Just one kiss (The Ashcrofts Book 1)

by Anderson, Poppy J.

  “I told you it would be worth standing in line,” she said gleefully, bringing him back to reality. They were standing in a dimly lit alley close to the gelateria.

  “I’m glad I listened to you.” He licked a drop of ice cream from his finger and returned her cheerful gaze. “Though I gotta admit, I was overwhelmed there for a moment, with all that chaos at the counter.”

  “Don’t worry,” she laughed. “Most days, it’s even worse.” She nodded to the right. “Want to walk a bit?”

  “Sure.” Walking next to her reminded him that her head barely reached his shoulder. She was the elfish type; you could easily mistake her for a fragile being that must be protected. But after all he’d heard from her, he thought this impression was false. He admired her for following her dreams with courage, for doing what she wanted, even if it wasn’t at all easy.

  As they strolled across the uneven cobblestones, he cleared his throat. “When are you going to show me some of your paintings?”

  It sounded as if she was choking on her ice cream, though with a giggle. She blinked up at him with a look of surprise on her face, wiping a drop of ice cream from the corner of her mouth. “What?”

  He shrugged nonchalantly and continued to demolish his sherbet. “Your paintings,” he repeated, looking her straight in the eye. “I’d like to see them.”

  “They’re nothing special,” she said modestly. “I don’t even follow a clear style.”

  “No?” He tilted his head, curious for her to explain.

  “Well…” She blushed again. “I don’t think I’ve found the one style to set my heart on yet. On the one hand, I love impressionism. But I’m also very fond of abstract. The same goes for the old masters …” She laughed softly and waved her hand around them. “If I wasn’t so fond of antiquity, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Patrick took a bite of his cone and chewed for a moment. “It sounds all the more fascinating to me. Not following just one fixed style, but trying your hand at several different ones.”

  Now it was her turn to shrug. “Maybe, but my professors always said the great painters were all faithful to one style—which was, of course, their own. Sometimes I feel like a plagiarist, cribbing from others but devoid of any ideas of my own. That’s awful, isn’t it?” Though her half smile was probably meant to soften her words, Patrick understood her quite well.

  He gave her a wink. “You’ll find your true style in time, I’m sure of that. And, till then, I’d still love to see your work. Doesn’t matter whether it’s abstract or antique.”

  She laughed nervously. “That’s not nerve-racking at all.”

  “No need to be nervous. I’m easily impressed,” he promised impishly. “I’m sure I’ll love it all.”

  “Let’s wait and see about that.”

  He took the last bite of his cone and raised his hands cheerfully. “Honestly, art impresses me. I appreciate the fact that I deal in figures and numbers, instead of styles and techniques.”

  She giggled. “I was a loser at math. Most of the time, I didn’t even know what page we were on in class.”

  “Must have been the teacher’s fault.”

  “No, not at all!” She shook her head, which made a strand of her blond hair spring free from her ponytail and snag on her lashes.

  Patrick had to suppress the urge to brush it away. Instead, he watched in fascination as she blew it away from her face and offered him a grin.

  “Believe me, I could have had the greatest teacher in the world, that wouldn’t have changed a thing. Math and I would never have become friends.” She took a bite from her remaining ice cream cone. “And where do you work, dealing with numbers?”

  He didn’t want to lie to her, but the last thing he wanted to talk about was his company, so he tried to stay vague. “I work for a commercial enterprise that spans several sectors and restructures failing companies,” he explained casually, “either to integrate them as subsidiaries or to resell them. We create statistics about their viability and cost-efficiency, calculate flotation, profit margins, and mainly just prepare for the takeover of more companies.”

  When he saw her eyes widening, he quickly added, “I mainly deal with … uh … accounting.”

  “Wow,” she whispered. “I hardly understood any of that, but it sounds … complicated.”

  “It’s very … diverse, but I just have to focus on the one sector,” he said vaguely.

  “And you spend your day dealing with numbers?”

  “More or less, yes, but that’s okay. I mean … it’s really rather interesting.”

  Patrick didn’t know what else he could say without lying to her face, so he tried to change the subject. “How often do you have that fabulous gelato? If I lived here, I suspect I’d be there every single day.”

  “Well, I live on the other side of the river, so fortunately that curbs it a little,” she answered cheerfully. “But you’re right, it’s really hard not to stuff yourself with pizza, pasta, and gelato every day here. The food is so incredibly good, and that applies to every corner of the city!”

  “Oh, yeah.” He nodded. “I believe every word. Pizza, pasta, and gelato seem to be as much a part of Rome as the ancient ruins and”—he pointed at over two dozen scooters parked next to the curb—“Vespas.”

  “That’s true! They’re everywhere.”

  As if to give more proof, three of them suddenly barreled across the cobbled street, disregarding each and every traffic regulation, zipping by as if on a mission.

  “Jesus,” Patrick muttered. “Do you drive one of those insane machines as well?”

  Her smile was weak and reluctant. “I’m a scaredy-cat,” she confessed. “You’re completely unprotected. You could so easily be injured. Traffic in Rome is really nothing to mess with.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. It would probably be fun, though.”

  “Maybe.” She threw the last bit of her cone into a trash can. “My mom died in a car accident when I was six, so …” She cleared her throat, as if interrupting herself.

  He lowered his head and exhaled softly. “I’m sorry.”

  Her tentative smile warmed his heart. “Me, too.”

  Patrick swallowed. “I can’t begin to imagine how hard that must have been for you.”

  “Oh, please don’t,” she murmured. “It’s been years now. I was a kid.”

  He sighed and admitted, “My dad died a year ago. He had a heart attack. Of course, I’m no longer a child, but it still feels terrible.”

  “I’m sorry, Patrick,” she said, sounding contrite. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “It’s no problem.” He smiled back at her and then gave in to the urge to touch her soft cheek with his thumb. The sudden skin contact made him tremble inside. He was satisfied to see that she must have felt something similar, for her pupils dilated and a shiver went through her frame.

  “I’d like to see you again, Amy,” he murmured.

  She smiled and blushed. “Me, too.”

  Chapter 3

  “Did Caesar feed the lions himself?”

  “No, honey,” Amy replied patiently. The boy was about seven years old, and his face was smeared with chocolate gelato. “Caesar never even saw the Colosseum. It was built after he died.”

  “Oh.” The boy frowned. “Then who fed the lions?”

  Before Amy could answer, the boy’s father raised his voice, still munching on something, his face just as sticky as his son’s. “Is it true they chopped the heads off of Christians?” he demanded. The father-son duo were also wearing the same outfit, which consisted of sandals with white socks, Hawaiian-print shorts, camouflage T-shirts, and baseball hats that read: Don’t mess with Tex. “And was the audience allowed to take those heads home as souvenirs?”

  The bloodthirsty question made Amy glance nervously at the young child, but the boy didn’t scream or cry. Instead, he stared at Amy as if it were perfectly normal to stand in the ancient Colosseum on a warm August morning and talk about early
Christians’ severed heads.

  “Uh … I’ve never read about … uh … any body parts being taken home by members of the audience, no,” Amy prevaricated. “But it’s an interesting question,” she added diplomatically, before quickly pointing at the arches above them. “The Colosseum consists of three layers. We can still see that there were eighty arches in each—”

  “But what happened to those heads then?” the boy interrupted with shining eyes. “Did the lions eat them? My dog Milo ate the head off a rat once. And then he was so sick that we had to take him to the vet.”

  Other people in Amy’s group started to giggle in amusement. The little Texan was a funny enough kid, but a little too interested in chopping off heads for Amy’s taste.

  “Well … I don’t know, honey.” She gave the boy’s father a helpless look, but the man was engrossed in his gigantic cone of gelato.

  “Milo got a shot,” his son continued enthusiastically, “and then he puked out the entire rat’s head. Did the lions puke out the human heads?”

  Amy saw that she wasn’t alone in her sudden urge to puke. Some of her other wards seemed to be turning green.

  She patted the boy’s head abruptly, breathed through her nose for a few moments, and then mustered all the authority she could find within. “We’ll talk about that in a minute, when I show you where the lions were kept, okay?”

  “Cool!”

  She pushed back the queasy feeling and looked at the rest of her group again. “We’re standing in the middle level right now. That means that the columns you can see here are Ionic. On the ground floor, they’re Doric, and on the top floor, we find Corinthian columns.”

  “Excuse me? I have a question.”

  Fearing she’d be confronted with more questions along the lines of severed human heads and regurgitated rat’s heads, Amy looked up with dismay.

  It was none other than Patrick standing in the midst of her group, grinning at her. “Could you explain the difference between those types of columns?”

  “Of course,” she replied, masking her shock with feigned seriousness. “Doric columns appear a little more squat and simple. Most of the time, they have only a few transverse ribs, while Corinthian and Ionic columns are narrower and taller. They’re also more elaborate and artful. The Corinthian columns possess a beautifully decorated top—which is called the capital.”

  “Thank you very much,” Patrick replied with forced sobriety.

  Amy almost burst out laughing.

  He was obviously determined to get the most out of the morning’s tour, because he didn’t leave her side once in the next hour and a half. While Amy recounted everything she deemed interesting about gladiators, the architecture of the amphitheater, and bloodthirsty lions, Patrick remained with the group, stared at the exposed hypogeum—the underground level—with as much enthusiasm as the little Texan, and was the only person to ask multiple questions.

  She was grateful when she wrapped up the tour without further interruption, sent off her group into the rising heat, and found herself on a park bench next to Patrick, with a sandwich and a cold bottle of Coke each.

  “Sugar.” She happily took another large sip. “That’s exactly what I need right now!”

  Patrick nudged her good-naturedly and raised his bottle in salute. “Did the talk about rat’s heads and poor Milo the dog make you sick?”

  “Absolutely!” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “I thought I was going to vomit in front of the whole gang.”

  “You weren’t the only one, if that’s any consolation.” He chuckled. “One woman turned white as a sheet and excused herself for a few minutes, along with her husband.”

  Amy sighed. “The heat and the severed heads was not a good combination.”

  “Well, at least the kid had a great time.”

  “Let’s change the subject, okay? If I start to imagine what goes on at his house, I’ll have nightmares for weeks.”

  Patrick laughed. “Did you see their hats? And those matching outfits?”

  Even though she actually still felt a little queasy, Patrick’s laughter made her smile as well, and she furtively studied him from the side. His profile and his deep belly laugh made her feel extremely warm, and it stirred the butterflies in her stomach.

  She also idly wondered why a man like Patrick wanted to spend his vacation with her. After all, he was a real sight to see. Taller than most men, broad-shouldered and long-legged, he turned heads wherever he went. She’d noticed how many female tourists had stared at him last night, when they were strolling through Rome. And in the gelateria, the cashier had mistyped their total several times, obviously distracted by his presence, as her bright red face had indicated.

  And Amy could relate to the poor woman. She had to practice quite a bit of self-restraint to avoid staring into his face like a mesmerized rabbit. He was far too good-looking. Even now, she struggled to breathe evenly just looking at his black hair, which seemed so wonderfully soft yet unruly. Or looking at his tanned face with those exceptional eyes, the hollow cheeks, and the masculine features. Or letting her gaze wander down his frame, clad in a white tee and long cargo shorts. Before he could catch her staring at his bare calves, however, she forced her eyes to focus on her sandwich, which was lying in her lap, still wrapped in its paper napkin. She took another sip of Coke.

  “So this is your job,” he said. “You meet a lot of … interesting characters every day, huh?”

  “I guess you could say that.” Amy set down the bottle beside to her and unwrapped her sandwich. “But that’s not my only job.”

  “It’s not?” he asked, surprised.

  Amy took a bite of her sandwich and chewed slowly while shaking her head. “These tours don’t pay enough to cover all the bills.”

  “What else do you do?”

  She shrugged. “I work as a waitress and also sell museum tickets.”

  “Waitressing sounds like hard work.”

  She dismissed his comment with another shrug. “All you need is very comfy shoes.”

  He sighed and stretched out his long legs. “To be honest, it sounds like you have three full-time jobs instead of one. How do you still find the time to paint?”

  “Well, it would only matter if I wasn’t suffering from painter’s block,” she joked. “No, but seriously, I don’t waitress every day, and I don’t do the guided tours every day either. There’s still enough time left for painting. On some days, I have to work two jobs, or even three, but on others I’m done by noon, or don’t work at all. It’s a mixed bag, and that’s okay.” She felt a desire to be closer to him, so she poked him gently. “What about you? Just your regular nine-to-five?”

  “More or less.” He remained cryptic, smiling at her over the crust of his sandwich. “Depends on what’s going on at work. Sometimes I have to clock in on the weekends, too.”

  “So this is your well-deserved vacation.”

  Patrick uttered a grunt. “You have no idea!”

  That made her giggle, but then they both fell silent and finished their sandwiches. Their quiet feast wasn’t even disturbed by the selfie stick vendors slinking past in large numbers.

  Finally, Patrick broke the silence. “I was wondering, when you’re not busy being a ticket salesman, waitress, tour guide, or painter, do you go see a movie from time to time?”

  She swallowed the last bite of her sandwich and gave him a puzzled look. “Huh? What do you mean?”

  He laughed briskly. “I have two tickets for the open-air cinema at the Villa Borghese tonight. I don’t expect to understand anything, since the movie’s in Italian, but maybe it’ll be a nice evening anyway … if you come along.”

  She didn’t need to ask whether this was a date; she wasn’t that dense. Flattered and anxious at the same time, she murmured, “Villa Borghese sounds great.”

  Now he nudged her gently. “And if we don’t like it, we can always go get gelato.”

  That made her laugh again.

  Chapter 4


  She seemed to have finally overcome her painting doldrums, Amy though happily. She’d spent the entire afternoon painting, and realized almost too late that she needed to be getting ready for her date. She’d never gotten dressed more quickly, because she didn’t want to keep Patrick waiting. Somehow today was a perfect day, notwithstanding the rat’s head story that had shaken her that morning.

  What was more, the bank had finally managed to process her money, so she no longer had to worry about being able to pay her rent.

  But that hadn’t been the end of her perfect day.

  At the open-air cinema, she sat on a blanket beside Patrick under a clear night sky, watching a beautiful black-and-white movie starring Sophia Loren—which she didn’t understand half of, but so what? She was mesmerized by the imposing atmosphere of the Villa Borghese, feeling this man so close by her side, this man who smelled wonderful and made her heart beat faster.

  Remembering how down in the dumps she’d been only three days before, she felt like laughing at life.

  When a cool breeze whipped through the palace grounds, she shivered involuntarily, and her date put an arm around her, slowly pulling her closer. Amy thought she might faint any moment, but she inhaled his spicy scent and merely smiled to herself.

  “Are you cold?”

  “A little,” she whispered back, and then almost gasped with pleasure when his large hand rubbed her arm to get her warm again. She was closer to fainting than ever.

  Never before had she felt this attracted to a man, and never before had she struggled with the urge to snuggle up to him, shamelessly, and never had she yearned for anyone to kiss her like she was now. It was almost unbearable. Since they’d sat down, she couldn’t think of anything but the fact that she wanted to know how his lips would feel on hers. And only the desire not to embarrass herself was keeping her from looking up at him like a puppy in love. So far.

  “I haven’t understood a single word,” Patrick whispered in her ear, still stroking her arm. “So is Sophia Loren the missing princess or what?”