My Mr. Beautiful: Eternal City Love, Book 1

by Passarelli, Caterina

  My

  Mr. Beautiful

  Eternal City Love, Book 1

  Caterina Passarelli

  Copyright © 2015 Caterina Passarelli

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, incidents and characters are figments of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. The author recognizes the trademarks and copyrights of all registered products and works mentioned within this work.

  ISBN-13: 9780692543153

  ISBN-10: 0692543155

  Covered designed by Najla Qambers Designs

  For more, visit www.CaterinaPassarelliBooks.com

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  1

  “Oh god!”

  “Oh yeah!”

  “Zack!”

  Moaning, the bed thumping against a wall, and screams are coming from my bedroom. Is that me moaning in pleasure? Nope. Would a robber break into my apartment just to have sex? That’s kinky enough to be on a reality show.

  The moans get louder as I open the door to catch the frisky robbers and my heart stops.

  Literally, stops beating. Okay not literally, but I’m in freakin’ shock. Mouth hanging open, chest pains, utter disbelief, kind of shock.

  My boyfriend of a year is riding his slutty redheaded secretary—in our bed! You’ve got to be kidding me!

  When they hear me suck in a deep breath, they turn frantically around. They are probably wondering who else was getting sucked on in the room. #Barf

  Zack pulls the gray sheet up to cover their naked bodies and looks at me like what the fuck are you doing here? I’m home early, not what he expected.

  “Elena, baby, I can explain.”

  “Explain?! Explain what?! Why you are fucking someone else in our bed?!” Tears stream down my cheeks.

  Zack stands up and walks towards me but I bolt out the door of the apartment.

  It’s not until I make it to the elevator that I finally catch my breath. I can’t believe this. Zack is a cheater—add him to the growing list.

  I drop my leopard luggage off in my new Rome flat. It’s a lot different than back home, but I think I’m going to like it here. I guess I can thank Zack for something: getting me the hell out of Michigan.

  I plan to use this trip as an escape from both a hectic work life and my string of super crappy boyfriends.

  I told myself this trip calls for a personal mantra, otherwise I’ll revert back to being a big baby in social situations and working too much.

  What’s my mantra?

  “Bold and carefree.”

  That’s the exact opposite of who I usually am: an uptight workaholic CEO. Yes, even CEOs get cheated on. I own the largest social media marketing firm in the United States – Rock Star Media. I feel like I’m only confident in business. With this trip, I’m about to change that.

  But I won’t get to know all that Rome has to offer if I stay holed up in this apartment, so I grab my light black zip-up and hit the streets.

  I love the slight chill in the early morning air. As I walk along the cobblestone streets, I notice they’re lined with small Fiat cars, and the houses are stacked on top of one another and all painted red and green and orange. It’s beautiful!

  As I explore, a heavenly chocolate smell floats through the air and blesses my nose. I turn the corner and see a cute little coffee shop, Stella’s. Green paint is chipping off the old brick underneath. The caffé sits on a corner next to a pizzeria with an outside patio.

  I open the red door and hear a bell chime. The scent of baked goods fills my nose. Bookshelves line the walls, and small tables and chairs fill the middle of the store. A great big brown marble counter sits with what looks like the largest espresso machine I’ve ever seen behind it. When it’s my turn in line, a brown-haired man wearing a nametag reading ‘Marco’ greets me.

  “Ciao! Welcome to Stella’s, you must be new here.”

  “Um… ciao,” I say, a little taken aback at his forwardness.

  “Sorry. Everyone who walks in here is pretty much a regular. You stood out. What can I get for you?” Marco says in English with a slight Italian accent. I’m impressed! It took me years of college to learn Italian and I still can’t master their accents.

  “Whatever you recommend. Something chocolatey was floating through the air, so whatever that is, bring it on,” I say. I haven’t had anything to eat since the cold, dry, Parmesan chicken on my flight from Detroit. Now I’m ready for something delicious to make its way into my starving belly.

  “Perfecto! A chocolate biscotti and mocha it is.”

  Marco turns around to get the coffee ready and his shoulders slump. He turns back with my biscotti, and I notice the wrinkles around his eyes and the small streaks of gray in his brown hair. He looks worn out, tired, and older than he must be. I’d guess he’s in his late thirties but looks at least 10 years older.

  “It’s on the house. Welcome to Roma!”

  “And they say that you guys hate Americans. What a way to be welcomed to the country,” I joke. I leave a few dollars for him on the counter.

  “Well, that depends on what kind of American we are talking about,” he laughs.

  I sit down at one of the small tables near the window and bite into my biscotti. It’s mouthwateringly delicious! I pull my Kindle out of my purse and get cozy reading a trashy romance novel. It feels good to be away from the demands of my high-stressed job, and it’s time to relax!

  2

  I open my eyes and notice I’m in a strange room. It takes me a minute to remember I’m not in Michigan anymore. That’s right, I picked up and left everything I was used to back home. My life was good; don’t get me wrong! I was just sick of seeing my Facebook Newsfeed full of other 25-year-olds and their drama (you know baby daddies and engagements). Add to that my endless work for my company and not having a social life or any luck with men.

  Just because I’m not at home doesn’t mean I can’t do one of my favorite hobbies. I throw on a sports tank top, mint green zip-up jacket, and Nike running tights. Quickly pulling my long dark curly brown hair into a ponytail before I make my way outside. I have no clue where I’m going but I start jogging.

  About half a mile in, I get my stride and begin to run. After what I think is two miles, I turn back around and head towards where I hope my apartment should be. Fingers crossed I don’t get lost!

  I turn the corner and there in front of me again is Stella’s. How did I end up here? This wasn’t my original route, but you know, maybe it’s a sign that I should go back for more. What better way to reward yourself after a hard run than to indulge in goodies? #KeepTellingYourselfThat

  The bell dings as I walk into the coffee shop. Marco stands there behind the counter again, looking just as tired as he did yesterday, but when he sees me his face lights up into a big welcoming smile.

  “You mean to tell me you eat c
hocolate biscotti every day and keep a figure like that?” I hear him joke as he gets an espresso ready for me.

  “Let’s be honest, I run because I love food!”

  We both laugh at my confession.

  “So, come si chiama?” he asks.

  “Well, Marco,” I say eyeing his nametag, “my name is Elena Scott.”

  “Nice to meet you, Elena,” Marco says, handing me the espresso. I pay him and turn to sit down but can’t help notice he is the only employee working here again today. Where is his staff?

  “Marco, do you work here every day?”

  “Si, I do. Let’s just say I’m the only one keeping this place afloat.”

  “Wait a second, you are the only employee here in general?”

  “Yes. Stella was my nonna, and when she passed away, I decided I would keep the caffé going. Too bad I didn’t know it was up to here in debt and barely squeaking by.”

  I think I just found my first Italian adventure!

  “Marco, how about you let me help you? You know, I just moved here and I don’t have much of a game plan yet. I could help you out around this place.”

  “That’s a really nice offer, but I can’t accept your help. I have no way to pay you. The debt is just too much right now. That’s why I have no employees.”

  “That’s okay, I’ll do it anyway.”

  Marco quickly questions my free help, but I assure him my American life allows me to donate my time. I didn’t want to let anyone here in Italy know my past but Marco seems to be my first friend, and I can’t help instantly trusting him. I’m usually a good judge of people, except when it comes to boyfriends, and I can see the kindness in his eyes.

  I’ve made it through a week on the job and haven’t broken anything … yet. I did, however, spill a latte on an old man. Luckily, it was an iced latte, but no one wants to start his day with cold coffee down the front of his button-down shirt. But like Marco first told me, everyone here is a regular. The iced latte man, Roberto, told me it was okay and continues to leave me tips.

  “Scusi,” a man says as he clears his throat.

  Crap! I must have spaced out. I look up to see a six-foot-four built man with broad shoulders standing in front of me. I have an immediate urge to run my fingers through his thick brown hair. He stares at me with gorgeous emerald eyes that complement his olive skin tone. And I think I actually start to drool. He has a familiar look about him, but I can’t place how I know him.

  Mr. Beautiful laughs, and I catch myself with my mouth open! Oh my God, this is mortifying! Pull it together, girl.

  “Ciao, welcome to Stella’s. What can I do to you? I mean … get for you.”

  Did I really just say that? Though, I must admit there’s plenty I’d like to do to him, starting with nibbling on his lower lip. Damn, those lips are so full. I’ve never seen a pair of lips that make me want to instantly run my tongue across them.

  “Ciao, you can do anything you want to me.”

  Wait a second, did I just hear that right?

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, can I please get an espresso and lemon biscotti?”

  It’s like I’m living in the Bermuda Triangle. I swear he did not say that.

  “Coming right up!”

  I turn around to get his drink and biscotti. I feel his eyes staring at me the entire time. I glance over my shoulder while at the espresso machine and our gazes collide, so I quickly turn away before he can see me blush. I need to hurry up with his order as my luck with guys is bad and I mean really bad. The cheating secretary boy was just the cherry on top of a large loser sundae.

  “Here you go. That will be five euros.”

  He hands me 10 euros, and our fingers linger a bit too long before he tells me to keep the change. The electricity floats in the air as he leaves the caffé. I try to calm my heart, which beats a million miles-per-minute.

  Instantly Marco rushes over to me.

  “Do you have any idea who that was?” he asks excitedly, almost more excited than I am, which is almost impossible at the moment because I’m still wiping up drool.

  “Rome’s most eligible bachelor,” I jokingly say as I try to get back to work cleaning off the marble countertops.

  “You’re right! And a billionaire!”

  Did he just say billionaire? With a b? This must be the universe playing a cruel joke. He’s not only the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, but he’s also a billionaire.

  I wonder how he made his money? I’ve always been fascinated with other business leaders—not for what’s in their bank accounts, because that can be gone in an instant, but for what’s inside their brains.

  I take off my apron and head to the back room. Marco follows behind me like a puppy with his tail wagging.

  “So what did he say to you?”

  “I don’t know, nothing really. I mean, he asked for a lemon biscotti and an espresso.”

  “I can’t believe Leonardo Forte was in Stella’s. This is amazing.”

  “Okay, you are acting like he’s the Prince of freakin’ England or something. Calm down, Marco. He’s just a dude.”

  “He’s not just a ‘dude,’ ” he says, mocking my American accent. “He’s like the Prince of Italy. He owns Forte Enterprises, the largest marketing firm in the entire country. Mr. Forte is one of the youngest billionaires in the world. He’s also always in the tabloids.”

  “For what?”

  I’m starting to realize I must know him from the tabloids. I might not stay up-to-date on all the latest Italian politics and crime news, but I do have a guilty pleasure for celebrity gossip.

  “Leonardo Forte is the son of two of Italy’s wealthiest families,” Marco says while pointing and waving his finger at me. “But he broke away from the family money and made his own fortune without their help. He’s quite a big deal! Plus, Mr. Forte gives so much of his money away to charity and to startup companies with other young entrepreneurs. And he dates only the most beautiful women in the world. He’s a legend.”

  #Heartbreak

  And that’s where my high drops. Of course Mr. Beautiful would only date the most beautiful women in the world—beauty favors beauty. I should wipe off my drool and forget I’ve ever seen this guy. Time to clear him from my mind. I remind myself that I didn’t move to Italy for love, anyway. Control, alt, delete this encounter away.

  “Well I’m glad you got to see your crush, Marco. Maybe next time you can take his order! I’m headed home for the day. I’ll see you tomorrow! You can teach me how to make those delicious lemon biscotti.”

  “Deal!”

  3

  Marco laughs because I have flour all over myself—in my hair, on my white t-shirt and on my green Stella’s apron—as well as on the floor, cabinet doors, and counter tops. I am the worst baker on the planet. I think I may need to stick to making the espressos—I’m actually getting a handle on that. I’ve experimented with making my own specialties, and the customers even ask for them by name.

  Now the baking situation: it’s not getting any better. This flour explosion is Exhibit A of why I should stay out of the kitchen.

  We hear the bell chime at the door, and Marco, who is kneading the dough, can’t stop, so I let him know I’ll check it out. Our regulars should know we technically don’t open for another 15 minutes.

  I head to the counter and then stop suddenly. It’s him again! Mr. Beautiful—Leonardo Forte.

  “Buon giorno. Mi dispiace, we don’t open for another 15 minutes, so not all the goodies are out yet. Marco is still hard at work in the kitchen.”

  “Marco?” he asks, in his deep, rich, Italian accent.

  “The owner of Stella’s. He’s the one responsible for all the magic behind this place,” I say while waving my hands around the caffé. I quickly stop once I realize I must look like a lunatic.

  “He is a lucky man to work with a woman as beautiful as you.”

  I want not to be affected by his compliment, but I melt a little inside.
Damn, it’s been way too long since I’ve been around a man like him. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever been around anyone like him. His big presence takes up the entire room.

  “What can I get for you, signor?”

  “I’ll take an espresso.”

  I get his drink and let him know it’s on the house. Marco would insist if he weren’t busy cleaning up my mess.

  “Grazie, bella,” he says. Then, as we stand at the counter looking at each other, he leans in and brushes his big hand across my cheek.

  Instantly, I blush.

  “Sorry, you had flour on your face,” he says. I reach my hand up to my cheek and I feel the heat he left behind by his simple touch.

  “Oh, thank you. I’m the worst baker in Italy.”

  He laughs.

  “So … do you have a name besides ‘Worst Baker’?”

  “Worst Baker is fine, but I also answer to Elena.”

  “Elena…?” I know he’s fishing for more information on me.

  “Elena Scott.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Elena Scott,” he says, extending his hand.

  I shake his firm hand and try to look into his eyes, but it’s like staring into the sun—I can only look for so long.

  “It’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Forte.”

  “You know who I am? I didn’t think many Americans follow Italian news.”

  “How do you know I’m American?” As if my own accent didn’t scream ‘Hey! I’m from the Midwest!’

  “Your charm.”

  What does that mean? I bite my bottom lip and his eyes instantly dart there. “Are you being sarcastic?” I say.

  He laughs at me—it must be that winning charm again.

  Leonardo downs his shot of espresso, leaves a few euros in the tip jar, and then walks towards the front door. I take a second to admire his hot ass, which even through his dark blue business suit looks extremely toned. Mr. Beautiful definitely hits the gym.

  He turns back to catch me staring at his ass, I’m sure, and says, “Have a great day, bella.”

  When he’s gone, I immediately sigh. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath. I am definitely going to have to maintain better composure if I plan to stick around the coffee shop. This guy is going to be the death of me.