through my brain like a dose of caustic soda. And the incessant clock reminding me that I was running out of time in Europe boomed in my head, a constant battle drum.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
It was time to get my fun Daisy Chayne hat on. With the intention of impressing Roman, I turned to him, smiling, and said, “Why don’t you tell me what I’m doing tonight?”
His eyes lit up. He glanced from me to the road and back again. “I have the perfect idea.”
“Oh. Yay.” I think . Trying to assemble my thoughts, I pictured what Roman’s perfect idea could be. A nightclub. The movies. Us getting all drunk and stupid and falling into bed together.
Oh, God. Where the fuck did that come from?
His silence was killing me. Roman didn’t usually do silent.
“Well, are you going to tell me?”
“No, it’s a surprise.”
“Oh. Come on.” I hated surprises. Actually, no, that wasn’t true. I had no idea if I liked surprises or not. I’d never had a man surprise me. Zali woke me a few times on the cruise ship with a blue cocktail in the middle of the night. That was my kind of surprise.
Was telling someone it was a surprise really a surprise?
The longer Roman remained silent, the more it troubled me.
He was a tad smug and even a little jittery, or maybe he was actually enjoying himself.
Deciding I’d act all aloof as if surprises were as common as wayward pubes, I stood, grabbed the microphone, and did my usual talk on Monaco and the casino choices. Unlike last month, most of this group wanted to go to the classy Casino de Monte-Carlo. I was a heartbeat off warning the ladies about Oscar. But I bit my tongue.
He’d done nothing wrong.
It had just been me and my stupid ideas that’d ruined that hot night of sex.
Once we had everyone checked into our hostel, and Roman and I were the only ones remaining in the lobby, I looked up at him, taking in his chiseled jaw, his neatly trimmed three-day growth that nearly swamped his dimpled chin, and his cherry popsicle lips that were just begging to be kissed.
My insides purred.
What the? I have lost my fucking mind. Wrestling my horny pussy back into its cage, I said, “Are you at least going to tell me what to wear?”
He lowered his gaze to mine, and a strange feeling cruised through me—a strong sense of belonging. Like Roman and I were longtime friends, reuniting after years apart. My heart soared like a helium balloon set adrift on a warm evening breeze.
“Wear whatever you want.” His smile had tiny lines creasing beside his honey eyes. The man was male perfection.
My blood pumped faster. “Awww, don’t do that to me. Are you getting dressed up?”
“No more than usual.”
What did that even mean? His usual was like he was about to step onto the catwalk. He looked spectacular even in his drab, navy-colored polo uniform. “Should I wear high heels?”
“Daisy.” He touched his arm to my shoulder, smirking like I was his confused little sister. “Just be you.”
I blinked at him. Just be me? Ahhh, not so easy, people. Daisy’s identity took a boat ride into turbulent waters last month, and she’s still lost at sea.
We rode the lift together. At my floor, I stepped out and turned to him. “So, I’ll meet you in the lobby in thirty minutes, dressed to go to dinner, right?”
He simply flashed that dazzling smile of his as the elevator doors closed. Damn it.
Just be me. Just be me.
Daisy. Daisy. Who the fuck is Daisy?
I wasn’t the introverted Aussie woman who spent every moment wishing she could curl up with a wine in one hand and a romance novel in the other. I wasn’t the relationship tragic who fiercely held onto her secrets.
And I wasn’t really the confident woman I’d pretended to be who dreamed of spending her last five months in Europe with loads of hot steamy bangs.
Thanks to Pierre, that too was fucked up.
I was like a smoky campfire—one minute dark and clouded, the next minute pirouetting upward into a beautiful starry night. So yeah, just be me was not that easy.
I needed Zali’s help. With my eyes flitting from the clock on the nightstand to my random collection of clothes in my suitcase, I tapped out a message detailing my wardrobe dilemma to Zali.
My phone buzzed seconds later with her text reply.
Oh goodie, sounds like he’s into you
Oh jeez. Will you stop? We are NOT having sex
Why not?
Damn it. Texting was taking too long. I rang her instead.
“Hey, babe,” she answered after the first ring.
“Hey, I’ve told you before. Roman is way younger than me, and well out of my league.”
“Bullshit. He’s not out of your league.”
I huffed. “You haven’t even seen him.”
“I know. And whose fault is that? I’m still waiting for that picture you promised. But that’s beside the point. He could be Chris fucking Hemsworth, and he wouldn’t be out of your league. You’re hot, babe, and don’t you forget it.”
“I’m not hot.”
“Bullshit. Strip off and stand in front of a mirror right now.”
Groaning, I knew there was no point arguing, so I did as she commanded. When my tits dominated the reflection, I said, “Okay, now what? ”
“Tell me something you like about yourself.”
“This is not helping me choose what to wear.”
“Just do it. Name one thing.”
I ran my gaze up my body. My legs were thin pins, with barely any curve. As were my hips. My arms, the same. Grinning, I said, “My cuticles are pretty special.”
She chuckled. “Ha-ha. Okay, what else?”
“I have nice earlobes.”
“Excellent, we’re making progress. What else?”
I studied my hand. “I have this freckle on my left thumb that’s smoking.”
“Fuck you’re funny. Okay, give me something bigger than a watermelon.”
“My left boob.”
“Only the left?”
“Yep, much smaller than my right.”
“Interesting. Now give me something else.”
I huffed out a sigh and turned side-on. My body was weird, but I guess it wasn’t hideous. I didn’t work out so there was no muscle tone, but I wasn’t flabby. I lifted my boobs and looked at my belly. It was still flat, so I said, “My torso is okay.”
“There you go. Now you’re on a roll. What else?”
Skipping my gaze over my boobs, I said, “I have nice shoulders.”
She groaned. “And you have lovely breasts, great hair, gorgeous eyes. Babe, you’re beautiful. Not like those plasticine women in Cosmo magazine. But who wants to be like them? They look like they got a pole shoved so far up their ass that it’s poking out their swollen lips. Trust me, babe. You’re hot in your own special way. Show Roman what the real Daisy is like and he’ll be fucking your brains out come midnight.”
I rolled my eyes. “We are not having sex. ”
“Is that all you got out of my speech?”
I replayed it again in my head. She missed her calling. Zali should have been a therapist. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Don’t thank me. Fuck him.”
“OMG, will you stop?”
“Okay, fuck anyone. I don’t care. Just do it for me.”
I picked up my cute black dress with the gold zipper that ran its length, but quickly tossed it aside when I remembered Roman had seen me wearing it when I’d met Oscar. “You’re supposed to be helping me decide what to wear.”
“I know, but this is fun. Okay, you want help. Did he give you any clues?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay, is he a tenpin bowling guy or an opera kinda guy?”
I thought about this. “I don’t know. But neither of them seems like him.”
“ Is he a dingy bar or a classy restaurant guy? ”
I paused. “ In between, I think. ”
“ Okay, here’s the plan. Put on jeans—your ass looks amazing in denim. ”
It did? I turned my ass to the mirror. When God was handing out asses, my body must’ve been in a coma.
“ Oh, I know!” she squealed. “Put on that sexy new red bra you showed me but wear a top that’s slightly see-through. And undo the top button. Guys like taking little peeks. ”
I knew that only too well. But her suggestions were good. “Okay, hang on.”
After rummaging through my suitcase, I managed to dress exactly as she’d said. I tugged on the jeans that were so tight I had to jump into them. The blouse I chose was the same white one with the little pearl buttons that I’d worn with Pierre, only this time, I wore the red bra beneath. With my red converse sneakers, it looked like I’d chosen it on purpose. Smiling, I took a selfie and sent it to her .
“Nice. You nailed it. Now throw on a bit of makeup and do that wild thing with your hair—men love it.”
I was pretty certain men didn’t have an opinion on my wild hair. But, as time was running out, the wild thing was the best choice. “Okay, babe. I love you. Thank you. You’re the best.”
“ I know. You can thank me with dick pics. ”
Laughing, I blew her a kiss and ended the call.
With six minutes to spare, I applied my new makeup in record time. Tipping my head upside down, I gave my hair a full-on tussle. A couple of the curls bounced forward and I shoved them away. Other than that, I looked pretty good.
I wasn’t as pristine as I had been when I went to the casino, yet I felt just as good. This was more me. With a touch of berry-pink lipstick that the makeup specialist at Marks & Spencer had talked me into despite my repeated objections, my look was complete.
By the time I rode the elevator to the lobby, I was fidgeting with nerves, and I couldn’t decide if it was excitement over Roman’s surprise, the fact that I was actually going out with him and only him, or the anticipation of his reaction to what I’d chosen to wear.
Hell, it could be all three.
The doors opened and there he was, standing next to the giant fake plant display in the middle of the hostel lobby. His back was to me, and with one hand in his pocket and his casual stance, anyone could have thought he was posing for a magazine shoot.
He was the only man in the room, but even if there was a crowd, he’d stand out like a white stallion.
For one utterly piercing moment, I wanted to slink into the shadows and just watch him. He was wearing dark jeans that precisely molded to his bottom, showing off his manly physique. The short-sleeve shirt he’d chosen revealed his toned biceps, and the pale pink color enhanced his olive skin. When he turned to me and smiled, delicious throbs danced across my girly bits.
Whoa. I need to be careful, or I’m likely to do another boob squish thing like last month.
We strode toward each other. Our greeting was just a tad on the awkward side as we half hugged, half kissed each other’s cheeks.
“You look lovely.” A flush of red crawled up his neck.
Hmmm. Was that the first sign of awkwardness from the man who lived and breathed confidence?
I touched my fingers to my hair, playing with the curls. “So do you.”
“Shall we go hit the town?”
“Of course.”
Outside, he hailed a cab. We climbed in, and after he gave directions to the driver in French, he slipped back in his seat.
I ogled him.
“What?” He blinked at me.
“I didn’t know you spoke fluent French.”
He shrugged. “Growing up in Europe . . .”
He didn’t need to finish his sentence. Many people on this continent were bilingual, especially the younger ones. Europeans were lucky like that.
“ And you know sign language.”
“I speak German too.”
Of course you do, Mr. Perfection. Next, you’ll be telling me you can cook. And ride horses. And rescue puppies.
I wanted to slap myself. What was wrong with me? Just because he had it all going on didn’t mean I had to be so snarky.
My only claim to fame was my photographic memory. Except for my job, where my special skill provided my customers with endless information about the places we visited, my skill was mostly useless.
I had totally misjudged Roman. When I’d first met him, I’d thought he’d only got the job at Vacation Dreamz because of his stunning looks. But he really was the textbook candidate. He was fun, intelligent, and sociable. Oh , and he had muscles in all the right places.
Oh God, I need to be careful.
“I hope you’re hungry?”
“Always.”
His brows rose up. “Always?”
I shrugged. “Just about.”
A curious expression wobbled across his face. Obviously, I’d said something wrong again. “What?”
His eyes grew darker and for a second, I thought he was going to clam up. But he turned his gaze out the window, sighing. “Caterina was the opposite. She could tell you the number of calories in everything. It was so frustrating. Nearly every meal became a mathematical equation.”
“Well, that’s boring.”
When his gaze turned to me, I wanted to retract my statement.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean that.”
“It’s true. She was always pushing away Mamma’s pasta meals because they would tip her over her daily intake.” He shook his head. “She had no idea how often she ruined a meal.”
Hmmm. Maybe he was getting over Caterina after all. Excellent.
Right— mental note for my job as wing-woman —Roman wanted a partner who enjoyed her food. Check.
The taxi pulled up alongside a street lined with restaurants. People were everywhere, and the venues were full of diners, some spilling out onto the footpaths. The place was alive with chatter, crockery, music, and laughter.
It was impossible not to smile at the vibrant atmosphere.
We walked toward an Italian restaurant, and I prepared to turn inside with him. But he kept on walking.
He did the same with a French restaurant.
The more we strolled, the more often I spied women sneaking glances at him. Roman was a chick magnet, yet he seemed oblivious to the attention. Either that or he was accomplished at pretending not to notice.
We stalled at the Brazilian restaurant. Delicious aromas of Mediterranean spices and barbecued meats filled the air. “Here we are. Have you ever tried churrasco style of cooking before?”
“No. I’ve never eaten any Brazilian cuisine before.”
“Excellent. I was hoping you’d say that. Now we both get to experience something new together.”
“Oh.” My heart skipped a beat. That was one of the nicest things anyone had ever done with me.
William had never taken me anywhere.
Fuck off, William!
Stay in the moment, Daisy.
This is my moment with Roman. And he needs me.