Alright. I may not be thinking about Rome anymore.
But sitting across from a man like that, can you blame me?
CHAPTER FIVE
Marco
I know there’s no way I’m going to be satisfied with leaving Hannah after this meal, just going back to the office and waiting to meet her again tomorrow. Because it would have to be tomorrow – tonight I have an important business dinner, and it will keep me occupied for hours.
But there’s no chance I’m walking away like that.
Now that I’ve spent some time with her, I know it more than ever, I want to possess her. To have her by my side at all times, to show her off on my arm, to let other men know they dare not even look at her without my permission. Something about her triggers my caveman side, my built-in instincts. I have to clench my hands under the table to stop myself from getting up and pulling her into my arms right here and now.
“I’ll just make some calls, bella,” I tell her, dumping my napkin on the table next to my empty plate. “I’ll be back in a moment to pay the bill.”
“My name’s Hannah,” Hannah says, blinking at me.
I laugh as I get up, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “Bella means beautiful. It’s what Italian men say to attractive women,” I tell her. Then I straighten and walk outside, because as tempting as it is to linger and watch her flustered expression, I think it’s much more effective to let those words sink in.
I call my assistant, Francesca. Despite her name – which I always think sounds like that of a young woman, ready to party – Fran is actually in her sixties. I keep thinking she will want to retire, but so far she shows no sign of stopping, and I’ve never had a more reliable assistant in my life.
“Sir,” she says, in rapid and no-nonsense Italian. “I have three messages for you. The director of the -”
“Wait, wait,” I tell her. “Pretend you never spoke to me. Tell me the messages at another time. I just need you to cancel everything for tonight.”
There’s a pause at the end of the line. “Everything alright, Mr. Chelimeo?”
“Quite alright, Fran,” I tell her. “Something more important came up. In fact, keep the restaurant, but change the reservation for two. I will still attend tonight. You can tell the others I am unwell. I’ve never used that excuse in fifteen years, so it might be nice.”
I hear the sound of Fran typing on her computer keyboard, and I can picture her with the receiver tucked under her chin, her steel-grey bun piled on top of her head as always. “Should I reschedule for tomorrow?”
I hesitate. “Next week,” I decide. “In fact, clear my schedule for the rest of this week, too. Let people get a little uncomfortable. Why not? They will think I’m meeting with a rival company and be even more eager to work together when I return.”
Fran stops typing. “Are you sure you’re alright, Marco?”
I know she’s serious. It’s the only time she will call me by my first name, she’s normally far too formal for that. “Better than ever, my dear Fran,” I tell her with a smile, glancing through the window at Hannah. “I have a reason at last to skip work. After all these years, I think I earned it.”
I end the call, smiling at Hannah through the glass. I quickly move to join her again, feeling already that I don’t want to miss a moment of time by her side.
CHAPTER SIX
Hannah
After an afternoon of lazily exploring the back streets of Rome, where Marco seems to know everyone and everything, it feels as though we are caught up. He knows all about my life up until this point, my dreams for the future, everything that someone could need to know about me.
And I know that… he works a lot, and is a friend of my Dad’s.
Actually, when I stop to think for a moment, I realize that he hasn’t given much away at all.
But I don’t have the time to call him out on it or try to learn more, because the afternoon has passed by in a daze, and now it seems that it’s time for our dinner reservations.
As we race across Rome in the back of a taxi, a sudden uncertainty strikes me. “Is this a fancy restaurant?” I ask, glancing at Marco in his impeccable suit. “I don’t want to be underdressed.”
Marco laughs gently. “It is a nice place, but don’t worry so much,” he says. “You look beautiful.”
I feel a blush spreading across my cheeks, but I won’t be distracted so easily. I’m wearing what is quite obviously a daytime outfit, not something suited to a swanky evening meal. I start to worry. People will stare, wondering about the fat girl who doesn’t know how to dress herself.
“Maybe I should go and get changed first,” I say.
“There’s no time,” Marco says. He gives me a funny look, his eyes cast in my direction with something unreadable in them. “You feel that you will be out of place?”
I shrug helplessly. I hate that he can see my insecurities – but I’m also glad because it means that at least he might be able to help address them.
“You won’t be out of place,” Marco assures me. “Some women show up in ridiculous gowns they can’t breathe in, eat three leaves of salad for fear of ruining the
