by Amy Patrick
Nic beamed. “How about one hour?”
“Fine,” I said, whirling around to retreat into my room.
“Fine,” he repeated, and his laugh echoed through the suite, even after I closed my bedroom door.
I filled the large tub and sank into its hot, sudsy depths, soaking for a while before washing my hair. Wrapping myself in a towel, I used the hair dryer and a round brush from my pack to create some body and curl. I didn’t have much in the way of makeup—just some mascara and lipstick, but I made use of the personal care products on the bathroom counter—body lotion, perfume. They both smelled heavenly.
Clean, dry, and smelling almost worthy of the gorgeous dress, I took it from its hanger and slipped it on over a pair of panties featuring the image of a baby chicken wearing a graduation cap. They read “Smart Chick.”
The dress fit perfectly. Turning to check the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door, I took my own breath away. It was just such a shock to see myself like this. I hadn't been dressed up since prom—and that felt like a lifetime ago. Besides, my prom dress couldn’t hold a candle to this one. The style of it made my straight, somewhat boyish figure look super girly. I did a spin to see the flare at the bottom lift and actually giggled.
It was only when I was about to leave the room barefoot that I realized it—I had no shoes to wear with this elegant dress. My sport sandals were way too casual, and I didn’t think my hiking boots would strike quite the right note. My heart sank as I considered removing the pretty dress and hanging it back up. Room service it was.
There was a knock at the bedroom door. Nic’s voice called through it. “Are you almost ready?”
I walked over to the door, prepared to tell him to enjoy his solo dinner. When I opened it, the first thing I saw was his smile. The second was the pair of sparkling silver sandals he held up in front of him.
“Bardo has just returned from the shoe boutique in the lobby. If this is not the right size, he can go back down and exchange them.”
I glanced over at Bardo’s gloomy expression. He seemed absolutely thrilled at the prospect of boutique shopping.
“How did you—”
“I grew up in a family of very particular women,” he said. “I know better than most men that shoes can make or break an outfit. Let’s see which these will do.” He offered me the gorgeous high heeled sandals.
Heart pounding, I took them, and held onto the door frame with one hand while slipping the first one on. It fit. Of course.
“You’ve got a good eye,” I said.
“For some things. How do they feel?”
“Great. They’re great. Thank you. I’ll pay you back, when I, you know, get some money again.”
His face contracted in a puh-lease kind of expression. “It is nothing. Simply the price of a charming dinner date.”
We left the hotel, trailed at a respectful distance by Bardo and Piero. The cobblestone street was quaint but a bit of a challenge in high heels. I wobbled a few times and once nearly tripped, but Nic’s arm shot out to catch me.
“Sorry,” I said, embarrassed.
He gave me a warm smile. “I don’t mind. That cannot be easy. I’d fall flat on my face. But they look good on you. And now you’re at least, what? Five foot one?”
I slapped at his shoulder. “No. I’m five feet barefoot, and these are four inch heels, thank you very much.”
“Oh, a giantess to be sure.” He chuckled. “We are entering the Piazza del Campo. There are many café’s here, but ours is just on the other side, on a side street.”
The pedestrian road was busy, filled with people of all ages, families walking together, professionals in business attire on their way home from work, people who were obviously tourists, gawking at the amazing ancient buildings. The air was warm, and no one seemed to be in a hurry. The Piazza itself was a scallop-shaped open plaza featuring the tallest tower I’d ever seen.
“That’s the Torre del Mangia,” Nic explained as we walked into the plaza. “One of the tallest public towers built in medieval Italy. It’s eighty-nine meters—two hundred eighty nine feet tall.”
I stared up at the incredible brick and marble structure. “You’re pretty familiar with Siena then?”
“I’ve spent some time here,” he said.
We turned out of the square and onto a side street, passing a few restaurants. I would have been happy to eat at any of them. Each had charming sidewalk tables and emitted the mouthwatering scents of garlic and olive oil and grilling meat.
Finally, Nic stopped at a place set back farther from the street with a whole patio for outdoor dining. White electric lights were strung between the trees that punctuated the dining area. As dark was falling, an employee went from table to table, lifting the glass votive jar from each and lighting the candle inside before moving to the next.
The fragrances drifting through the warm night air from within the kitchen set my stomach to a low and steady growl. The sounds of lively chatter and silverware clanking softly on china accompanied soft guitar music coming from one corner, where a lone musician sat on a stool under a tree.
We stepped from the sidewalk onto the patio, and several of the diners glanced up—and kept looking, gawking so long I began to feel uncomfortable.
“People are staring,” I whispered.
“It is because you are so stunning.”
“No, dum-dum. They’re staring at you.” Of course, he actually was stunning. But it was more than that. There was recognition in their eyes. Recognition and admiration—maybe even devotion. He really was a star.
“That’s why I brought you along,” he explained with a wink. “If I came here alone I’d be unable to finish my food because they’d all want a football story and a photograph with me.”
How could someone be so arrogant and so appealing at the same time? I’d never liked cocky guys, but Nic added just enough humor to his egotistical statements that I found him amusing instead of obnoxious.
The busy host finally glanced up and noticed us then rushed over and spoke to Nic in Italian, using a deferential tone. I missed most of it, but I did recognize the phrase “Figurati,” which meant “No problem” or “Don’t worry about it.”
He sped away again, grabbing the arm of a busboy and giving him rapid-fire instructions.
“What’s going on?”
“It is a very busy night here. There are no tables available.”
“Oh.” My hopes fell right through my grumbling stomach. Once I’d caved to Nic’s temptation, I had really started looking forward to my peach-marinated sea bass. Room service no longer seemed very appealing at all.
“That’s too bad. We can just go somewhere else. I’m sure all the restaurants around here are good.”
I took an automatic step back, but Nic’s hand came out to catch mine and stop me. “Do not worry. It’s not a problem. They are making one for us.”
“What?”
He didn’t need to answer my question because before my eyes a table for two was created. One black-clad busboy carried the round table to the center of the patio while another asked the surrounding patrons to scoot over. There were some surprised looks, but everyone complied.
The table was placed, and another employee speed-walked onto the patio carrying two chairs, which he whipped into place. The host followed, snapping a crisp, white tablecloth over the top and smoothing it before placing a candle in the center and lighting it. That accomplished, he stood at straight attention and held out one arm in a here-you-go gesture. The whole operation had taken less than two minutes.
Nic turned to give me a satisfied smirk. “See? No problem.” He offered me his arm, and I took it, letting him lead me to the table while everyone watched. Or at least that’s how it felt to me. Nic didn’t seem to even notice the attention.
Our waiter brought out a plate of bread and olive oil almost immediately, thank God, and I wasted no time tearing off a piece and sinking my teeth into the hot baked goodness.
�
��You are hungry.” Nic chuckled.
“Well, you sort of interrupted breakfast this morning, if you’ll remember. And then I was escorted to your suite, where I cooled my heels waiting for you. After that I was sent to my room to pack, and we left.”
“Oh. Right. I feel terrible. Well, I definitely owe you dessert then. Perhaps two.” He gestured to the menu. “I hope it goes without saying that you should order anything you like, although I do recommend that seafood.”
“Oh, I’m having that for sure.”
He laughed again, a very satisfied smile spreading across his face. “I thought you might.”
The waiter returned with salads and a bottle of red wine. Though the legal drinking age in the UK was eighteen, and it was sixteen in France, I wasn't a big drinker. But I tried it. Chances were any vintage Nic selected was probably pretty good. While in Siena, right?
One sip, and I was a believer. “Oh my God, what is this?”
“You like it? It’s my family’s label, see?” He lifted the bottle and held it out to me, label side up.
“Of course.” I rolled my eyes but smiled.
How could I do anything but smile in this enchanting setting, surrounded by delectable tastes and smells, pleasing sights and sounds, and sitting across from the best-looking guy I’d ever met? I mean, come on, I was big enough to admit it. I might not be a sappy, lovesick fan pod girl, but he was some pretty damn fine man candy.
And soon, I’d be on my way and not sitting across an intimate dinner table from him. This was a rare opportunity in life. Might as well enjoy the visual feast while it was laid out in front of me.
“What are you thinking?” Nic asked, narrowing his eyes and giving me a sly smile.
“What? Nothing.” Shoot. Had I been staring? I’d been staring.
“Something, I think.”
“Well, I… I was just wondering what kind of dressing they use on the salad here,” I lied, babbling whatever nonsense popped into my brain. “And whether it’s got many calories because I haven’t been walking much the past few days, and when you’re as short as me, you can really put on weight easily, and I have to be—”
My fork, which I’d apparently been using to gesticulate wildly, flew out of my suddenly sweaty fingers and struck Nic right across the bridge of the nose, the tines narrowly missing his left eyeball. The utensil fell to his salad plate with a loud crack, probably breaking it as well as my dinner companion’s perfect nose.
Slowly, he lifted two fingers to rub the spot, raising his brows and blinking rapidly, looking a bit dazed.
My own hands flew up to cover my mouth, my face flame-broiling. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” I glanced around to see how many of our fellow diners witnessed my mortifying faux pas. “Is it bleeding?”
Nic gestured to the waiter, who sped over and removed the offending projectile from the center of his salad plate. He lifted a hand to me.
“No, no, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine. Accidents happen. Usually, they are not so spectacular…”
“Mine are.” I nodded my head, scrunching my face in dismay.
He looked at me as if expecting some sort of further explanation, so I indulged him. It was the least I could do after nearly impaling his nose.
“I’m sort of famous for being klutzy on first dates—not that this is a date,” I hastened to add. “I have knocked over my drink more times than I can count—usually on my date—so count yourself lucky not to have a lapful of ice water right now.”
He gave me an exaggerated clasped-hand gesture of gratitude. “The only thing I can imagine worse than the pain in my nose would be a freezing cold… uh… continue please.”
“What?”
“With your story. I need a distraction from the throbbing of my face.”
“I’m so sorry. Do you want to leave?” I searched the floor around my feet for my purse, preparing to stand.
He lifted his hand in a staying gesture. “No. Keep your seat please. I intend to have my secondi piatti. And I want to hear about these disastrous dates of yours.”
I settled back into my chair, studying him, trying to decide exactly how much ridicule I was willing to expose myself to.
“Okay, well… once I set a menu on fire. It was one of those long and narrow ones, printed on cardboard, you know? And there was the little candle in the center of the table, like this one. One second I was perusing the salad options, and the next, there was a three-alarm blaze at the table. My date dunked his cloth napkin in his water glass and smothered the flames before they could spread.” I gave him a miserable face. “He did not ask me out again, strangely.”
Nic laughed loudly, the white flash of his teeth nearly blinding me. “I can’t imagine why not.” He sat back in his chair, his face relaxing, and gave me a speculative glance. “Do you have a boyfriend? I know he’s not one of our American visitors, but somewhere? Back where you’re from?”
“No,” I answered honestly. “I did. But we broke up months ago, before I left America.”
“Why? He couldn’t take the violence during dinner?” He chuckled at his own joke.
“No.” I dragged the word out with an abashed eye roll. “Why do you care?”
He lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “Maybe I need relationship advice.”
Maybe you need a different fiancée. “Yeah, well, you’re knocking on the wrong door here, buddy.” He still sat and waited patiently, so I answered him. “It didn’t make sense for us to keep dating if I was leaving the country. I didn’t know how long I’d be gone, and it wasn’t that serious between us anyway. I didn’t want to have any ties holding me down.”
“Because you wanted to disappear? Run away and join a European fan pod?”
I pointed at him—carefully—with the new fork our waiter had just delivered. “Hey—I didn’t know I was joining a fan pod. That’s not my thing. I’m only here because a girl asked if I wanted to come along to the island and meet you, and I thought it sounded like fun. I thought I’d be there a day at the most.”
Nic nodded. “Ah, so you thought you’d pop into my life, steal my heart, break my nose, and then run away again?”
I blinked several times, my own heart stopping. “Steal your… no, I… oh, you’re teasing me.”
His answering smile was dazzling. “Have you seen yourself in that red dress?” After a moment, he dropped the pretense. “Yes, I am teasing you. But you do want to run away from me. I think I should be insulted.”
European men were so flirty. This one was no exception. “I think you’ve got your hands plenty full already with Alessia. By the way, I have to say, personality issues aside, I am on her side a teensy bit,” I said. “If I had a fiancée, and I walked into his bedroom to find him there alone with another girl, I’d be pretty mad, too. Does she know you have a virtual harem in your house?”
“Harem? Oh— the fan pod.” He brushed the air in a dismissive gesture. “She knows. She doesn’t care.”
“Doesn’t care? Really? About eighty strange girls who are totally in love with you living in your house?”
Nic shook his head, taking a sip from his wine glass. “It is all… business. It means nothing. She has a fan pod, too—at her family’s estate in Rome. She is a singer—very famous in Europe. She understands.”
“Oh yes.” I nodded my head in an exaggerated manner, taking a sip from my own glass. “She seems very understanding.”
Nic’s light-hearted demeanor made a quick turn into somber-town. He shrugged and twisted his lips in a what-are-ya-gonna-do expression. “Let’s not talk about her. I want to enjoy the evening.” He picked up his fork and began eating.
Okay then. For some reason, the most attractive man I’d ever seen in my life was voluntarily joining his life with a girl he didn’t even seem to like. Not that it was any of my business, but I didn’t get it. He could have anyone.
Her last words came back to me— Do you know what the farmers who work my father’s land do wi
th the runts of the litter?
I shuddered as my mind flashed to little Olly. Nic said Alessia had been living at the castle for the past few weeks. Staying under the same roof with that vindictive woman seemed… unhealthy. Hopefully this trip was the first step toward getting Olly out of there. But guilt washed over me like a sudden rain shower.
She was stuck back there where God-knew-what was happening, and here I was enjoying a fine restaurant in an eight hundred dollar dress. I needed to keep my mind on the game and remember what was really happening here. This wasn't a date. Nicolo wasn’t even my friend. He was a means to an end. Nothing more.
9
Macy
I wanted to turn the conversation to getting the passport, maybe even ask him to help me get one for Olly, too, but keeping in mind the honey-vs-vinegar principle, I tried instead to think of a subject that would get him talking, warm him up, put him in a mood that was a bit more friendly to the cause.
“You’ve hardly mentioned football, even though you just won the World Cup. Have you always loved playing?” Most guys loved talking sports, and this one practically was sports, as far as Europeans were concerned, anyway.
His expression flattened. “Not so much. It’s something I used to play around at as a child. A few years ago, I started playing with teams.”
“A few years ago? Wow. I guess you’re a prodigy then. Did it just suddenly become a passion for you?”
He hesitated before answering. “Sure. It’s fun.” And that was it. He twirled his fork in his pasta dish and shoveled in a large mouthful.
I stared at him in confusion. It didn’t add up—his blasé tone, his unenthusiastic expression. He was literally the best player in the world and at the top of his game.
In my own quest to become an Olympian, I’d read the biographies of history’s greatest sports champions. There was a consistency between them, whether it was Tiger Woods in golf, or Wayne Gretsky in hockey, or Michael Jordan in basketball. They all had a passion for their sport that was at least equal to, if not greater, than their talent.