Chapter Thirteen
Marina treats me like a queen.
She’s been polite since I met her, that’s true. She has manners, and she’s kind. But since we had sex, she’s become downright chivalrous.
I’m not mad about it.
I can’t remember the last time somebody put my needs before theirs, but that’s exactly what she’s done.
I’m lying in her bed now in those lovely, quiet moments just before dawn.
Reggie is snoring in a soft pile of blankets on the floor, having gotten tired of our moving and turning and noise-making last night.
Marina is sleeping soundly beside me, her breathing deep and even, her chest gently rising and falling.
I’m on my side, my head pillowed on her shoulder, my hand resting on her breastbone, and I resist stroking her velvet skin with my fingertips, wanting to let her sleep.
I’m replaying the previous night because it’s easily one of the best in my entire life, and I’m pushing fifty and have had a pretty great existence, so that’s saying something.
Last night, we threw our clothes back on, leashed up Reggie, and went out for gelato.
We strolled the neighborhood, which was bustling in a chill and relaxed way, which I’m learning is how it is in Trastevere.
We held hands again, something I haven’t done in ages before Marina, and it made me feel like a lovestruck teenager in the best of ways.
Marina bought me gelato—pistachio—sorry, “pis-tahk-io.” And then she helped me eat it, and I’m not even a little bit embarrassed to say that watching her lick my cone—not a euphemism—had me dragging her back to her flat so I could tear her clothes off and have my way with her well into the night.
She was sweet and let me have the upper hand for a while before she took it back.
I feel worshipped.
That’s a pretty bold statement coming from me, and I know it.
But it’s the truth. I felt it a little when I got here, but I definitely felt it in bed.
I’ve never felt so sexy or so beautiful or so desired as I do with Marina Troiani, and that both lifts me up and terrifies me.
I vow that when the sun comes up, we’ll have a talk about what exactly it is that we’re doing, what we expect, stuff like that. It’s necessary.
I must doze off, because the next time I open my eyes, Marina is smiling at me, those dark eyes sparkling in the soft light of almost dawn.
“ Buongiorno , bella ,” she says softly, and will I ever get used to the sheer sexiness of an Italian accent? I don’t think so.
“Hi,” I whisper, and I can feel my smile bloom on my face all on its own.
“I like this. Waking up with you in my bed.”
“Me too,” I say, and it’s the truth. Despite whatever this is—a fling, casual sex, two people having their needs met—I could definitely get used to this type of morning.
I also don’t want to get out of bed, and so we don’t.
We snuggle for a few moments before hands start to wander and lips meet, and pretty soon, Marina’s head is between my legs and her mouth and tongue are doing unspeakably sexy things to me, and I have to pull a pillow over my face because the last thing I want to do is reenact Marina’s worst sex date ever.
As my breathing slowly returns to normal and Marina crawls back up my body, stopping here and there to kiss or lightly nip different parts of me, I start to softly laugh.
She arches a dark brow at me. “Laughter is not exactly the result I shoot for when it comes to lovemaking.” She says it playfully, but there’s a quick shadow that zips across her face, and it makes me grab her and pull her up so we’re eye to eye.
“Oh, honey,” I say. “You have nothing at all to worry about. I’m laughing because I was afraid of becoming another Unattractively Loud bed partner.” I jerk a thumb to my right. “Thus the pillow.”
She barks a laugh. “Oh, thank God.” After a moment, she kisses me softly and says, “There is nothing unattractive about you. At all. Trust me.”
And I do.
It’s weird and wonderful and terrifying to realize it, but I trust Marina implicitly.
Scary.
We lounge for a while longer, alternating between dozing, making love, and chatting, until I know I need to get poor Reggie outside. “He’s been so good,” I say. “But he also has a tiny bladder.”
“I’ll take him.” Marina sits up, the sheet falling off her upper body, revealing her gorgeous breasts, her dark nipples still swollen from all the attention I’ve lavished on them.
I reach out and stroke a fingertip across one.
She gives me a sexy grin and grabs my hand to stop further exploration.
“Save it. I’ll take Reggie out. And then we have to get moving, I’m sorry to say.
” She’s up and then pulls a pair of joggers out of a drawer.
She’s right. She has a tour to give, and work beckons, but I sigh and pout a little anyway. “Fine. You okay if I jump in the shower first?”
“Of course. Towels are in the closet.” She pulls on a T-shirt and leans forward to kiss me lightly. “Be back in a bit. Ciao .”
“ Ciao ,” I say as she calls Reggie to follow her out of the bedroom. He glances at me for a split second and then is off, the traitor. I can’t stay mad at him, though. I’d follow her, too.
All of Marina’s toiletry products are labeled in Italian, because of course they are, but her shampoo bottle shows a picture of an apple orchard, so I now understand why she smells like apple pie, and I love it.
I lather up my hair, loving the fact that I’ll be able to smell her even after I leave.
I towel off and am applying some lotion to my legs when I hear her return.
I also smell baked goods.
She knocks on the bathroom door—which I’ve left ajar—before she enters carrying a cup. “For you,” she says and waves her hand with a flourish.
“Bless you,” I say and take the coffee from her, bring it to my nose. “Italians know how to do coffee,” I say. “Did you get some?”
“I had a cappuccino with Reggie.”
“Just what Reggie needs,” I joke.
“I got some breakfast. Come out when you’re done.” She leans in and kisses me, then disappears back out the door.
It’s all so incredibly domestic that it freezes me in place for a moment. But I shake it off, finish getting dressed, dry my hair, and then follow my nose out into the flat, where a plate of baked goods sits all perfectly arranged on the table. They look like croissants but aren’t.
“Ooh, what are these?” I ask, picking one up. It’s made of flaky layers of pastry, and it’s still warm.
“Sfogliatella,” Marina says.
“Bless you,” I reply, but her brow furrows because she doesn’t get dumb American humor. “Sorry.” I wave my hand. “Ignore me.”
“Two of them have ricotta filling and two have chocolate custard.”
I waste no more time because I don’t care which one I get. I bite in and it’s ricotta, and I’m humming my delight. Also delighted is Marina, judging from the smile on her face.
“I love watching you try new things,” she says. “I love watching you doing anything, though.”
I get that little flutter in my belly, because how sweet is that? Remember when I said I felt worshipped? Yeah, prime example right there. Nobody’s ever told me they like watching me doing whatever it is I’m doing in the moment. Can’t say I hate it.
After we eat, finish our coffee, and do some serious kissing in the doorway of Marina’s flat, Reggie and I head back to our hotel, and it almost feels like going home.
I’ve lost count of how many weeks I’ve been here, but it’s starting to feel like I live here now.
I miss New York, I do, both my upstate house and my Manhattan apartment.
But with every day that goes by here in Rome, I am more and more comfortable, something I never expected to feel.
I’m very aware that I’m wearing last night’s clothes, not that anybody saw me then, but I also want to make sure Reggie gets some exercise.
I don’t know how far he and Marina walked earlier, so once our Uber drops us off, I stroll along our street with him for a bit, and again, I’m hit with the feeling of this is my neighborhood .
I have grown to know these shops and the habits of the shopkeepers.
When they open, how they sweep their entry area, which ones know each other and stop to chat.
It’s like I’m in a Broadway musical—or better yet, a Disney movie—about a quaint little street where everybody knows everybody.
I’m reminded of the Disney movie Beauty and the Beast —the animated one from the nineties—where all the villagers know each other and Belle, and they sing to one another as she walks past their shops.
Corny, I know, but it’s making me smile as Reggie trots along beside me as if he’s feeling the same way. We feel at home here, like we belong.
When in Rome, right?
I have blazed out nearly three full chapters when my phone dings a notification from my mom.
She wants to call, but she’d rather warn me and have me tell her I’m busy than call and have me not answer.
I’ve learned this over the years. It’s been a few days, and my eyes are burning from staring at my laptop screen, so I decide to give myself a break, and I call her.
“How’s Italy?” she asks, clearly thrilled that I called.
“Italy is amazing. The food is unbelievable. You and Dad would love it. You should come here.”
“Well, you’d have to find me a tranquilizer gun and help me shoot him to get him on a plane, but yeah, I’d love to go.
” We both laugh, but I file away that if my mom is ever going to make it to Europe, it’ll have to be me or my brother bringing her.
My dad has a lot of talents and hobbies, but adventure isn’t one of them. “Is Reggie doing okay?”
“He’s loving it. He makes friends wherever we go.”
“That’s my boy. And what about you?”
“What about me?”