12. La fuga romantica
12
La fuga romantica
The Holiday Romance
Omar
B ri is stuffing a croissant into her mouth as I approach the table in the breakfast room. “Morning,” I try to be cheerful despite what happened yesterday.
When I got back from my run last night it was quiet next door, so I assume knobhead didn't have a lot of stamina; I wasn't gone that long. Did that fill me with glee? Maybe.
“Morning,” Bri mumbles through a mouthful of pastry.
“Good evening?” I ask because I’m an arsehole. She just rolls her eyes in response but doesn't say anything else. I'm not sure why I'm torturing myself. Why am I pushing her on it?
“When did it become normal for guys to ask for a blowjob on a one-night-stand and then bugger off?” She stares at me like I represent the evil in all men.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m talking about the plonker with a small knob, who took what he needed and then left me high and dry.”
Okay, wow. She says it as it is without holding back, I have to give her that.
“I'm sorry, I guess,” I offer an apology that isn’t mine to give. “I did think he was wanker,” I add and hide my smirk behind the cup of coffee I’m lifting to my lips. There’s the alpha-hole in me again, raising his fist with joy that that knobhead didn’t touch her.
“What made you think that? You didn’t even speak to him?” Bri takes another large bite from her chocolate croissant.
“A guy that hits on a woman who’s with another man is a wanker. He didn’t know our relationship but he flirted with you over my shoulder anyway.”
“You could have said something yesterday.” Apparently we’re not done taking out her frustrations on me.
“Would you have believed me?” I retort. “No. And it wasn’t my place.”
“Hmm,” is the only answer I get.
“Anyhow. What’re we doing today?”
By the time we get back from sightseeing Bri looks absolutely knackered. We didn’t bother with the car since everything’s within walking distance but that meant we were on our feet all day. And let’s not forget the climb to the rooftop of the Duomo—two hundred and fifty stairs! Of course once we reached the top we realised there’s a lift we could’ve taken. Bri had a few choice words for me, but as soon as she saw the view all was forgiven.
However, now even her enthusiasm can’t disguise her lack of energy. I guess picking up Italian stallions is not on the table tonight.
“I know where we're going now,” I announce.
“Please let it be our hotel. I need to shower and lie down for a bit,” Bri groans.
“Better! Come on.” I grab her hand and pull her across the busy road. It's only when we get to the other side that I realise what I'm doing and let her fingers slide from my grasp. She doesn't say anything, but I can see her eyeing me.
Keep it together. We're not friends, we're not lovers. I'm her driver. She’s my boss.
We walk through the main archway into Milano Centrale station. Bri gasps at the imposing entrance hall but I guide her to the left through an inconspicuous dark wood door. You wouldn’t expect much, and certainly not the long hall full of food stalls. A wall of noise greets us and the scent of all the food is almost overpowering.
Bri’s eyes widen as she takes in the sea of pastries and macaroons. There are vitrines filled with sandwiches and shelves lined with glasses of tiramisu and an Italian variation of strawberries and cream. People are crowding the small tables, drinking espresso and enjoying each other’s company.
“Oh my God, that looks so delicious!” Bri exclaims. She seems to have forgotten her tiredness as she moves from one stall to the next. In the end we decide to get a tiramisu and a strawberry and cream and to eat half and half again. There are no tables available so we take our desserts back out into the stations entrance hall and take a seat between two imposing stone pillars. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Bri moans as she licks tiramisu off her spoon before dipping it in the glass I’m holding and scooping out a healthy portion of sponge, cream and strawberries. She lifts it to her pale red lips and drags it off her spoon with gusto. I’m mesmerised and nearly groan when the tip of her tongue pokes out and licks some of the cream from the corner of her mouth.
Wow, I’m in so much trouble . I avert my eyes and clear my throat.
“Was it worth coming here?” I ask before devouring a spoonful of tiramisu myself.
“So worth it,” she grins between bites. “Thank you, Omar!”
“You’re welcome!” If she’s happy, I’m happy.
“Oh my God. Look over there.” Bri points at a building to our left.
We arrived in Florence two days ago after a brief twenty-four hours in Pisa. In general we’re encountering less tourists than we would have in the summer but Pisa was an exception. We were wondering if there was something going on in the city as there were so many people but the receptionist assured us Affari come al solito —business as usual.
It was just too much and Bri decided we should move on to Florence, and since we arrived she’s been back to her joyful self. I can’t blame her. Florence is one of my favourite places in Italy, only surpassed by Rome.
Yesterday I took her to see Michelangelo's David which was on her bucket list. I contacted a friend of mine who has a friend who has a brother—that’s how things work here—who works as the head of security at the museum. He managed to get us in ahead of the crowds. Bri just sat there for half an hour, in her own world and not saying a word, just studying the statue.
On the other hand I couldn’t take my eyes of her. Seeing the emotions she was going through in her expressions. It was captivating. Her ex should be hung up by his balls for not giving this woman what she always wanted.
When the museum opened its doors to the crowd we left and spent the day hanging around in coffee shops, soaking up the atmosphere. Bri’s not your typical tourist with a tick list of all the highlights in a city that she must see which I love about her. She prefers to just sit there and watch people and listen to conversations, even if she doesn't understand them. Every so often she’ll ask me in a hushed tone to translate what people are saying. Usually when she thinks they are arguing or flirting. When I lean in to whisper the translation in her ear I pick up the gentle scent of lemons. It’s too subtle to be perfume, so I’m guessing it’s her shower gel or shampoo. But it’s so her that I know, from now on, the smell of lemons will always conjure up memories of our time together.
I also don’t seem to be able to help myself from turning into a possessive wanker whenever one of those “Italian stallions” casts his eyes over her. Luckily, she’s oblivious to the admiration she draws, but I’m not and whenever I notice it I gently put my hand on her lower back or lean in to whisper something in her ear. Bri gives me odd looks when I do but I’ve convinced myself that I’m keeping the wankers away from her because Ben and Amelia asked me to look after her. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Today is our last day in Florence and Bri wanted to do one of the bus tours. I know the city well so I don’t expect to see a lot of new things but when she looked at me with sparkling eyes and big grin I couldn’t say no to a sightseeing tour.
The bus slowly makes its way up the steep road on the slopes of Monte alle Croci. I know exactly where we're heading and Bri is going to love it.
“Oh, oh, look, look.” She points between the trees where you can see little glimpses of the city beneath us. I say nothing because I don’t want to spoil the surprise for her. The bus snakes its way up the hill whilst Bri desperately tries to take a snap of the city through the tree line.
One bend… another bend… ahead I can already see the trees clearing and I can’t hold back a grin.
Finally, we break through the trees and the bus rolls along Piazzale Michelangelo. It’s a large elevated terrace and the most spectacular viewpoint of Florence. In the centre of the Piazzale is a replica statue of David and at the western end are steps leading to a restaurant.
Bri gasps as she takes it all in and then turns to me with wide eyes.
“Can we get off, please? Can we get off?” she asks. I nod as the bus pulls into the stop. We unplug our headphones and head to the lower deck.
“Thank you,” Bri shouts to the bus driver before hopping off. A cool wind hits us in the face but the sun is shining to counteract the cold a little.
We walk the short distance to the stairs at the western end where there’s the most spectacular view. Bri leans against the banister surrounding the square and soaks up the view of the whole city spread in front of us. The Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore looms above the surrounding houses, its grandeur impossible to miss. Off to the left, the River Arno winds its way through the city. The iconic Ponte Vecchio, a bridge lined with shops and houses that seem to cling to it, spans the river.
“Why did you not tell me?” Bri gently smacks my upper arm. “This is amazing.”
“I know. It’s beautiful, isn't it? I wanted you to be surprised,” I grin.
Bri takes a seat on the steps and I join her. The wind is less fierce here and the sun has a chance to warm us up.
“I think this is one of my highlights so far,” she declares.
“I never get tired of this view. Florence is one of my favourite cities.”
“I think it’s one of mine now too.” She gives me another big smile before we both fall silent and just enjoy the view.
When I look over at her she seems lost in thoughts and there’s something dark in her expression.
“What are you thinking?”
“I… I was just thinking about Giovanni.”
“The guy from Milan?” The alpha-hole in me roars. Okay, no need for jealousy.
“Yeah,” she shrugs. “You know, I think that at forty-four I’m entitled to have some fun and you hear so many stories about Italian men. But the fact that he just took what he needed and then left… it kind of puts me off trying again.”
“Not everyone is a weasel like that knobhead,” I reply but the alpha-hole in me is jubilant.
“You know, I’m not looking for a relationship. In fact, I don’t want a relationship. But someone who isn’t just in for their own gain would be nice. Unlike bush-dick—”
“Excuse me?”
“He had a moderate dick surrounded by a lot of bush,” she giggles and I can’t hold back the laughter. This woman is crazy, in a good way.
“Sounds to me like you’re after more than just a one-night-stand. You’re looking for a holiday romance. Someone who wants to spend time with you, who cares for you and doesn’t just see you as a mouth to… you know—”
“Fuck.”
“Yes, that. A romance where you both agree it’s just for the holidays.”
“Maybe. Tough to do when you travel from one city to the next every two days.”
Offer yourself, offer yourself, idiot! I try to ignore my dick and remind myself yet again that this isn’t going to happen.
There's a brief moment of silence before she turns to me.
“Or are you talking about yourself?” I don’t know which of us appears more shocked.
“Me? No, no, no. Sorry. No, I didn't mean me. I didn't… I definitely didn't,” I stutter.
“Okay, no need to fight me quite that hard,” she laughs, embarrassed.
“No, you misunderstand. You’re a beautiful woman. Any guy would be lucky to be with you. But I'm your employee.”
“Well, technically you’re Ben’s employee.”
Neither of us says anything further. For a second I’m actually considering it. But shagging her is far from what I promised Ben and Amelia.
“What should I get us? Ice cream?” I try to lighten the mood. Bri looks like she wants to say more on the topic of dating but lets it go and just nods in agreement.
All I can think about as I walk to the little snack van is that that was my chance for… no, it’s definitely not the right thing to do . But doing the wrong thing has never felt so enticing.