Going Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 2)

by Carina Wilder

  She’s so smart, and so right. But I know how I am. I know how long it takes my poor stupid heart to recover from damage: forever and a day. It’s still working on healing from the wound it suffered seven freaking years ago.

  “Tell me something, Katherine, why did you start the travel agency?” I ask, curious about what makes her tick.

  She doesn’t need to contemplate the answer for a second. “For women like you and me. Women who grew up with pressure on them to end up with a permanent partner, who think they’ve failed if they don’t have that life. Women who are waiting for the right man to come along to make them whole. I want women to be able to walk the streets of Rome alone, without feeling like a part of them is missing. Hell, if you want to fuck a gorgeous man, I say by all means fuck him. But don’t tell yourself that he’s the thing that will fix you. The only one who can make you whole is you. And once you’re whole, guess what? Then you can work on the next step. It’s far easier to give yourself to another person when you’re complete than as a broken entity.”

  I stare at her, my mind kind of blown. She’s just laid out everything that I’ve spent years trying to figure out. She’s right, of course; I’ve spent my entire adult existence thinking that someday, someone would come around and fix the cracks in my shell.

  But I’m realizing that I need to repair myself. I need to accept who I am, how I am.

  In the meantime, I think that maybe it’s time for me to go on a date.

  Fourteen

  Dylan

  When I get home after work on Monday, I can see that Lucy’s home. For once her curtains are open, and she’s wandering around her living room, drinking a glass of water. She actually looks relaxed and happy, like she’s just enjoyed a quiet day in Rome without a care in the world.

  I know that I should leave her be, let her enjoy her holiday alone, unperturbed by the likes of me. But damn it, I want to talk to her again. Want to get to the bottom what’s going through that gorgeous head of hers. I want to be part of whatever it is that’s making her look so content.

  Besides, she said we could do friend things together, and I’m not willing to let her back down on that promise. So I slip outside onto the balcony and make my way over. When I’ve arrived, I knock hard enough on her door to let her know I mean business.

  “Loose?” I call out. A moment later she’s poking her head out through an open window. When she smiles, it’s like angels are singing. Hallelujah, Lucy has stopped staring at me like I’m here to kill her and eat her head.

  “Hey, Dill Pickle,” she says. Her tone is friendly, even bubbly. Okay, she might be on drugs. But what do I care? She’s in a good mood, that’s all that matters. Unless they’re the bad sort of drugs. The kind that get you hooked, eat away at your liver then drop you dead.

  “You’re sober, right?” I ask.

  “Totally. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just—I haven’t really seen that particular smile out of you in years. It’s good to see you looking happy.”

  She slips over, opens the door and reveals herself fully. She’s wearing a yellow dress that hugs all those curves that I want to lick, lucky dress. “I’m in Rome,” she says, gesturing to me to come in. “What’s not to be happy about?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.” I deliberately neglect to mention how miserable she looked only a day ago.

  Once I’ve slipped inside I stare at her, maybe a little too intensely. I can’t help it; she’s so damned beautiful. “What were you up to today?” I ask, still half-convinced that she’s found some back-alley pharmaceuticals.

  “I went and met a friend, did some wandering, shopping, you name it. Now I’m back, contemplating what to do with myself next.”

  “Well, I have a suggestion,” I say, pulling out my phone to assess the time. “It’ll be light for hours yet. Are you up for a little more walking?”

  She nods. “I’m a little hungry, though.”

  “I can fix that,” I say. “Wait here.”

  In a flash I run over to my apartment and thrown a couple of things into a plastic bag, which I then insert into a small canvas pack and toss the strap over my shoulder. I’m back at Lucy’s within a minute.

  “What say I show you the Janiculum Hill? We can grab a bite on the way.”

  “The what now?” she asks.

  “I’ll explain as we go.”

  “Fair enough. I’m in,” she says.

  When we’re out of the building we walk through Trastevere until we reach a favourite street of mine, where I stop in front of a narrow restaurant whose sign simply says Casa di Pietro.

  “It’s a serious cliché, but is pizza okay?” I ask.

  “Are you kidding? So much more than okay,” she replies. “It’s like you read my mind.” She’s smiling again, and it’s contagious. I want to kiss her mouth just to ensure that her happiness spreads to me and sticks. Of course, that would sort of break the rules of friendship, so I guess it’s not on the table for tonight.

  “Let’s grab a slice and keep walking,” I say. We pop into the pizzeria. She gets a slice of margherita, I order the prosciutto, and then as promised, we head towards the hill, our makeshift dinner in hand.

  “Any new insights on Italian fashion today?” I ask.

  “I have to admit that I bought a couple of things in the shops around the Campo de’ Fiori,” she replies. “It’s hard to resist Italian clothing.”

  “So they tell me. By the way, there’s one person who’s sense of style you haven’t assessed yet.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Me. What does my fashion sense tell you?” I sweep a hand over my torso, showing off my very casual outfit.

  “Hmm,” she says, stopping to press her index finger to her lips and look me up and down. “That you have no money or self-respect?”

  I freeze and look down, slightly offended. I’m wearing khaki cargo shorts, an oldish grey t-shirt and sandals. Okay, fair enough. I look like a bum.

  “At least I don’t have any strategically placed mustard stains,” I retort.

  “True. You’re a veritable bastion of aesthetic perfection,” she laughs.

  We start walking again. “Seriously, would you take me shopping sometime? It’s not often I get to take advantage of the services of a clothing expert.”

  She allows herself another smile as she looks me up and down. “Sure. But I was kidding about the slob thing, you know. You look very nice, actually. Your t-shirt fits, and your shorts are the right length. They show off your…muscular…legs.”

  As soon as she utters the words, her eyes start looking everywhere but at me, like she’s hesitant to assess me any further. It seems that Lucy’s allergic to complimenting me.

  “Oh my God,” I gasp. “I think the seventh circle of Hell just froze over. Did you just say something nice about me?”

  “Don’t let it go to your head, Crazy,” she says. “I meant it purely objectively.” She tosses her hair behind her right shoulder, which is bare, bronzed from the sun and smooth. A sudden urge slugs me in the gut. I want to kiss that shoulder. I want to trail my lips all the way up her neck, to hear a small moan emerge from that mouth of hers.

  Once again, I want to make love to Lucy Horner so badly that it’s going to kill me.

  Nope. You’re in the friend zone, Dylan. There’s no escape from this hell.

  “I promise not to let anything go to my head,” I tell her. We’re making our way to the summit of the hill now. Once we’re there, I guide her over to the thick stone wall that divides us from the city of Rome below. I perch on its edge and look out at the vista. “There it is. Rome in all its glory. This is just about the best view in the city.”

  Lucy steps forward and presses the tops of her thighs into the wall as she leans forward. She’s got that look in her eyes again, that wide-eyed innocent doe look that turns my brain on so much. “Wow,” she breathes. “It’s so gorgeous that I can hardly stand it. There’s so much history here. I can see the dome of the Panth
eon, St. Peter’s, the Palatine Hill…” She turns to face my way. “You’re so lucky to have been here for so long. I’d kill for six months in this city.”

  “I know. I don’t really want to leave, to be honest.”

  A split-second look of disappointment flickers across her face as she registers the words.

  “What’s going on in that head of yours?” I ask.

  “Nothing. You just reminded me that at some point I’ll have to leave, too. I like it here, it’s like an escape from reality. I feel like Rome has cleansed my soul or something.”

  “This is reality,” I tell her. “Rome is real. And someday it’ll make a nice, real memory for you. You can always come back, you know. It’ll be here for a while. Eternal City and all that.”

  “True.”

  I flip open my backpack and extract a few plastic containers, popping them open. “Dessert,” I tell her, handing one her way along with a plastic spoon.

  “What is it?” she asks, looking down at the slightly mushy-looking brownish goo inside the container.

  “Tiramisú. It’s an Italian dessert. Homemade by yours truly. Go on, you’ll like it. As I recall, you like chocolate and booze, and this has both, so no excuses not to taste it, Loose.”

  “My kind of dessert,” she says, chancing her first bite. “Mmm, it’s delicious,” she says, before taking a second spoonful. In true Lucy nature she manages to get a dollop of cream on the tip of her nose. Fuck, I want to lick it off so badly that unseemly things are happening in my shorts again.

  Quick, Loose. Drip some on your cleavage. I’ll clean you up with my tongue.

  I let out a chuckle as I look at her with that bit of off-white froth perched on her face. She’s oblivious, even more innocent looking than before.

  “What’s funny?” she asks.

  “Oh, just a little…” I stroke the tip of my index finger over the cream and pull it to my lips, licking it off. “I seem to remember that you and food always made for a potent combination.”

  “Yes, I was always a pretty bad eater,” she laughs, wiping her nose with the back of her wrist. For a moment she stares at me, her eyes revealing all sorts of secrets. I see affection, happiness, humour.

  “What are you thinking?” she asks. “I mean, aside from the fact that I’m a total doofus?”

  “I’m thinking it’s really, really nice to see you,” I tell her. “I feel like we’re making up for way too much lost time. This friendship thing’s actually pretty nice.”

  “Agreed,” she says quietly. I’m not sure if it’s just my imagination, or if she actually pulls a little closer to me.

  I turn and stare out at Rome’s landscape below, trying to distract myself from the fact that we’re almost touching. It’s a little hard to stay in the friend zone when the friend is so arousing. “I have a lot to show you, so I hope you’re okay to do more walking over the next few weeks.”

  “I like walking,” she says. Something in her voice has changed, as though a nervous excitement has crept in.

  “Good,” I say. I don’t want to look at her, because I’m afraid that if I did I’d give in to my desire to grab hold of her, and I might never let her go. “So.”

  “So.” She turns to face Rome as I’m doing, pressing her hands to the top of the wall. I look down to see tension in those fingers of hers. And there it is. More secrets, more words that she won’t allow herself to speak.

  “Your friend—the one you met with today,” I say. “Was it someone you know from home?”

  “No,” she replies. “Her name is Katherine. She’s the woman who runs the travel agency. It was the first time we’ve met in person, though I’ve talked to her a bunch of times.”

  “Ah. Is she nice?”

  “She is.” I steer my gaze up to Lucy’s profile. The sun is hitting her in that amazing golden way that it does late in the day in Rome, her features as lovely as any of Michelangelo’s statues. “She’s very…confident.”

  “You say that like it’s an illness,” I laugh. “Do you mean she’s arrogant?”

  “No,” she says, turning to look me in the eye. “Not at all; I didn’t mean it as a negative. Actually, I like her a lot. I envy her.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. She just seems to have her shit together. Like she’s figured the world out. She seems like this wise sage, but she’s only in her thirties, I think. Something about her reminds me of a man, funnily enough.”

  “So, she’s a lumberjack.”

  Lucy laughs. “No, she’s super sexy and feminine, actually. It’s just that I get the impression that she can have an experience, even a bad one, then just let it slip off her back like it’s nothing. Men seem good at that.”

  I let out a scoffing huff. “Men aren’t good at it. They’re good at pretending they are. There’s a big difference.”

  “Really?” She turns around and slips her ass onto the wall, seating herself with her legs hanging down. “Do you pretend not to care about things?”

  I nod. “All the time,” I say. “I’m pretending right now.”

  “Pretending what?”

  Pretending that I don’t regret losing track of you all those years ago. Pretending that I’m okay with this just-friends thing. Pretending I don’t want to kiss you.

  “Pretending you don’t still have cream on your nose.”

  She smacks her hand into her face so hard that there’s a high risk that she’ll end up with a black eye. “Shit, really?” she says.

  “No, not at all. But it was fun to watch you punch yourself.” I can’t help but let out a laugh, and she clobbers me in the stomach with the back of her hand.

  “Hey! Abusive woman!” I mock-yell, laughing some more. “Someone help me!”

  “Not abusive. I was just testing your abs to see how rock-hard they get when confronted with womanly fury.”

  “And?”

  “Not bad at all.”

  Fifteen

  Lucy

  His abs are made of corrugated steel. I’m sure of it.

  I remember watching him on the beach one time years ago, throwing a football around with friends. I was, as usual, wearing a boy-short tankini. Something that covered enough of me that I didn’t need a Brazilian wax or to worry about my slightly waffly butt hanging out. Back in those days I was so insecure about my body, like all young women are. I wish I could go back in time and throttle myself.

  But Dylan—he was always perfect. He’s kept in shape over the years, his arms still roped with muscle, his chest broad, his shoulders amazing. I wasn’t lying to him earlier when I said his clothes look good. The way his shirt fits him makes his muscular chest and back look like those of a marble statue. His shorts are loose, but that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of the enticing bulge in the front, or his gorgeous, tight ass. And now that he’s sitting down, I’m getting an eyeful of his thigh muscles, which are out of this world.

  As I’m staring at him he turns towards me. The light hits him in the most amazing way, making his eyes glow bright as he looks into mine.

  I’ve wanted to kiss him so many times in the last hour. Wanted to touch him, to do the things I’ve been craving since I first laid eyes on him. I want to take Katherine’s advice and forget about the past.

  But this is good, too. Sitting here like this with him, talking like old friends. This is better than some ill-conceived fling that I might regret. We shouldn’t do something stupid, anyhow. He’s just broken up with someone and me, I’m probably just a little lonely. I keep reminding myself that I really need is a friend, and he’s turned out to be exactly that. A good friend. Someone who listens to me, who jokes with me. He’s considerate and kind, and I really like this thing we have going.

  So no, I’m not going to kiss him, regardless of how much my body’s begging me to.

  Okay, this is the most frustrating friendship in history.

  “I guess I should head home,” I tell him, protecting myself from further fantasies. �
��I’m still a little tired from the time change.”

  “Sure,” he replies. But he’s not moving; he’s still looking into my eyes.

  Risking everything, his right hand slips up and pushes a strand of my hair away from my shoulder. My strap falls down, revealing bare skin.

  I hear him inhale a gasp that sounds an awful lot like pleasure, and I know I’m in trouble, so I turn away and pull the strap up. My core pulses with need as I stare into the distance, juggling all the reasons that I shouldn’t have sex with Dylan. But I don’t need to juggle. I know why I can’t do it. Things have been going so well. I want to like him, but I also want him to prove that he’s changed. Or at least to prove that I have.

  I need to know that I’m not scared of being hurt anymore.

  “Walk me home?” I ask, finally gaining the courage to look at him again.

  “Of course,” he replies. His lips move in slow motion as those two words come out, and somewhere under a couple of layers of cotton, my nipples turn into rock-hard beacons. Damn, those lips of his are magic.

  I hop off the wall, landing on the pathway, and he pulls himself down next to me. For the briefest moment he brushes his hand over the small of my back and a surge of electricity shocks its way through my system. As he pulls away, his fingers slip down over my ass, and I swear that I hear another sigh from his chest as he pulls away. Damn it, Dylan, you’re not helping the cause.

  Our walk lasts about half an hour, during which he points out the sights as we head down the tall hill. The Forum, far in the distance. Mussolini’s Palace. The Colosseum. He hasn’t touched me again. He’s trying, at least. Trying to give me the platonic relationship that I need from him, and I appreciate it.

  An outdoor museum, that’s what Rome is, I think as I look around. The daylight is waning; clouds of red, orange and pink thinning themselves against the sky like a canvas. Underneath them lies the exquisite Eternal City. “It’s like a postcard,” I say softly. “The best postcard I’ve ever seen.”