Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Thre e
After we left Austria, we continued traveling northwest through various major cities in Europe and finally arrived in Belgium. Other than me profusely apologizing to Roman for my behavior and him gracefully accepting with a promise not to mention it again, the last eight days of our tour were uneventful. Everything went as planned—including the management of my newfound horny libido. I was even beginning to feel normal again.
Our last night of the tour was in Belgium, and as usual, a sense of melancholy washed over me as I prepared to say goodbye to all the people I’d met.
As was the tradition I’d instigated early on in my tour guide career, for our final night, my bus driver and I would take our group to the central square in Brussels known as Grand Place for a little send-off party. Often, depending on the group, the send-off was not so little.
The cobblestoned square was surrounded by some of the most magnificent historical buildings in Europe. But I’d learned over the last two and a half years that by the time we arrived at this final destination, most guests were no longer interested in the architecture; they were interested in what us Aussies called a piss-up.
Not this little black duck, though; I’d learned my lesson at Thorsteinn Castle. Me and getting drunk were never going to share the same headspace again. It took my stomach nearly two full days to recover from that disaster. And I didn’t think I’d ever recover from what I did with Roman.
So embarrassing. So out of character. Totally fucked up.
I had no intention of replicating that drunken state again. Like ever.
It was weird though. I’d thought Roman would give me a hard time about it every chance he could. But, true to his word, he hadn’t mentioned my boob-squish since his promise. Maybe seeing my tits had scared the bejesus out of him and he really didn’t want to be reminded of them again. That would explain why he acted like it never happened, and why he’d gone all quiet on me.
Not that I was complaining. For the first half of the tour, Roman had practically jabbered on non-stop.
Casting my wandering thoughts aside, I tugged my sneakers onto my feet and made my way out of my hotel room and down to the lobby to meet everyone.
To my surprise, Roman was the only one waiting when I arrived.
After nineteen days on the road, his beard had grown thick and full. It suited him. Actually, he suited every stage of his beard growth, and when he was clean-shaven too. Roman had a casual yet eye-catching style about him and looked fabulous in his faded jeans and button-up shirt.
Maybe it was his oozing confidence. Or maybe his four older sisters had taught their younger brother how to dress to impress. Other than his choice of favorite movie being a sappy romance, I was yet to find a flaw in my new driver. In fact, he was so perfect, it was sickening .
“Hey, Red. Ready for a big night?” He flashed his spectacular smile, taking perfection to another level.
“Always.” I tried to tug a curl behind my ear, but it bounced right back into my line of sight. I couldn’t even get one curl to attempt being perfect.
“I can’t believe my first tour is nearly over.” A frown rippled across Roman’s forehead. “It went so quick.”
“They always do.” Tick. Tick. Tick. The dreaded clock boomed in my brain.
“What are your plans for the break?” He cocked his head, and the way his honey eyes captured me and seemed to reach into my soul made my insides do all sorts of crazy things.
I sighed. “I guess I need to start making arrangements to leave.” I glanced toward the elevator, hoping our guests would appear soon and save me from Mr. Perfection.
He clicked his fingers. “That’s right, your visa expires.” Confusion rolled across his face. “Why don’t you fight it?”
“Believe me, I’ve tried.” I groaned. “Damn it. I left that stupid letter at Pierre’s, remember?”
Roman blinked a few times, and when his expression morphed into something that could only be described as naughty excitement, my insides squirmed.
“I know what you can do for a few days.” The gold flecks in his irises danced.
“Oh no, no, no.” I shot my gaze to the elevators. Where the hell is my group? “It’s okay, I ummm?—”
“You can go to Pierre. You know, with the pretense of getting back that letter and . . .” A devious grin crept through Roman’s beard. “. . . pick up where you left off.”
“Oh, God. No way. I don’t plan on seeing him ever again.”
“What?” His eyebrows slammed together. “Why not? You had a fantastico time.”
“That was an accident. ”
“Sometimes they are the best kind.” He bumped his hip into mine. “Go on. What is stopping you?”
The elevator pinged and six people from my group tumbled out and headed toward us. Their timing was impeccable. I planted a smile on my face and greeted them with varying degrees of affection. Some of them I was genuinely going to miss, like Sunny and even the blonde bombshells. Others, like Robert, not so much.
Soon, everyone had arrived in the lobby. They were a boisterous bunch and based on their rowdy chatter and the scent of beer that already hung in the air, they all had their sights on a huge night in Brussels.
With Roman at my side, I led the way toward the Grand Place.
“You should go to him.” Roman squeezed his hand on my shoulder and nodded like he’d found the solution to world peace.
“No, I shouldn’t.”
“You can’t leave things unfinished like that.”
“Of course I can. Besides, I’m down to five months left in Europe, and there’s a heap of things I want to see and do before I’m booted out. My time is precious.”
“Exactly. Pierre should be at the top of that list.” He wiggled his brows. “Pierre, the sexy Frenchman, is waiting for you.” Roman spoke in an exaggerated French accent that was more Pepé Le Pew than Olivier Martinez.
I giggled. “Oh my god. You don’t give up, do you? I could put it back on you, you know. Have you had sex on this tour?”
“Nah.” He flicked his hand like he was swatting an annoying fly.
“What?” That was a shocker. “Why not?”
He shrugged. “Too busy lugging their suitcases around.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the group waddling behind us.
“Oh, no you don’t.” I jabbed my finger into his bicep. “You don’t get out of it that easily.”
“ è vero .”
“No, it’s not true.” I studied his face, and for the first time since I’d met Roman, I saw sadness in his eyes.
“Oh my god! You are such a hypocrite!”
“What?” His eyes bulged. “Why?”
“All this time, you’ve been telling me I needed to have sex to get over my ex. And yet you’re exactly the same.”
“Scusi?”
“You still love her.”
“Who?”
“Don’t play that game with me. You know who . . . Caterina. Your girlfriend of fifteen years who had sex with a married man while staying at your sister’s Airbnb.”
“Oh, her.”
I jabbed my finger to his arm again, feeling mighty confident. “You still love her.”
He drove his hands through his hair and met my gaze. “No, I don’t.”
The pain in his voice was as brutal as the steely resolve in his eyes.
Roman was still hurting.
I knew exactly how that felt. Hell, I’d been hurting for more than five years.
Before I had a chance to perfect a reply, Roman slipped away from my side and sidled up next to Samson from New Zealand.
For the first time since I started my job, I didn’t want to put my tour guide hat on. I wanted to have a one-on-one conversation with someone.
Not just any someone—a man .
We reached the square and reluctantly, I pulled my group in to get their attention. “I know most of you have probably OD’d on architecture, but is there anyone who would still like a tour of the buildings in this square?”
I was both surprised and a tad disappointed when a few hands were raised.
Get your act together, Daisy. This is your job.
A job that you excel at.
Forcing Roman from my mind, I put energy into my voice. “Okay, those of you who are interested, follow me. The rest of you, stick with Roman and we’ll get back to you in about half an hour.”
I put my walking tour on speed dial, and for twenty-two minutes we scooted around the cobblestone square. It felt like hours. While I pointed out one important building after another, Roman and the other half of the group were entertained by street buskers dotted around the square.
Even with some of the most incredible buildings in front of me, my eyes kept wandering over the abundant crowds in the square, seeking out Roman, checking he was okay.
Of course he was—he was surrounded by blokes his age and beautiful women who hung off every word he said. Roman was the center of attention and loving every minute of it. But now I knew his secret. Roman was hurting on the inside. I knew exactly how easy it was to portray that everything was okay when on the inside you were crumbling into tiny, jagged pieces.
I couldn’t return to him soon enough.
“There you are . . . about time.” He curled his arm over my shoulder, and his cheeky smile had my insides swooping.
Damn my girly bits. “Sorry, I?—”
“Let’s get this party going, shall we?” He turned toward the crowd, and as I tried to ignore the bulge and flex of his sexy butt, he gathered our group in .
It took all my might not to fan myself when he finally turned his gaze to me and touched the small of my back. “They’re all yours.”
Silently telling my girly bits to calm the fuck down, I cleared my throat. “Okay, listen up. As you all probably know, Belgium is known for three things—chocolate, waffles, and . . .” I opened my arms, inviting their response.
“Beer,” just about everyone blurted in unison and we all laughed.
“That’s right. Tonight, you’ll get your share of all three.”
“Just beer for me,” bellowed Mike.
“I’ll have his chocolates,” Tiffany volunteered with a raised hand.
I’ve seen Mike and Tiffany hooking up several times in the last week. I expected they’d do it again tonight. After all, it was their last night on tour and quite possibly their last night together. They’d make a cute couple, but I doubted either of them were expecting anything serious to come of it. Much like me and the men I’d been with this month. It was all just a bit of fun.
Wow . . . I never thought I’d actually be able to boast about that. Not ever.
I truly had changed.
And I liked the new me.
At the top of the square, I led the group to our first boutique beer brewery, Five Bees. The Five Bees had nothing to do with bees—rather, it was an acronym for boutique beer brewery in Brussels Belgium, five Bs. It should have had another B for bedlam .
The music was so loud that everybody yelled to be heard over the top of it. I had no idea how the bar staff understood what anyone was ordering.
After each member of my group placed their drink order, including me, I used my work credit card to pay for the first round. Once they were all sorted, I clutched my pint of the disturbingly named Dead Donkey’s Donger, an apparently fruity beer that the scantily clad barmaid had recommended to me, and made my way through the crowd, aiming for Roman.
He’d herded our group into the corner beneath the stairs, and being the Mr. Perfect that he was, he’d somehow managed to secure four bar tables for us, and my group had formed little circles around each of them. I sidled in next to Roman, and the second I did he placed his hand on my shoulder and leaned in. “So, have you thought about it?”
The concern on his face made my stomach shrink to the size of a walnut. “About what?”
“Pierre, of course.”
Jesus. He didn’t waste time.
“It is a no-brainer if you ask me. How is your beer? You like it?”
“Oh, ummm . . .” Shit. He was good at getting the jump on our conversations.
He nodded at my amber ale, urging me to drink. I took a tentative sip. The beer was cold and sweet, and dare I say it, actually pleasant. I nodded. “It’s really good.”
He chinked his glass to mine and together, we each took another sip of our beers.
I leaned into him, ready to take the conversation back to Caterina. But when I inhaled his delightful ocean-scented cologne, I was taken on an exotic journey to a tropical island somewhere well away from the noisy bedlam around me.
“What is the worst that could happen?”
His question lured me back from the swaying palm trees. “Huh?”
“With Pierre.” He said his name like he was a god. “What’s the worst that could happen if you went to him?”
Damn it, Daisy. Focus. “The worst.” I inhaled deep and huffed it out. “Okay, you want the worst. I go to Pierre, and he laughs in my face, admits that it was just a stupid mistake, and announces that he’d have to be way more drunk to actually do anything else with me.” The second I stopped talking, I prayed that the thumping music had drowned out everything that’d blurted from my stupid mouth.
Roman’s jaw dropped, confirming that my prayers had not been answered. When he blinked at me, all silent and brooding, I figured he was processing just how fucked up I was.
His expression softened and he leaned in closer. His hot breath tickled my ear as he said, “That is not going to happen, Daisy. Pierre has probably been jacking off to the memory of you running around with your top off.”
“Oh, God.” I lurched back, took one look at his cheeky expression and gulped down my Dead Donkey’s Donger. “That’s disgusting.”
“But true.” He nodded with conviction.
I shook my head. “Oh, come on, you don’t really think that.”
“Si , I do.”
Men really were weird. I rolled my eyes, shaking my head.
He touched his hand to my shoulder and leaned into my ear. “As my sisters keep reminding me, men are simple. When we are not thinking about beer,”—he held up his glass— “we are thinking about women. By what you have told me about what happened with you and Pierre, believe me, he has been thinking about you.” He said it with such tenderness, like he was imparting his wisdom to a much-loved na?ve sibling, that my heart squeezed.
When he looked down at me, he really, truly looked at me. His gaze flitted from my eyes to my mouth and back again. Every millisecond was breathtaking. It was like the two of us were the only two people in the world.
Blood pumped around my body and for one scary, exciting, foolish moment I actually thought he was going to kiss me.
He wrapped his arm around my neck and squished my chin to his chest. “Don’t take life so seriously, Daisy. You only have one chance at it.”
Listening to my own thumping heart, I felt stupid and awkward. A suffocating clutch of embarrassment gripped me. For one senseless, fleeting moment, I’d thought Roman was interested in me. I was such a fool. A stupid naive fool. Roman was just doing what he always did best: being Mr. Perfect.
Swallowing a lump the size of Everest, I eased back from him. “Right, on that note, it’s time to move on to the next place.”
The night became a blur, and with each boutique brewery we visited, Roman plied me with another beer that I simply had to try. I sipped the ale, trying but failing to revisit our discussion about Caterina, and Roman continued his mission to convince me to go to Pierre before I returned to London. He was relentless. On and on he went with never-ending reasons why going to Pierre made sense.
“Pierre needs closure.”
Gulp of beer.
“You need closure too, Daisy.”
Two gulps of beer.
“Pierre is only half a man without you.”
Need more beer.
And finally, the tipping point. “Pierre has probably got wrist strain from all the monkey spanking he’s been doing.”
I slapped his chest. “Oh my god. That’s disgusting.”
“Exactly. That is why you need to save him.” Roman’s pleading eyes were impossible to resist, like the decorative slice of chocolate sitting atop a rich mud cake. For some inexplicable reason, it suddenly seemed very important that I make him happy.
“All right. All right.” Preparing to throw my body on the line, I waggled my head and huffed out an exasperated breath. “Okay, if it’ll make you happy, I’ll go to Pierre.”
“It won’t just make me happy. You and Pierre will both be happy. You will thank me.”
“Yeah, thank you for shutting up.”
He raised his eyebrows in some kind of knowing expression. “Trust me.”
“Trust you? You’re sending me off to have sex with a man you don’t even know.”
“No, but you do. And I can tell you like him.”
“Oh, you can, can you?”
“ Si . My sisters practically drool when they are horny. You are the same.”
My jaw nearly hit the floor. “I am not.”
“I am messing with you, Red. Calm down.”
I thumped him in the chest this time. “Not funny.”
“You should have seen your face.” Roman’s smile was truly spectacular. His good looks were wasted as a bus driver. He should be gracing the covers of women’s magazines, or strutting his stuff as a runway model, or?—
“Here’s to you.” He raised his beer. “ Salute .”
My heart melted at the sincerity in his tone. I chinked my glass to his. “I hope you’re right about this.”
He put his glass down, placed his arm across my shoulder, and eased me into his body. I snuggled into his chest, wrapped my arms around him, and squeezed. It was our first real hug—excluding the boob-squish incident, that was, and the couple of fleeting times he’d tugged me closer. This was tender and sweet and perfect. It was like his whole body was absorbing all my worries and setting me free of burden and angst and all the other stupid things that consumed me.
Roman was a very good hugger.
I eased in closer, prepared to stay there all day.
All too soon he pulled back, a serious note darkening his eyes so much that I expected him to either tell me something gloomy or ask me to marry him.
Oh, God. Where is that fucking straitjacket?
“I’ll drop you at the train station in the morning,” he said.
I forced my brain to focus, hardly able to believe what we were actually planning.
“But listen, I want you to ring me the moment you get back to London.”
“Oh.” I jabbed my fingernail to his chest, pretending to be all frivolous and cool with the plan. “So, you can get all the details?”
“No.” He pulled a face in a poor attempt at feigning shock. “To make sure you’re safe.”
“Yeah, right.” I rolled my eyes. Despite my brain doing flips over going to Pierre, the smile on Roman’s face made me glad I’d agreed. But my mind slammed to his enthusiasm when he’d willingly watched me wander off with Oscar in the Monte Carlo. Like sending a lamb to the slaughter.
A sliver of fear lodged itself deep in my brain.
What if Roman was wrong and Pierre hadn’t been thinking of me? I’d look like a complete fool.
Or worse, what if I had a repeat of my aftermath with Oscar where I’d come away feeling dirty and slutty?
I’d never be able to look at a man again.
And I’d never have sex again.
Just when I’d discovered how much I liked it.