Going Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 2)

by Carina Wilder

  “Yes, yes, soon,” I say, smiling to myself as much as to him. Somehow Giancarlo makes me feel so worldly and mature. “I’ll tell you what: come by some other day and ask me out again. I promise I’ll say yes.”

  The smile that erupts on his face looks practiced, like he’s studied exactly how to take on the appearance of a wicked young sex fiend. Maybe there’s a course at a local Roman university called Seducing Tourists 101. I suspect that he got an A+.

  “All right. But if you say no,” he says, “I will pound on your door until you agree to go out with me.” He says the words emphatically, like he’s taking charge of my life. For a moment I balk at his tone. I want to say, “Listen buddy. Fuck you,” but the wide smile that spreads over his features tells me he’s kidding. Thank God.

  As I shut the door behind him, I marvel for the second time tonight at how weird life is. A gorgeous man has just demanded—again—that I go out with him. And I’ve said yes. The problem, I realize as I heave a deep sigh, is that he’s not the man I really want to go out with.

  Turning to face the apartment, I realize that the crunched-up note is still in my hand. Unfolding it, I see that it’s from Katherine, who’s apparently already popped by to say hello. She wants to meet tomorrow. Well, well. My social calendar is filling up.

  Relieved to get to hang out with someone who doesn’t have testicles, I pull out my phone and shoot a text to the number that she wrote down for me.

  “Katherine—yes, I would love to meet up somewhere. Am free tomorrow morning.” Some part of me wants to keep the evening free. Despite my resolve, I know perfectly well that it’s because the evening is when there’s a chance to see Dylan.

  Dylan, who’s just a friend.

  Dylan, whose body I want to claim with my mouth, my pussy, my everything.

  Dylan, who has set my emotions reeling into a tailspin.

  Dylan, who broke my heart.

  I’m such an idiot.

  “Great!” she writes back. “Meet me in the Campo de’ Fiori at ten, by Bruno.”

  Bruno? I think, but I figure if she’s saying it, it has to make sense. Surely I’m resourceful enough to locate a guy with that name.

  “Will see you then.”

  When I’ve set the phone down, I remember that I’m supposed to call my mother and let her know I haven’t been murdered yet. It’s nine o’clock here by now, so according to my calculations, it’s noon in California. So naturally I procrastinate, heading to the bathroom to undress and hop into the shower for the second time to wash the sweat off my body. When I’m out, I feel refreshed and ready to take on the world.

  Or at least the mother from hell.

  I throw on the robe supplied by the travel agency and bounce over to the bed, my hair wrapped in a towel. Within seconds I’ve set up my laptop. It’s cheaper to make overseas calls online, so I poke in my parents’ contact number. My mother’s never gotten very good at using technology, and her ineptitude amuses me quite a lot. I’d be lying if I said I’ve never seen her try to use the TV’s remote control as a phone.

  After a few seconds I see the top of her head on my screen, her dyed blond hair in wild disarray as I stare at her ceiling fan. No sign of her face, of course. Camera angles and Mom don’t mix.

  “Oh, hello, dear!” she calls out. Apparently she can see me. Well, that’s something. “Good to see that you’re alive. I tried calling you last night, but when you didn’t answer your phone, I thought the worst.”

  “I was in a taxi, Mom,” I reply, strategically neglecting to tell her about the driver who tried his damnedest to give me a heart attack.

  “When I didn’t hear from you, I looked up the Roman police,” she continues as if she hasn’t heard me. “I was about ready to file a missing person’s report.”

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. “Everything’s just fine.”

  “Glad to hear it, dear. You should know, I was watching the news this morning to see if any planes had crashed into the Atlantic.”

  “And had they?”

  “None.” She almost sounds disappointed. “What’s that thing on your head?” she adds, noticing the towel for the first time. “Is that the new Roman style?” Mom has always been good at jumping between topics without a care in the world.

  “It’s a towel, Mom.”

  “A towel? You had a shower before you called your mother?” Actually, I had two showers and a sort-of-almost-date. But who’s counting?

  “I wanted to look and smell nice for you.”

  “You do realize I can’t smell you, don’t you? Computers aren’t that advanced yet, dear.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “So, is Rome nice?”

  “I just got here, so I haven’t seen much of it. But the parts I have seen are very nice.” I’m debating about whether to tell her about Dylan, but I don’t think it would be a good idea, somehow. I’m sure she met him when I was in high school, but even if she thought he was a nice boy then, she’ll probably assume he’s some sort of sexual predator now, like all men.

  “Well, don’t talk to any strangers when you’re off wandering alone,” she says, like I’m four and incredibly stupid.

  “Everyone here is a stranger, Mom. I don’t really have a choice, at least if I ever want to order food or, say, do anything whatsoever.”

  “At least don’t talk to strange men. Unless they’re handsome. And rich.”

  I snort. “You know, it’s the weirdest thing; I’m not so good at discerning a man’s wealth based on his appearance, Mother. But I’ll be sure to keep my wealth-sensor app running at all times.”

  “There’s such a thing? Well, isn’t that something,” she replies. Oh my God, my mother is insane.

  “Listen,” I say, trying hard not to laugh, “I’m going to get settled in. I’ll call or email you soon and let you know how I am, okay?”

  “Okay, dear. Oh! I nearly forgot. Your father and I are going to come visit you.”

  My head all but explodes. How the hell did she neglect to tell me this horrible piece of information?

  “Wait—what?” I ask, suddenly wishing to God that she couldn’t see my face, which is wearing the same expression as it would if rotating blades were approaching my head. “Why would you do that? I’ll be home in a few weeks.” I promise not to talk to strange men or do anything bad. Just, please, don’t come visit. Please.

  “We were talking about it, and we don’t think it’s appropriate for a lovely young woman like you to be wandering around a strange city alone for a whole month. You know what happens to women in cities like Rome.”

  They have a great time, drink tons of wine and have so much sex that they can’t walk properly?

  I press out a huge sigh. “What happens?”

  “They get raped.”

  “Mother,” I say, looking straight into the camera, “you say that all the time. And I’ve got to tell you, it’s bullshit.”

  “Don’t curse at your mother, dear. And it’s true. I read it somewhere.”

  “In one of your tabloids,” I reply. “I’m not going to get raped. Besides…” Here it comes. “There’s someone I know staying in this same building.”

  “Really?” asks the top of her head. “Who is it?”

  “Dylan Emerson. You remember him—he’s an old friend from high school.” It feels so weird to describe him that way. When she fails to respond, I add, “He was the captain of the football team in college. He’s an architect now.”

  “Oh, that sounds all right,” she replies. “Is he handsome?”

  “Very,” I tell her. All this is, of course, in the hopes that she’ll change her mind about visiting.

  “Well, we’ll meet him when we come.”

  My heart sinks. “You’re really coming? Have you even booked a room? It’s hard to find hotels here in the summer…”

  “Yes, we’re coming,” she tells me. “And don’t worry about the hotel. We thought that since you have your own place, we’d just stay with you. We’ll b
e flying in next Sunday.”

  You’re seriously inviting yourself to stay in my one-bedroom apartment for a week? Kill me.

  “Mom, this is only a one-bedroom…”

  “No matter. I can see your bed. It’s obviously a double. That will do nicely for us.”

  “A week, you said?”

  “Yes. We’re coming on Monday the fourteenth. Then onto Florence for another week. Isn’t it exciting? I’ve always wanted to go to Italy.”

  “You’ve never wanted to come to Italy, Mom.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “You told me I’d get raped by literally ever man in this country. Why would you want to come here?”

  “It looks pretty. Besides, I won’t get raped, dear. I have your father to protect me from Italian perverts. It’s only single women who wander the streets alone who are asking for it.”

  Holy shit. Kill me again.

  My teeth grind together as I force out a smile. So much for my solitary adventure. So much for my sanity.

  So much for Dylan.

  A heavy exhale of surrender escapes from my chest. “Well, the apartment is very nice, Mom. I think you’ll like it.” Especially after I’ve run away to live in a cardboard box down by the Tiber River and developed a heroin addiction because my mother is a demented stalker.

  “Good. Okay, well, I’ll leave you to your fun. Be sure to eat a caesar salad for me.”

  “I’m not sure they make those here.”

  “But wasn’t Caesar Roman?”

  “He was, but—oh, forget it. You know what? I’ll eat a salad and report back.”

  “Great. Bye, dear. Don’t get raped.”

  “I’ll be sure to douse myself in anti-rape spray, Mother,” I growl as I hang up.

  Kill me.

  Thirteen

  Lucy

  Monday

  By 9:45 in the morning, after a very long sleep, I’ve found my way to the famous Campo de’ Fiori, a large, open square surrounded by typical flat-fronted Roman buildings of varying sizes and colours ranging from lemon yellow to dark red. Shuttered windows dot their façades, creating an even, pleasing patchwork that ties them all together into an idyllic vista.

  I’ll admit that on my way through the winding streets that led me here, I wanted to stop about eighteen times in various little hole-in-the-wall shops that displayed the most gorgeous linen sweaters, pants that might just make my ass look fabulous and perfect Italian leather purses. Both the designer in me and my girly-girl side are intrigued, but I have weeks here yet, so I make a note to return and explore when I have a bit of time.

  The streets lead into the campo like spokes of a bicycle wheel; there have to be about twenty of them coming at it from all directions. I could see getting lost for hours, weary feet treading on the uneven cobblestones. I can’t think of a better way to spend a morning. The expression All Roads Lead to Rome has begun to make more sense to me than ever, although a more accurate version might be All roads in Rome lead to another part of Rome, and good luck ever finding your way out. This city was not designed for ease of navigation, but that’s one of the things I love about it.

  When I arrive at the square, I spot Bruno immediately. He’s a dark, brooding, hooded statue of a man standing towards one end of the campo. I wander over, mesmerized by his mystery. His handsome face is mostly in shadow, thanks to the hood that makes him look like a monk. But as I read the template that describes him, I learn that he was a philosopher and mathematician who was burned by the catholic church for heresy.

  A naughty man after my own heart.

  When I’ve finished examining him, I perch on the steps at his feet to stare out at the people wandering by. Mostly tourists, I think, though the odd Italian saunters past me. You can tell the locals by the fact that they pay attention to each other rather than to their surroundings. In my limited experience, it’s impossible for a tourist to walk through the city without risk of death, because their eyes are constantly drawn upwards. There’s so much to stare at here, so much beauty, that it’s impossible to ignore. The city is breathtaking, mysterious, open and closed at once, its stories told on the very stones that make up its buildings’ foundations.

  “Lucy.”

  The feminine voice pulls me out of my reverie and I jump to my feet, trying to figure out where it came from. I spin around until I come face to face with a redhead who’s got a big smile on her lips, a leather bag slung over one shoulder. She’s wearing a pale linen jumpsuit tied at the waist, and looks like she just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine.

  “Katherine!” I say, wanting to throw my arms around her. She feels so much like an old friend by now, and it’s damn good to see a face other than Dylan’s.

  She steps forward and kisses me on each cheek before saying, “Let’s grab a coffee, shall we?”

  I nod and she guides me over to a café, slipping elegantly into a chair at one of the tables that are protected from the sun by large umbrellas covered in advertisements for Cinzano and various other alcoholic beverages.

  “I trust you’re doing well?” she asks before I can say anything.

  “Yes, very well,” I reply. “Well, fairly well.”

  “That’s the same answer you gave me yesterday. You’d mentioned that you ran into a man you know—tell me, how’s that working out?”

  I look away and sigh heavily. “It’s a little crazy,” I reply, not knowing what else to tell her.

  The waiter steps over, and Katherine order us two cappuccinos, looking my way to make sure I approve. I do.

  “Crazy can be fun,” she says.

  I pull my gaze back to her face to see that she’s smiling, this sly little expression in her eyes, like she understands but she’s enjoying this just a little too much.

  “Not this kind of crazy. I guess I haven’t told you that I used to be in love with him.” Immediately I clam up, realizing that it was probably a bad idea to offer so much information out loud.

  “I see,” she replies. “And how do you feel about him now?”

  She asks a lot of questions, but something in them manages not to feel intrusive. I’m not sure how she manages it.

  “Conflicted,” I laugh. “I was a kid then; it was a long time ago. But I think we’ve both changed. And I get the distinct impression that he’d like to go on a date with me.”

  “But you don’t want to because you’re afraid the old feelings would crop up.”

  “Yes, something like that.”

  “You’re afraid that you’ll walk away feeling foolish and he’ll walk away clean as a whistle.”

  “Bingo.”

  The waiter lays our drinks in front of us. I’m now wishing I’d asked for a margarita.

  “But you said he’s not a scoundrel?” Katherine asks, leaning her elbows on the table and placing her chin in her hands.

  “No. Not a scoundrel. But that doesn’t mean I can bring myself to trust him.”

  “All right,” Katherine says, leaning back as though to take in all the information I’ve given her over the last day.

  “There’s one more complication,” I throw her. “There’s another man, one I just met. I think he lives in the building next door.”

  “Ah,” says, Katherine, pulling her hands into her lap. “Giancarlo.”

  “You know him?”

  “He took the note from me yesterday. I met him, yes.”

  “Well, he asked me out.”

  Katherine’s smiling again, entertained by my dilemma. There’s something really sexy about her. I mean, I’m not into women, but I could see how men must fall all over her. I half expect her to tell me that Giancarlo asked her out, too. “He’s a very handsome man,” she says, “and he knows it.”

  “Yes, I think he does. So tell me, would you advise against a date with him?”

  “Oh, hell no,” she tells me. “You should absolutely go out with him. Good lord, if that man asked me out I’d strip naked and straddle his face before even bothering to say yes.” />
  “I’m not sure I’ll be straddling any part of him, but it would certainly take my mind off Dylan for a few hours.” I take a sip of my cappuccino, which is freaking amazing. “Wait a minute,” I say, dabbing my mouth with the small napkin that was tucked under my saucer. “How did you become my relationship advice go-to woman? I feel like we’ve only talked about me and my stupid girl problems since I arrived.”

  “It’s my own fault,” she laughs. “I love hearing about this sort of thing. Besides, I don’t have a love interest in Rome these days, so I appreciate the chance to live vicariously. Anyhow, I advise you to open yourself up to any and all opportunities. You only live once and all that.”

  “So you’re advising me to go full-slut.”

  Katherine laughs again. “Such an ugly word. Let’s say that you’d be a woman in charge of her own destiny. Live a little. Enjoy the world around you.”

  “I don’t think I can be open to too many experiences or my brain will explode. Either that or my heart will melt.”

  Giancarlo = explosive brain.

  Dylan = melting heart.

  “That sounds lovely, actually,” she replies. “Whatever you choose to do, even if it’s neither man, I’m sure it’ll be right for you.” She lets out a soft, contented sigh as her eyes scan the campo. “I once had a romantic adventure in this city, years ago now. I’ll never forget it.”

  “What happened?” I ask, grateful to get a chance to hear about someone else’s entanglements.

  Katherine looks at me. “We met, we became addicted to one another. Then there was a lot of sex. And then more sex. Then we went our separate ways,” she says. “As it had to be.”

  “Did you love him?”

  She looks away again, her eyes staring into the distance at the statue of Bruno. “Actually, yes,” she says. “I did. Very much. But we had different ideas of what the future should hold. And things turned out for the best for us both, I think. He has a family now, and I have my independence.” She turns back to me, her expression serious. “It’s okay to love someone and to hurt, you know. The heart isn’t meant to be shut off like a faucet with a limited supply. It’s meant to bend and suffer and then rejuvenate. Our hearts recharge, Lucy. That’s the beauty of being human.”