Going Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 2)

by Carina Wilder

  Then, as if something’s possessed me, I slip my lips over the tip and suck the sauce clean off.

  “Jesus,” he gasps as his eyes lock on the sight of my mouth wrapped around his finger. When I’ve finished I release his hand, and he grabs my face. He’s going to kiss me, I know he is. The way he’s looking at me, the desire in his eyes. I’ve seen that look before.

  He moves closer, and for once I don’t back away. I want to feel those lips of his on mine.

  But at the last second, his face swerves around mine and he slips his tongue along my cheek, licking off the tomato sauce that I’d forgotten was even there.

  I let out a surprised laugh, and so does he. For a moment we back away from one another, staring into each other’s eyes. But then, possessed by desire, I step forward and press my hands to his chest.

  His smile has faded, and so has mine. I’m looking at his lips now. The lower one is so biteable that I just want to take it between my teeth and suck on it. I want to tell him that I don’t like hearing about Renata. That I never want to hear about his relationship with any woman, ever.

  I want to tell him that I should be the only woman in his life.

  His heart is beating hard under my palm. I want to hear it, so I press my ear to his chest. The next thing I know, his arms are around me, holding me tight, and mine have slipped around his waist.

  I don’t know how long we hold onto each other, but it feels like we’re standing there locked together for hours. Neither of us wants to let the other one go. Neither of us wants this moment to end.

  But it has to, for too many reasons to count.

  It’s Dylan who finally pulls away.

  “We should get them into the oven,” he says, turning to face his not-quite-finished pizza as he wipes his hands over his apron, his eyes avoiding mine.

  “Yeah,” I reply as I turn back to my own table. “I guess we should.”

  While they bake, we do our best to return to banal topics. His day-to-day work, my plans for the future.

  “What are you going to do when you get back to L.A.?” he asks me.

  “Ideally I’d like to open that little clothing shop that I mentioned,” I tell him. “Something all my own, with designs for real women and not stick-thin models. But I can’t imagine I’ll ever be able to afford the lease on a storefront in a big city. I was thinking about moving to one of the little towns along the coast. Or maybe the Napa Valley. I’ve always loved it there.”

  “Me too,” he says. “I think Italy’s reminded me how much I love that part of California.”

  “But you’re going to be stuck in New York. Far from vineyards.”

  “Far from vineyards,” he repeats, his eyes meeting mine. “Far from you.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but the timer buzzes, cutting off my train of thought. We spring to our feet, no doubt both relieved to find that the pizza’s keeping us from getting too intimate.

  Dylan slides both of our creations out of the oven and lays them on our wooden countertops. “Shall we?” he says. I nod, eager to fill my mouth with something—anything—that might curb my perpetual appetite for him.

  That afternoon, Dylan guides me towards the famous Trastevere cathedral known as Santa Maria. We stop for gelato on the way, which I’ve quickly discovered is a daily necessity when dealing with the hot Italian sun. When we arrive at our destination, I’ve got a chocolate cone in my hand and am trying desperately to keep it from dripping all over my white dress.

  The church isn’t so remarkable from the outside, but it’s situated on the edge of a picturesque cobbled Roman piazza, complete with a beautiful carved stone fountain.

  “There are over two thousand fountains in Rome,” Dylan tells me as we approach. “More than any other city in the world.”

  I look at him sideways and grin, which causes him to chuckle. “What?” he says. “Do I have something on my face?”

  “No, I’m just laughing because you’re such a Rome nerd,” I tell him. “Like a walking trivia book.”

  “Ask me anything about this city,” he says, turning my way as we both seat ourselves on the hexagonal platform that surrounds the fountain.

  “Okay. When was this thing built?”

  “1471. Easy.”

  I raise my eyebrows, impressed, and take another lick of my gelato. “All right. What’s your favourite thing about Rome?”

  “Also easy,” he replies, but he stops there. I turn to look at him only to realize that he’s staring at me, a sly smile on his lips.

  “No, but seriously,” I say. “What is it?”

  “You. Sitting here, eating gelato in your white dress,” he tells me. “That’s my favourite thing.”

  He doesn’t add “in Rome,” and a tremor of pleasure overtakes me.

  I’m falling in love with Dylan all over again, and it scares me to death.

  Seventeen

  Lucy

  When I return to my apartment at five p.m., I say good-bye to Dylan then follow my usual routine of showering the Roman funk off my body and throwing on a cotton robe. For a few minutes I recline on the couch, resting my tired feet and contemplating the day I just spent with a man who’s quickly become the biggest puzzle in my life.

  Part of me wonders what would have happened over at Luigi’s if we’d kissed. Would I be over at his place now, naked with his head between my thighs? Or would it just have ruined everything that’s been building up slowly between us?

  All I know is that it was as close to a perfect day as I’ve had in a long time. I was happy today, relaxed. Okay, at some points I was shaking, nervous, terrified. But I felt at home with Dylan in a way that I never did when we were younger. It turns out that he’s a good friend. No—a great friend. He gets excited when I talk about my plans, and he genuinely wants to know what’s going on with me. He’s not some self-centred, egotistical douche-canoe looking to spend time with people who’ll sing his praises all day long. For a guy as talented, good-looking and clever as he is, he’s the most modest person on earth.

  It’s been all of fifteen minutes since I last saw him, and I already miss him.

  I’m seriously considering popping over to his place to see about using his washing machine again when a knock sounds at my door. Maybe that’s him. I guess it’s possible that he feels the same way, that he misses me, too, and wants to have dinner together.

  As I walk over to see who’s here, I remind myself that dinner with Dylan might not be a great idea. Maybe we’re getting just a little too close.

  But when I pull the door open, I see that I have nothing to worry about. It’s not Dylan.

  It’s Giancarlo.

  Holy bruschetta, I’d almost forgotten that the Italian stallion existed. And I’d definitely forgotten that I promised to have dinner with him.

  Oh, shit.

  He’s standing there, his body a loose web of sinewy muscle. Linen shirt, stylish jeans, his dark hair dangling in front of his forehead like something that Michelangelo designed. He throws his head back like a horse and the curls go flying. Suddenly he looks like something out a commercial for shampoo.

  Dog shampoo.

  Okay, that’s not fair. He’s gorgeous. But as Katherine said, he knows it. He’s the polar opposite of Dylan, this guy. He thinks he’s god’s gift to women, to clothes, to cologne.

  Yet I have to admit that the idea of a roll in the hay with him still appeals to me a little. Maybe I could vent a little of the pent-up desire I’ve been building for a certain other man’s body…

  “Lucia,” he says, and I realize I’ve just been staring at him for about ten seconds. The Italian pronunciation of my name does just a little something to my insides, both good and bad at once.

  “Hi, Giancarlo,” I reply.

  “I saw you come in a little while ago, with a man. Is he gone?” He pokes his head into the apartment and glances around. Meddlesome, mischievous Giancarlo. I can’t help but laugh. He’s so oddly innocent; the kind of guy who thinks he knows every
thing but actually knows nothing.

  “He’s a friend of mine,” I reply, “and yes, he’s gone.”

  “Good. Then you will come to dinner with me tonight.”

  I’m not sure if it’s a language issue or a Giancarlo issue, but where I come from, a man usually asks instead of commanding.

  “Excuse me?” I blurt out.

  “Mi scusi,” he apologizes, “I did that poorly. May I try again?” He straightens himself up, clasping his hands over his heart. “Please, per favore, bella Lucia, would you come to dinner with me this evening?”

  I don’t quite know what to say. I’ve just said good-bye to Dylan. Dylan, my platonic buddy. My pal. My good friend who’s supposed to mean nothing more to me than a cooking companion.

  A man who’s told me I’m more beautiful than Rome itself, who makes me so crazy with lust that I’ve come close to tearing his clothes off about a thousand times in the last few days.

  The man I’ve promised myself I’d never get involved with again.

  “Dinner…” I repeat.

  “Si, dinner. Just a quick dinner. That is all.” Giancarlo flashes me his perfect, white teeth, no doubt bleached by the mediterranean sun.

  “Okay,” I say. “Just give me a minute, would you? I just have to put on some clothes.”

  “Of course,” he replies, eyeing my robe. “I will wait downstairs for you.”

  As soon as he’s gone, I run to the bedroom and throw on a little red dress, check my hair and makeup and slip out the back door to jog around the balcony and knock on Dylan’s door. He opens it a moment later, a giant smile on his lips.

  “Well, well, Loose couldn’t get enough of me,” he says, his tone jokingly cocky as he thrusts out his chest like a preening peacock. “I knew you’d come back for more of Big D.”

  “Big D? Ha!” I reply. I’m about to tell him why I’ve really come when I realize my mouth doesn’t actually want to utter the words.

  “What’s up?” he asks, pressing his forearm to the doorframe as he looks down at my face. Suddenly he looks concerned.

  “I…Giancarlo just asked me to dinner tonight,” I tell him. “I wanted to tell you. I said yes.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  It’s amazing how three syllables can hold so much meaning. I hear pain in his voice. Envy, sadness. Everything but joy.

  “I just…for some reason I thought I should tell you.”

  “You’re going now?” he asks.

  I nod. “It’s just dinner,” I tell him, my tone a little too insistent, too apologetic. “That’s all it is.”

  “If it isn’t, it’s okay, Lucy,” he says. “You do what you need to do. What you want to do. I know that I don’t own you. I’m not even sure I deserve you.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure any man deserves you,” he says, taking my chin in his hand and staring into my eyes. He looks broken up, somehow, like we’re saying good-bye forever, and it’s killing me.

  “I’m not his,” I blurt out. “I’m not Giancarlo’s.”

  “No?”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek. “No,” I tell him.

  “Well, you’re not mine either, are you?”

  I don’t answer. I can’t.

  “Just do one thing for me,” he says.

  “What’s that?”

  “Tell me about your date afterwards. Unless there’s sex. I don’t want to hear about the sex, okay?”

  “I doubt if there’ll be sex, Dill Pickle.” A minute ago it was a possibility. But now, standing here looking into his eyes, I can’t imagine how I could have sex with any man but him.

  He raises an eyebrow and musters a smile. “Yeah? We’ll see what Giancarlo has to say about that.”

  “Listen, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I reply. “Promise.”

  Under any other circumstance I might run back to my apartment, spritz a little perfume on my wrists and hope to get laid tonight. But that’s not really what I need.

  All I really need is someone who’ll take my mind off Dylan for a few minutes.

  Because I want him way too much.

  Eighteen

  Lucy

  As promised, Giancarlo is still waiting outside when I walk out through the wrought iron gate. He’s leaning against the wall of the building next door, a cigarillo in hand, looking the other way. As I step outside I see that he’s ogling a young woman who’s walking by. He mutters something quietly to her, and she turns around and smiles at him before continuing on her way.

  It’s just hit me that I really don’t want to go out on this date. At all.

  There was a time on my first day in Rome when Giancarlo was appealing. He represented the potential to be a little naughty, to indulge in pleasure that might not be good for me. But now I’ve got that feeling that comes when I consider eating a burger before realizing that filet mignon is also on the menu.

  Giancarlo is a cheap fucking burger, slathered in greasy cheese.

  Dylan is filet mignon. Rare. Delicious.

  If I had any doubts about what kind of guy Giancarlo is, they’re pretty well gone now. Seeing him hitting on another woman is almost enough to make me turn around and pop back into my apartment, fly over to Dylan’s place and tell him that I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather spend the evening reading the Roman phone book out loud with him than hang out with a skeezy bastard like Mr. Curly. Ironically, Giancarlo’s exactly the kind of guy I use for my one-night stands. Someone I’d never fall for. Someone safe, but attractive enough to want to see naked. Somehow, I’ve lost my taste for his type over the last few days.

  He turns my way and spots me, letting out a low whistle before dropping his smoke to the ground to squish it under his sandal. I’d almost forgotten that I’d changed into this dress, and suddenly I’m hoping it doesn’t make him think I’m looking for attention.

  “Che bella,” he says, stepping towards me. His breath smells foul, which is a perfect excuse to keep my distance.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, hoping it’s in a neighbourhood I know, in case I need to make a quick escape.

  “A favourite ristorante of mine. Very close by. It’s the place where I work.”

  “Oh? Are you a chef?” I ask.

  He laughs. “I’m a waiter,” he replies.

  “Ah.” I have no problem with waiters whatsoever, but judging by the tone of his voice, Giancarlo doesn’t think too highly of chefs. I get the impression that he’s not exactly ambitious. Not like some architects I know.

  For the entire duration of our walk, he talks about himself, never once asking me about my life. Another stark difference between him and Dylan.

  “I went to school here in Roma,” he tells me. “For five years.”

  “Oh? What did you study?”

  He turns my way. “My mother wanted me to be a doctor. So I studied anatomy.” With the utterance of the word he rakes his eyes over my body. “But it wasn’t for me.”

  “Ah. You’re not into science, then,” I say, but it falls on deaf ears.

  “Now I spend my time at the gym. Heavy lifting,” he tells me, flexing his muscles, which pale in comparison to Dylan’s. Wow, the guy is convinced that he’s super-charming. I almost want to take him under my more experienced wing and give him a quick lesson in how not to talk to women, but it’s actually sort of amusing to watch him do his thing. It’s like a study in douchebaggery.

  “Here we are,” he says when we’ve arrived at the restaurant he was talking about. A few seconds later he’s got his hand on my lower back, and he’s guiding me inside. Somehow, his touch feels lecherous. Unlike Dylan’s, which feels sexy, seductive, and…right.

  Giancarlo’s hand’s already sliding down, ready to make first contact with my butt when I leap forward to pull myself away from his fingertips. Too aggressive, asshole. Maybe he’s too young to know better. He’s like an overly eager puppy who’s trying to sink his teeth into a squeaky toy, not realizing that the toy bites back.


  “Tell me, how old are you?” I ask as we sit down at a table covered in a white linen tablecloth. A candle sits at its centre, illuminating Giancarlo’s face in a slightly diabolical way. He doesn’t look quite so handsome anymore, and I’m glad for it. I’d like to find his face as repugnant as I’m finding his personality.

  “Twenty-one,” he tells me. “And you?”

  Oh, he finally asked a question about me. How novel and exciting.

  “Twenty-seven,” I reply, watching his face for a reaction.

  Sure enough, he raises his eyebrows, surprised. “So you are a…what do they call them in America? A…cougar.”

  I let out a laugh that’s probably a little too loud. “Not exactly. Most people think I’m still a kid.” Though you’re making me feel like the most mature adult who ever lived.

  “No,” he says, “you are not a kid. You are definitely a woman.” His eyes veer to my chest, a smile stretching over his lips. “Una bella donna.”

  “Thank you.” I look around at the restaurant, curious to see who else is here, but mostly I’m just eager to get my eyes away from him. Couples sit at other tables, chatting away about their food. I can tell the tourists by their shorts, tank tops, and sneakers. Italians don’t seem to wear sneakers, unless they’re very expensive-looking, very clean and very stylish.

  “Have you always lived in Rome?” I ask, turning my eyes back to Giancarlo’s, which are focused on my breasts again. Surprise, surprise. Maybe I should write my questions on my boobs; he’d be more likely to pay attention to what I’m asking.

  “Yes,” he says. “Always in Roma.”

  “I see,” I say. “And have you always made a habit of staring at women’s tits?”

  “Always,” he mutters, before snapping out of his breast-trance, his gaze meeting mine with a shocked expression. His eyes narrow for a moment as though he realizes I was mocking him. Poor horny kid. He has no idea how attractive he could be, if he’d just behave with a little respect.