On Thursday night, Mom and Dad, as always, are exhausted and in bed. It’s 9:30 and I’m getting myself ready for my nightly trip over to sexual heaven. I pop into the powder room to check my face and quietly saunter out to the living room, listen for dad’s snores and tiptoe over to the door that leads out to the balcony. Thirty seconds later I’m in Dylan’s arms. Thirty seconds after that, we’re both naked.
“Am I an addict?” I ask him when we’re lying in bed half an hour, content and utterly spent. “Addicted to you, I mean.”
“If you are, I’m a Lucy junkie. Maybe we can do rehab together.”
“Hmm. Let’s hope rehab involves a hell of a lot of sex.”
“Cheers to that.”
“Listen—I wanted to thank you for being so nice to my parents. They’re not always the easiest to get along with.”
“It’s fine,” he replies. “I enjoy them, actually.”
“My dad likes you. And my dad never likes the men I date.”
“Well, he and I have something important in common,” Dylan says, “so it makes sense that we’d get along.”
“Oh? What exactly do you have in common? Please don’t say a penis, because I don’t want to throw up all over the bed.”
“Not that at all,” he replies, tucking a strand of my hair behind my right ear. He locks his eyes on mine, his expression totally, utterly earnest. “We both love his daughter.”
Okay, I’m not going to throw up. But something insane is happening to my insides that may or may not be healthy. In a totally good way, except that I’m paralyzed now. Like, I literally can’t move. Or breathe. Or think. Or talk.
“That’s fine,” he says, and I feel like I’m hearing his voice from under water. “I just said I love you and you’re staring at me like a deer caught staring at a strobe light.”
“I…” He just said it again. I love you. He really said it. Dylan Emerson just said he loves me. “I love you, too.”
It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever said it to anyone other than my parents. “I’ve loved you for a long time.”
He’s got this look in his eyes that tells me he’s serious. This isn’t some fleeting, superficial summer fling to him. We really did somehow pick up where we left off all those years ago, minus the stupid drama in the interim.
“So you’re not freaked out?” he asks me.
I shake my head. “Not freaked out. Are you?”
He shakes his head back at me. “I think I knew I loved you even back in the days when we were basically kids. It’s why…” he stops himself, turning his face away, like he’s trying to decide if it’s really a good idea to keep talking.
“Why what?” I ask.
“Why I broke up with what’s her name,” he says.
“Chloe,” I reply. The very mention of her name makes my stomach turn over. Chloe, who was instrumental in my downfall. “Wait—what do you mean, you broke up with her for me?”
“You didn’t know?” he asks. For some reason he seems genuinely surprised.
“Hell no. I mean, I knew that you’d broken up but I never thought it had anything to do with me. I always figured you were torn about it. I figured that was why…” No. I’m not going to mention the incident. Not going to rehash that horrible night. “I guess I thought you didn’t care that much about me.”
He props himself up on one arm. Damn, he looks sexy like that. Stop looking so hot when I’m busy being confused. “Is that why you ran away?” he asks. “You thought I didn’t care?”
“Of course I thought you didn’t care,” I reply. Uh-oh. It’s coming out. “After what I saw, I figured…”
“Figured what?”
I’m about to answer him. To spill my guts and tell him everything, when a series of bright lights flash through the bedroom curtains, reflecting circular beams across the room onto the walls around us.
“That’s weird,” I mutter.
“Those are flashlights,” Dylan says.
“Neighbours?” I ask, but too late. A walkie-talkie blurts out some rapid-fire Italian from somewhere on the other side of the window.
“No. It’s Polizia,” he replies. “Cops.”
A hard knock sounds on the door. No two people have ever leapt out of bed so quickly as we do, throwing on any piece of clothing we can find.
Dylan walks over and opens the door, wearing nothing but pyjama bottoms. Meanwhile, I’ve managed to make myself relatively presentable in my clothing. I march out into the living room, only to see a police officer standing in the doorway.
To my shock and horror, my tiny mother is standing next to him.
Dylan and the cop are discussing something in Italian, and when the officer sees me he raises his eyebrows approvingly then mutters something. My mother, meanwhile, has crossed her arms over her chest and is giving me the look of death.
“I had no idea what had happened to you,” she scolds. “No idea. You could have been abducted, killed, raped.”
“In that order?” I ask, my inner smart ass in no mood to deal with her treating me like I’m five.
“Don’t get clever with me, young lady,” she says, proving that I am indeed still a child in her eyes.
Dylan says something to the police officer, who nods, gives me one final glance and takes off with his buddies.
“Come, Lucy,” my mother says. “You ought to be in bed.”
“You mean on the couch. I was in bed,” I mumble. “Quite happily, too.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
Sigh.
“I’ll follow in just a sec,” I say. “You can head back to the apartment. I know the way.”
Scowling, she leaves us alone.
Fuck, this is going to be a long night.
“I’ve got to go,” I tell Dylan quietly, closing the door behind my mother. One more day and they’re out of here. “Sorry about all this. My mother has forgotten that I’m supposed to be an adult by now.”
“No worries. We’ll finish our conversation tomorrow,” he assures me.
“Okay,” I reply, pissed beyond words that everything was so rudely interrupted, but there’s no time to get back into our conversation again. My mother will have an aneurysm if I take more than two minutes to get back to her.
I’m about to leave when Dylan grabs my hand, pulls me to him and kisses me. “I meant what I said earlier, you know,” he tells me. “I love you, Lucy.”
“I know,” I reply. “I meant what I said, too.”
Twenty-Nine
Lucy
The next day is overcast, a rare sight in Rome. After my mother’s gotten over her aggravation at the reminder that her only daughter is an unholy slut, we wander around the Villa Borghese’s grounds for a few hours. They’re beautiful. Breathtaking, even. But the entire time I’m distracted.
The fact is, four o’clock can’t come fast enough. I have it all planned out: I’m going to drop my parents at Termini Station for their ride to Florence, then head over to Dylan’s office. He doesn’t know I’m coming, but I plan to surprise him by stealing him away for a romantic dinner together on this, our first night of freedom in a week. I know our conversation last night was a little weird, so I want to make up for it. I want to remind us both that it doesn’t matter what happened a lifetime ago. The only thing that matters is that we’ve found each other again.
He loves me. I love him.
For the first time in my adult life, I feel like I get it. I understand that relationships are insane and complicated and so, so worth it. Every minute I’ve spent with Dylan in Rome has been amazing. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
When I’ve finally said good-bye to my parents and seen them to their train platform, I set off on the long walk to the architecture firm. I don’t mind walking; I love that I now know my way around Rome. I love feeling like I blend in with my surroundings; I am an honorary Roman, complete with A-line dress, little handbag and large sunglasses. I’m Audrey Hepburn all over again, ready to declare my adoration f
or my man from the rooftops.
Except for the fact that the clouds above are about to explode rain down on me, and I have no umbrella.
As I stride along the route parallel to the Tiber River, a strange sight greets my eyes. Men have started coming out of dark corners, carrying bins of umbrellas. I have no idea where they came from, but there are suddenly dozens of them standing on the street, hocking their wares like pros. They know that unprepared tourists such as yours truly will fork out cash, rather than get soaked on our way somewhere.
Clever thinking, boys. Very entrepreneurial.
I approach one of the men. “Quanto costa questo?” I ask, pointing to a little black and white polka dot umbrella.
“Otto,” he tells me. Eight euros.
Fuck it. I pull out my wallet and hand him ten. He gives me the magical rain shield and two euros back.
Now I’m even more fashionable, holding the canopy over my head as I stroll under a steady shower of warm summer rain. Suddenly, I’m even more eager to get to Dylan than I was before. I want to pull him outside and kiss him under the sultry cascade. Something about the thought of it seems so romantic, so sensual.
As I round the corner closest to the architecture office, dreaming about our perfect moment to come, I freeze for a moment. My dream has been temporarily thwarted.
A couple is standing on the sidewalk in front of Dylan’s building, their voices raised as they argue in Italian. Another lovers’ quarrel, no doubt.
The man’s holding a black umbrella on an angle, his back towards me so that I can’t see his face. The woman is facing him, her body angled towards me, but her features are mostly obscured by the black nylon shield.
Smug and self-satisfied, I pat myself silently on the back. I’m so glad I’m in a mature relationship where sparring matches don’t need to occur. My man is a grownup who knows how to talk to me openly and honestly. I don’t have to engage in this kind of crap.
From her body language, the woman looks like she’s pleading with him. I’m close enough now that I can hear her tone of voice, and although she’s not speaking English, I can somehow make out enough to know that she wants him to be hers. She says she adores him, and wants to know if he adores her too. The man’s free hand reaches for her shoulder, his fingers pressing into bare skin. She reaches for him, pulling herself towards his body. Though I still can’t quite see their faces, I get the impression that she’s about to kiss him.
With a thump, his umbrella hits the ground. Her arms are around him now, and it looks like I was right. She’s kissing him on the lips.
A moment later the kiss has ended, but the man wraps his arms around her, holding her tight like he doesn’t want to let her go. I guess they’ve made up.
This is some serious passion that I’m witnessing. I just wish the idiots weren’t standing in my way. It’s all well and good that they’ve found their happy ending, but damn it, I want to get to my man.
She says something and pulls back for a moment, just enough so that I can finally see her face through the pouring rain.
Holy rigatoni.
It’s Renata, the woman Dylan dated before I came to Rome.
When she spots me standing in the downpour, my mouth open, the most wicked, evil grin spreads over her face. She puts her hands around the man’s neck and kisses him on the lips again, then says something to him. Immediately, he turns and sees me then pushes her away hard enough that she goes careening backwards, nearly falling to the ground. Another man who’s stepped out of the building runs over to grab Renata, presumably to save her from a giant ass-bruise.
But I don’t care about any of that.
I’m busy trying not to be sick.
Because the man Renata was kissing is…Dylan.
Dylan, who just told me he loves me.
Dylan, the man who’s just broken me for the second time.
I’m reliving a seven-year-old nightmare.
I could tell myself that it was all her doing, but I know what I saw. He had his arms around her; it wasn’t like he pushed her away the moment she touched him. He was holding onto her for dear life, as though he was afraid she’d run away.
Oh, God, I really do think I’m going to be sick. I spin around and run the other way, not paying attention to my ankles buckling on the slick cobblestone surface. My vision is blurry with tears, my throat dry, my hands shaking. All I know is that I need to get away from this place as fast as I can.
“Lucy!” I hear behind me. No. I am not going to stop. I was burned like this once, I won’t let him burn me again.
Footsteps echo somewhere behind me. Shit, of course he’s wearing better shoes for sprinting through Roman streets, and he catches me up in a matter of seconds.
He grabs my arm and stops me, spinning me around to face him. But I won’t look into his eyes. I can’t.
“Lucy, that wasn’t what you thought it was…” he says. Immediate denial. Yeah, Dylan, like I’m that stupid.
“That wasn’t you holding onto your ex-girlfriend for dear life while she kissed you? While she laughed at me?” I retort. “Because it sure as fuck looked a lot like that.”
All the anger I’ve held in for seven years is surging up, all the unspent currency of my damaged heart. Dylan’s getting pelted, my rage flying through the air between us.
“You don’t understand. Renata came charging into the office, going nuts,” he insists. “They asked me to take her out of the building. She was raving and screaming, and when I took her outside, I had my arms around her to stop her from hurting herself. She kissed me, but I pushed her away. I yanked her in and held onto her arms to keep her from doing it again. I was worried about her safety. She’d said she was going to hurt herself if I didn’t take her back.”
“Right, so let me get this straight. Letting her kiss you, pulling her closer—that was all for her own good?”
He’s staring at me with this annoying, frustrating expression of disbelief right now, like he’s innocent and I’m a lunatic as raving mad as Renata allegedly is.
“Fuck, Dylan,” I say, a sob shooting up my throat. “Last night you said you loved me. Now you’re making out with other women. Is this your way of panicking when things get too serious? Because maybe I should remind you that you’re the one who said you loved me. What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you do this to me? To us?”
He lets my arm go and stares blankly at me, backing away. Each step he takes is like a knife in my side. “Wow. You really don’t believe me,” he says. “You think I’m lying to you.”
“Of course I do!” I snarl, choking back another sob. “You know what the worst part is? I thought you’d changed. I had so much faith in you. I thought I’d finally found myself in an adult relationship with a mature man who knows better. But you haven’t changed one bit. You’re still the immature, manipulative asshole you were all those years ago.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know exactly what I’m talking about.
“It means you just pulled the same shit that you pulled on me seven years ago, when you and I kissed on the beach. The only difference is, this time I’m calling you on it. I’m not going to wait another seven years to tell you that you broke my heart, Dylan. I’ll say it to your face, right here, right now: you’ve fucking broken my heart. I hope you’re happy.” The tears are streaming heavily now, even harder than the rain is falling. I can barely see his face, but that’s probably for the best. His gorgeous features have gone ugly in my mind, and I’m not sure I could stand ever to see them again.
“Lucy,” he says calmly. “I genuinely don’t know what you’re talking about. Seven years ago, I hoped to have sex with you. I wanted a relationship with you. I broke up with Chloe to be with you. But you disappeared.” He sounds so sad, so confused, that I almost believe him. Almost. “That’s all I know.”
“You’re telling me that you were perfectly innocent? That you went over to the bonfire, grabbed a blanket out of your car and
boom, the end?”
“Well, no. There was something else that happened. I looked after someone. Chloe was…”
“Ha!” I yell. So, he’s finally confessed. It’s about damn time. “You made an ass of me that night. I was saving myself for you, Dylan. I wanted you. I cared about you, way more than I should have.”
“What do you mean, you were saving yourself?” he asks.
“I was a fucking virgin,” I yell far too loudly, my voice shattering. “I was in love with you, and I was going to give myself to you. Then you ruined everything. You made a fool of me then, and you did the same thing today. Nothing’s changed. Nothing.”
He stares at me, his mouth slightly open. “Loose. Oh, fuck, Loose…” he moans.
“So that’s all you have to say,” I snarl before I spin around on my heel and storm away.
This time Dylan doesn’t follow me. I’m pretty sure he’ll never follow me anywhere again.
Thirty
Dylan
I’m standing on Via Siena, staring at the back of the woman I love as she storms away from me.
I’m not stupid; I get why she’s upset. I understand what she thinks she saw. Hell, if she really thinks I was making out with Renata, she has every right to be pissed at me. But it’s the fact that she doesn’t believe me—that she doesn’t trust me—that’s getting to me.
I’m totally confused. I have no idea what she thinks she saw seven years ago. I don’t understand the strange resentment that she seems to have held onto all this time. I thought we’d moved past all that.
I thought a lot of things. But clearly I was wrong about all of them. Lucy has given up on me. She thinks I’m a total asshole.
I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to fix this. Hell, I tried to talk to her. I tried not to let things fall apart like they did seven years ago.
Going Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 2) Page 16
