When in Rome (Sweet Somethings Book 2)

by J. Lynn Rowan

  My wisteria.

  The enormity of tonight hits me, and I have to break away from my little entourage to compose myself. Muttering an excuse about needing to use the ladies room, I leave them studying my photographs and wander the perimeter of the room. Once my breathing is back under control, I make my way around the other exhibits, judging my own against more seasoned photographers.

  A tap on my shoulder has me turning, coming face to face with Beth. I break into a huge smile. “You came!”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” She gives me a hug, then joins me as I continue circulating. “What talent agent in her right mind wouldn’t come to her best friend’s art opening? Just so you know, I’ve already put it out there that I’m your point of contact. Your pictures are amazing, by the way. The best you’ve ever done.” She winks. “Other than my wedding photos, of course.”

  We gradually reach a large display at the back of the room. It’s Domenic’s feature, a collection of twenty prints in different sizes, arranged to form a gentle wave pattern. I step close to the image on the far left, knowing instinctively the photographs are meant to be seen as a timeline of sorts. A frown begins to burrow into my forehead as I move down the wall. Beth makes little sounds in the back of her throat as she, too, shuffles along, studying the images.

  They begin in Rome. He’s taken the first few and washed them out, so they have almost no color. As I move down the display, the color slowly intensifies, the beauty of Ancient and Renaissance-era Rome sharpening. In each image, a figure draws the eye. A woman, first from a distance among Roman ruins, then basking in the sun on a hill studded with white flowers . . .

  “Oh, my God.” I freeze.

  The Borghese Gardens. More specifically, me in the Borghese Gardens. My jaw drops as I continue. Me again, laying on the paving stones of the Appian Way. Sitting on the Spanish Steps. Stretching at the top of the brutal switchback road leading up to Castelmola. Leaning against the iron railing at Plaza IX Aprile. Perched on the rocks at Mazzarò. Gazing in awe at the brilliance of La Grotta Azzura. The farther I move down the display, the more vibrant the colors become.

  Domenic composed every image so my face isn’t completely visible, and thus generally unrecognizable. No one’s going to connect the woman in these images with my headshot across the room. And the arrangement of the images on the wall is a timeline—the timeline of our Italian love affair. The gradual introduction of color would indicate the gradual introduction of life, as if the photographer learned to see the world in greater detail through the course of taking the pictures.

  “Hey,” Beth says, poking my arm. “Is this you?”

  I swallow. “He took a lot of these later pictures with his phone.”

  Beth stills beside me and touches my arm, gently this time. “Kate, what—”

  Her question is cut off by the arrival of my self-proclaimed fan club. Plastering on a smile, I introduce Beth to Lauren, Corrine, Miranda, and Joe, and am then informed that Dave and Rafe are on their way, too.

  “I didn’t peg them for art aficionados,” I quip, hoping my light tone masks my confusion over Domenic’s display.

  Nobody else seems to even notice the pictures on the wall behind us.

  “They really aren’t,” Joe explains. “But they like to show support for their friends.”

  My lips twist, and I can’t hold back any longer. “Has anyone seen Domenic yet?”

  “Yeah,” Miranda says, turning and lifting her hand to point. “He just walked . . .”

  Her voice trails off as her hand drops. Everyone looks where she was pointing. Lauren gasps, Joe stiffens, and Corrine mutters an ominous, “Oh, shit!”

  Domenic has indeed just walked in and is already surrounded by fans and a couple journalists. But it’s the blonde latched onto his arm that captures my attention. Tall, slim, dressed to kill. Though Domenic doesn’t seem to be reacting to her, she possessively and intimately caresses his arm.

  I don’t need anyone’s reaction to know who the woman is.

  Riley.

  And she’s got her claws so deep into Domenic, I doubt she’d let go if it meant life or death.

  More reporters swarm, lured by the appearance of one of fashion photography’s biggest names. A camera flashes, and Riley drapes herself against Domenic with the air of a siren. He puts his hand on her arm and moves as if to ease away. But when he turns to her, mouth opening to speak, she spins on her toes and wraps her arms around his neck. The kiss she plants on him is so blatantly possessive, there can be no mistaking her intentions.

  Domenic’s hands drop to her waist.

  Flashes burst like lightning.

  My heart tears in half so suddenly, my knees almost buckle. Somehow, I manage to keep it together long enough to turn back to my friends. “Listen, I’ve got my flight back to Atlanta first thing in the morning. It was beyond sweet of all of you to come out for this. But I think I’m gonna call it a night.”

  Beth puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. She, of anyone, understands me. “Do you want me to come with you? I took a cab.”

  “No. Thanks, but no.” I force myself not to look at Domenic’s pictures. “Corrine, I’ll leave the dress and shoes with the concierge in the morning.”

  Before anyone else can react, I spin and make my escape.

  A cold misting rain has started by the time I reach the sidewalk. Desperate to hail a taxi, I wave my arm like a maniac, leaning as far into the street as I dare without the risk of being run over.

  “Kate!”

  Domenic’s voice sends a vibration of warmth down my spine, but it disappears in the lingering chill of what I’ve just experienced. I try to ignore him, act like I didn’t hear, but he jogs to my side and takes my raised hand.

  “Where are you going?”

  Shaking, I pull my hand back. “I have an early flight. It was nice to see everybody, awesome of them to come out tonight.”

  “Kate.” Domenic wraps his arm around my waist in a grip that won’t be denied and leads me under a nearby awning. “No offense, but it sure as hell seems like you’re bent on running away from this exhibition. What happened?”

  Seriously? He just paraded his ex-girlfriend, the one who went crazy because he wouldn’t commit to her, in front of me and half of SoHo’s art community, and he has to ask what happened? Indignation surges, and I wrench away from him. “You put photographs of me in your display.”

  His eyebrows lower. “So? You knew I took the pictures.”

  “But you never asked if you could use them tonight.”

  “You’re right, I’m sorry. I should’ve asked. But I thought you’d be flattered.”

  I was flattered. Right up until I saw Riley pawing all over him like she couldn’t wait to get him alone.

  “I suppose you thought I’d be flattered to see you with . . .” I choke on the words.

  His face goes white and he mutters something in Italian that I assume is some type of profanity. He runs his fingers into his hair, messing up its deliberate dishevelment. “Damn it, Kate. I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

  “Oh, really!” I prop my hands on my hips and glare at him. “Kind of hard to hide something like that in a public place, where you knew I’d be tonight.”

  “She showed up outside,” he insists, spreading his hands as if to show them clean of all wrongdoing. “I told you. When it comes to Riley, it’s better for everyone not to make a scene. What was I supposed to do? Blow her off and risk all the details making it into the press?”

  “Yes!” I cry, astounded he doesn’t realize it himself. “That would’ve been the right thing to do, Domenic.”

  He takes a deep breath and steps toward me. “She means nothing to me. I swear. She’s a mistake I just haven’t managed to bury yet. It doesn’t change anything between us, or the plans
we’ve talked about making.”

  I pause, seething, and consider everything he’s said and done over the past two months. For a while, it seemed like we might be on the path to something close to a happy ending. But after tonight, I don’t see how that’s possible.

  Could I have been any stupider?

  Closing my eyes, I wrap my arms around myself. “You arrogant, presumptuous, self-serving jackass.”

  I feel his whole body flinch, despite the space between us.

  “Kate, that’s not fair.”

  “Isn’t it?” My lower lip begins to quiver. “You tested me. You built me up. You shared stories and hopes and favorite places and fed me gelato. You made me open up and tell you the stuff about my family that nobody gets to hear. Then, after I thought you wanted something real, something special, you turned around and used those intimate moments as fodder to advance your career.”

  “Kate—”

  “You used me.” I level the accusation as tears spill over. “I trusted you, and you used me.”

  Domenic’s throat works, and I know I’ve hurt him more deeply than he’s ever been before. He knows betrayal, and to be accused of it himself must burn to his core.

  But there’s one more admission left. “I could’ve loved you. If not for tonight. It would have been so easy to finish falling for you. I was more than halfway there when we left Italy.”

  “Innamorata.” Now his voice grinds out, tight and choked. “Please. Let me make it up to you. Let me show you—”

  “No.” I shake my head. “This isn’t going to work. I’m not really what you want. Thank you so much for the opportunities. But please let me go home.”

  I expect him to protest, to assert his will. But he just stands there, watching as I step back into the rain. The first wave of my hand brings a taxi to the curb, and I scramble into the backseat. I risk one last look at Domenic through the wet window as the taxi pulls away, but he appears blurry.

  Like he was never real for me.

  It feels like the ground has opened up, threatening to swallow me whole. Foundations, be damned.

  Everything I’d started to hope for had just turned to dust.

  Chapter 16

  Imperfect Picture

  The phone calls start the minute my plane lands in Atlanta.

  I give Domenic some credit for waiting twelve hours before trying again to plead his case. But I don’t want to hear anything else he has to say. Not now, not ever again. To do so would be admitting how close I was to giving in, that I was mentally and emotionally preparing myself to take the plunge.

  The lost opportunity on the professional end of things stings only slightly less than walking away from the relationship he offered.

  Surprisingly, Miranda is the first of the photography team to contact me. Her text is short and sweet, and not what I would have expected from her. “We’re all here if you need to talk. Keep in touch.”

  So there’s that, too. The loss of those budding friendships.

  Beth’s text is a bit more to the point. “I’m giving you three more days to wallow before I call you.”

  I bury myself in my studio, hoping work will keep my mind off things. The assistants who covered my shoots in my absence catch me up on new appointments and turn over their proofs so I can do the final edits. The excuse of a backlog of work gets me out of lunch with my mom, who I know will ask awkward questions that are none of her business, then dish out relationship advice. That, of course, is laughable, given her inability to make one work herself.

  After three days, I have seventeen missed calls with matching voicemails, thirty-three text messages, and one request to Skype, all from Domenic.

  If nothing else, he’s persistent.

  Still, I ignore all his attempts to make contact and call Beth before she can call me.

  “You don’t sound that broken up,” she comments as soon as she answers.

  It’s late, past dinner, but I can hear her rattling pans and dishes in the background. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your family meal.”

  “You’re not interrupting anything. The kid’s got practice tonight and the husband’s got himself locked in the study to finish some report for work. I’m left to reheat yesterday’s spaghetti and meatballs.” She sighs, and the racket of dinner preparation dies away. “So, do you want to talk about what happened at your art opening?”

  I pause. “I should, but I don’t.”

  A moment of silence hangs on the line. “Okay. Then can we talk about what happened after your art opening?”

  After I ran back to Georgia as fast as the airlines could get me there. But I don’t think that’s what Beth’s referring to. “I’m kind of getting from your tone that this has nothing to do with the disaster I made of my love life.”

  “Nope. You’re a hit, Kate.”

  Now it’s my turn to fall silent for a few seconds. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been getting calls left and right from fashion designers, advertisers, tourism sites. You have your pick of a half-dozen gigs, all of which are pretty long-term.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Beth chuckles. “I’ve been telling you for years that you’re damn good at what you do. You’ve never believed me. Is it really that hard to swallow the thought of other people who aren’t your friends being impressed by your work?”

  “To be honest, it does come as a surprise. Kind of scary. In a good way, but still scary.”

  “Well, get over it,” she commands. “This is your chance. Whatever happened or didn’t happen between you and Domenic Varezzi, it shouldn’t stop you from taking the next step in your career. His connections got you a spot in an exhibition, but your talent got you noticed. Take that and run with it.”

  At the mention of Domenic’s name, my throat closes. But I know I have to be an adult about this, not a whiny little girl who breaks down in tears just thinking about the might-have-beens.

  Except that’s exactly what I’ve been like since Saturday night. And I hate it.

  Beth rattles silverware on her end of the call. “Listen, I gotta go peel my husband away from his computer so we can sit down and eat like a civilized couple. I can buy you a little time with your decision, but not a ton. Do you want me to send you the details of all your offers?”

  “Sure,” I say, in control of my voice once more.

  “Good. Look for my email tomorrow sometime.” She pauses. “I know you don’t want to talk about Domenic. But you should, and soon.”

  I chew on my thumbnail, then nod even though she’s nine states away. “I will. I promise.”

  Beth hangs up, and I stare at the phone in my hand. There’s only one person I trust to hear me out and let me cry like a baby. Sighing, I bring up my contact list and select a number.

  The phone rings twice before a deep voice answers. “Hey there, Katydid.”

  “Hi, Dad.” I hear the quiver of tears when I speak.

  Dad meets me on the front porch when I pull up to his big Victorian on the outskirts of Athens, where Sadie and I grew up happy as clams and thinking the world was perfect.

  “You look like crap, Kate,” he says as I drag my suitcase up the steps. “Didn’t you sleep the whole time you were in Italy?”

  I smile in spite of myself, then step into the warm comfort of his embrace. The way I nuzzle my face into his broad chest tells him everything he needs to know, at least as far as my emotional state. Dan Miller is a dynamo in the boardroom, but he’s a giant teddy bear when it comes to his daughters.

  “Okay, Katydid. Come inside and have a glass of sweet tea, and you can tell me all about it.”

  Ten minutes later, I grip a glass of Dad’s signature summer beverage of choice, condensation dripping off the bottom to make little damp spots on my
lap. We sit down in the back living room, me on the beat up old sofa, Dad in his creaky leather lounge chair. Somehow I end up spilling my guts before he’s barely settled, and the tears running down my face just add to the water stains on my shorts.

  When I finish telling the whole story about me and Domenic—leaving out the steamy moments that will make him uncomfortable, of course—Dad switches seats so he can put one arm around my shoulders.

  “I’m sorry you’re hurting,” he says, pressing a kiss to my wet cheek. “Want me to go after this guy with my shotgun?”

  His attempt to cheer me up works in part. At least he coaxes a snorting giggle from me. But the moment passes, and I rest my head on his chest. “Don’t joke, Dad. I’m not really in the mood.”

  Dad sighs. “All right, then tell me why you walked away from this guy? You’re obviously in love with him.”

  I purse my lips, sit up, and carefully set my glass on one of the coasters on the end table. “Love’s a crock of shit.”

  “You know I don’t care for that kind of language, Kate.” His mouth twists down at the corners.

  My face heats. “I know. I’m sorry. But it’s true no matter how you phrase it. You know that better than anyone.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “What does that mean?”

  “You and Mom. Sadie and Ryan. A half dozen other couples I know from when I was a kid. Name one time love actually worked out for somebody.”

  “Now, Katydid,” Dad says, patting my knee. “We all know Sadie’s breakup with Ryan was a long time in coming, but it’s more an example of not knowing what goes on inside someone else’s relationship than anything else. Same goes for me and your mom.”

  I stare at him. “You and Mom cited irreconcilable differences when you split up.”