Forever Dublin (Forever #2)

by Brittney Sahin

  “Sure. Go ahead and surprise me.” I sat down and pressed against the back of the seat, shutting my eyes for a brief moment.

  I listened to the sound of ice clanking and heard a deep cough.

  “Scusi, is this seat taken?”

  Was that a joke? Clearly the place was empty—and why had this man also assumed I spoke English? God, I’d love it if I knew enough Italian to respond with some quick remark about not judging a book by its cover.

  The smell of dark woods, warm spices, and a hint of amber floated my eyes toward him. “Su-su-sure.”

  The most beautiful man I’d ever seen took a seat next to me, his light, steely gray eyes capturing my own. Now, he was the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. In faded jeans and a black T-shirt. And with an accent . . .

  An unfamiliar spark of heat shot down deep into my belly.

  The bartender was back, his eyes shining as he extended his arm and shook the stranger’s hand. He started speaking in Italian, and I stared at the two with my lips parted.

  Mr. Tall D. Handsome responded with the most beautiful and sinfully seductive sentence I’d ever heard. Of course, I had no idea what he said, but it sounded hot. Really, really hot.

  What was wrong with me? I never turned into a puddle of girly hormones around a man. Of course, watching a game-winning touchdown in the fourth quarter, I could become a sappy mess. But losing my cool over a guy?

  That was so not me.

  “Signorina?”

  Oh God, he was speaking Italian. To me.

  “Yes?” My eyes opened wide, and my fingers curled around the tall glass, which contained some red and yellow, fruity smelling substance.

  “How are you doing tonight?” A sexy grin spread across his face. “Well, it’s morning, I suppose.”

  I looked up at the bartender, who was busy making the stranger a drink, and forced my gaze back to the sexy Italian next to me.

  He pushed a semi-long strand of dark hair off his face and angled his head toward me. “Are you okay?” His accent washed over me, creating tingling chills throughout my body.

  “Um. Yes.” I shook myself free of my daze. “Jet lag. I just got here from New York and can’t sleep.”

  He nodded and smiled at me again, showing me his straight, white teeth. “Grazie.” He took the tumbler from the bartender and brought the drink to his lips. His eyes remained on mine as he swallowed the dark liquor. “What brings you to Roma?”

  I didn’t feel like hashing out the details of my job. He was probably a soccer—that is, football—fan, he might react the way a lot of Americans acted whenever I told them I interviewed professional athletes: certifiably insane. People would ask a barrage of questions, followed by the inevitable: Can you arrange for me to meet him?

  Sure, because I keep famous quarterback phone numbers on speed dial, and they are at my beck and call.

  In all fairness, I do have a few numbers . . . but never once have I actually called one for anything other than business purposes.

  “I’m here for work.” Simple answer. And the truth. “You?” I looked away from him and took a few large swigs of my drink, attempting to calm my sudden nerves.

  I wasn’t quite sure where the owner’s manual to my brain was, but I desperately wanted it, because the mode needed to be turned back to confident professional, and quick.

  His forehead creased, and his eyes crinkled at the edges. “Work, too.”

  I wondered what kind of work he was in. The hotel was having several corporate meetings this week, along with the press conference.

  “Where are you from?”

  “I live outside Roma on the coast.”

  Every time he spoke, it was like lightning striking the tiny nerves in my body. I gulped and tore my eyes away from his lips as they touched the rim of his glass.

  “First time here?”

  Oh God, he was continuing the conversation. And I wasn’t sure if I was capable of formulating any more sentences. I took another quick sip of my drink, wishing I had a straw to suck the thing dry. “No, I have family in Naples. They took me to Rome and a few other places when I visited five years ago.”

  “Your family is Italiano?”

  I forced myself to look back at him, although I regretted it the second my eyes landed on his face. His gray eyes were bright against his bronzed skin, teasing my libido, bruising my insides with sudden need. How long had it been since I’d been with a guy? Too long, apparently. “You say that like you don’t believe me.” I flashed him a smile and toyed with the ends of my ponytail, wishing I looked less tired than I felt.

  “You do not look Italiano.”

  It-tal-e-an-o. So. Freaking. Sexy.

  His eyes were on my hand as I pulled at my hair. “Oh.” I shifted in my seat to better face him, although I wasn’t sure if that was the brightest idea. “Blondes can’t be Italian?” I joked.

  “I have never seen one like you,” he said in a low voice, and my insides practically split open. I touched the bar top in front of me, attempting to remain grounded—or at least upright—before I looked like a fool.

  Was it too late?

  He was smirking at me, and I had to wonder what was going on inside that head of his. He took another drink and placed his elbow on the counter before setting down his glass. He was still waiting for me to talk, huh? “My dad’s brother was in the military. He was stationed in Italy, and he met and fell in love with a beautiful Italian woman here,” I managed in one long, tortuous breath.

  “Smart man.”

  “I think so. My aunt’s pretty amazing. And don’t get me started on her cooking.” I shook my head, and my cheeks warmed. “Can all Italians cook like that?”

  His lips drew together in a straight line, and he stared at me. Even though I didn’t know him, I sensed a sadness lurked beneath the surface. He lifted his glass and finished off his drink. “Most can, I believe,” he answered as he motioned to the bartender for another round.

  A painful silence filled the room for a few minutes. We didn’t even look at each other. I slid money onto the counter, prepared to leave, but the sexy stranger’s hand covered mine, and I stared down. My heart thundered in my chest, banging loud in my ears.

  He quickly removed his hand from mine. “I ordered you another drink. And that one,” he said, nodding at my almost empty glass, “is on me as well.”

  “That’s not necessary, but thank you.”

  “Please. It would be—how do you say—offensive, to turn my offer down.”

  Really? Well, I certainly didn’t want to offend him. “Thank you.” I nodded at the bartender as he replaced my glass with a full one, then I put the small wad of euros back into my purse.

  My alluring stranger raised his drink in the air, and I followed suit. He clinked my glass, his eyes holding mine, and said, “Salute.” I remembered that one from my aunt.

  “Salute,” I returned.

  “Would you care to join me?” He tipped his head toward the army of empty tables.

  “Jeez. I don’t know. Are there any to choose from?” A smile skirted my lips, and I pushed to my feet. He slipped his arm behind me and picked up my drink. My eyes fixated on his tall, muscular body as he moved before me. He was a little over six feet and, God, he was in shape. He had the physique of someone who took care of his body. Really good care . . .

  I rubbed my neck and sat down on the black leather seat. “Beautiful view,” I murmured, looking out the window, finding his reflection.

  “Amazing,” he responded, his eyes landing on mine, which had me swallowing hard.

  “So, um, what’s your name?” My hands fell to my lap, and I rubbed them against my jeaned thighs, trying to get a grip.

  Was I contemplating the first one-night stand of my life? But I was in Rome, right? If it couldn’t happen here . . .

  “My friends call me Marc. You?”

  “Maggie.”

  “Mm. Beautiful name.”

  Oh God. The fluttering in my chest. The rap
id beating of wings that was my heart. I eyed my drink. It had to be the alcohol making me feel like this.

  “How long are you in Roma?”

  “Three weeks.”

  A slow breath escaped his lips, and he arched his shoulders as he leaned against the back of his seat. His hands rested casually on the table in front of him, and my eyes wandered to the veins in his forearms and up to his biceps again.

  I mentally pinched myself, trying to reel my hormones back into control. I was here on business. I couldn’t spend the whole time running around with some hot Italian I didn’t even know.

  Of course, maybe he had no desire to jet around town with me. He was a ten plus, and although I had confidence, his looks were just—wow. Not that looks were my top priority in a man—there were so many more important qualities a man needed to attract my attention. I just couldn’t think of them right now.

  “So, Marc, what do you do?” I hadn’t planned on getting into the work topic, but what else do people discuss?

  He waved a hand in the air. “Nothing special.”

  That’s it? That was all I’d get.

  “You?” His lips spread into a deep smile, which exposed dimples.

  That was the final blow . . . I was lost.

  My fingers danced across my collarbone as I decided what I wanted to say. Since he hadn’t given me much, I vaguely answered, “I’m a writer.”

  He slid his drink off to the side and leaned forward, pressing his elbows to the table. He laced his fingers together, and it took all my strength not to focus on what his hands would feel like on my body.

  “What do you write?”

  Okay, so maybe a little lie would be okay. I didn’t want to talk about the one thing I always talked about. Yes, I lived and breathed football, but tonight—or it was technically the morning—I just wanted to be a woman. And not an “oh how interesting, most women don’t know so much about football” kind of woman. There was more to me than my love of the game.

  “Novels.” I straightened in my seat and wet my lips.

  “Ah. What kind? Anything I would know?”

  “Um. Romance.” Jeez. I had no idea why I chose that genre. I don’t even read romance books. Then again, my brain seemed to be wired to one channel, and I couldn’t change it.

  “Ohhh.” Marc lifted his hands from the table and reached for his drink.

  Did he feel the need to cool off as much as I did? It certainly was a first for me—this loss of words, the struggle for sentences.

  What was this man doing to me?

  Jet lag. Alcohol. I tried to rationalize my desire.

  I watched the subtle movements of his muscular chest as it rose and fell.

  “Maybe you could write about an Italian man falling for an American.” His deep voice sang in my ears, and I shuddered at his words.

  “I don’t know. Sounds a bit cliché.” I laughed.

  “Oh? This has been done before?” He perked a brow and propped his arm up on the back of the chair, his bicep front and center.

  I waved a dismissive hand. “I’m sure. I’m not much of a roman—” I stopped myself, realizing I was about to screw up my lie.

  I knew nothing of romance books or movies. Why hadn’t I said I wrote sports fiction? Idiot. “I should probably get some rest. I have to be somewhere tomorrow.” We’d just sat down, but I didn’t think I could continue sitting across from him any longer without an oxygen tank and a few quick lessons on how to flirt.

  “Are you, uh, here for research or a book signing?”

  “Um. Something like that.” I stood up, and he rose as well.

  “Let me walk you to your room.” He reached into his pocket and tossed a few euros on the table. More than enough to cover our drinks. I liked that, especially since tipping in Europe was not as commonplace as it was in the States.

  “Thank you for the drinks.”

  He nodded at me, then exchanged a few words with the bartender before I followed him out of the bar.

  He lowered his head, studying the tiled floor as we walked through the nearly empty lobby. Was he nervous? He hadn’t seemed shy before.

  Then we were alone in the elevator. “What floor?”

  “Ten.”

  “My lucky number.” He pressed the button and stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets as the golden doors closed.

  I rubbed my hands up and down the long, white sleeves of my scoop-neck shirt, trying to fight back the nerves that strangled my insides. I bit my lip and looked up at him from the corners of my eyes.

  His gaze was liquid titanium as he looked back at me.

  The sound of the doors chiming open set me back on my heels.

  He held his hand out, motioning for me to exit. I pressed my lips into a half smile and nodded before passing him by.

  I walked down the flowery carpet and to my room, hoping to slow my pulse, hoping that, when I talked next, my words wouldn’t shake. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Marc.” My voice only wavered a hair.

  His eyes narrowed on me, and his fingers brushed across my shoulder.

  “Goodnight, Signorina.” He leaned forward, and I unfastened at the seams. I pressed up on my toes, and my lips found his.

  Then I realized that I didn’t feel any response from him. His lips remained stiff, unmoving. I pulled back and covered my mouth with my hand. He’d probably been planning on kissing me on each cheek—the Italian tradition. Embarrassment ripped me apart in a nanosecond. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

  His breathing was more rapid now as his chest heaved up and down. His eyes darkened as his hand went up to my cheek, then to the back of my head. He pulled me against him and his lips crashed onto mine.

  Heat snaked through me this time. It was hot. Sexy. And brutally delicious. Better than I could have ever expected.

  His tongue slipped inside my mouth, and he pulled me closer to him, his hard chest pressing against mine, my nipples straining in my bra, desperate to be freed.

  “Merda,” he said once our lips parted.

  He was still holding my head with his one hand, and I forced my eyes open and looked up at him. There was pain, or maybe sadness, there. The same look that I remembered from earlier.

  I took a small step back and bumped into the door. “Goodnight.” I thought the kiss had been pretty damn good, myself, but I also remembered the translation for “merda.”

  Shit.

  His hand fell heavy at his side, and I turned away from him, pressing my hand to the door. Bracing myself, I could feel his breath at my ear.

  “Sweet dreams, Maggie. Ciao.”

  I didn’t turn to watch him leave, but as I dug into my purse for my key, I could hear the elevator doors ding.

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