I didn’t leave them like that.
I creep to the terrace door . . . which is actually a window. When I rented the place, the landlord told me to crawl through it to see the terrace. I thought he was joking. I’m accustomed to it now, and it’s been at least a year since I bumped my head.
I crouch and peer through as I scan the sun-bright terrace. To my left, there’s a pergola, the wooden frame lost in ivy and climbing flowers. Under that is a lounge chair . . . with a man sprawled on it, sunglasses propped on his head, his eyes closed as he dozes in the afternoon heat, wearing only his boxers.
I eye him, my head tilting. The incredible terrace view sold me on this apartment, but the current view under my pergola is even better. Marco lounges there, black hair curling over his forehead, brown skin glistening with sweat, athletic body showing off just the right amount of lean muscle. Excellent scenery, indeed. The problem is that he shouldn’t be here. As I try to figure out why he is, my gaze crosses keys on the patio table.
As I set down the knife and lift the keys, they scrape over the glass top. My sleeping guest wakes, and gorgeous thick-lashed dark eyes travel up to my face.
“Forgot you gave me those, didn’t you?” he says.
“No, I, uh . . .”
When I trail off, Marco sits up, legs swinging over the chair side.
“You do remember giving me your keys when you went home last month,” he says. “But you forgot telling me I could hold on to them. Or that I could pop by if I had an extended afternoon break.”
“Right. Sorry, I . . .”
He’s on his feet, arms going around me, lips coming to mine. As I kiss him back, he takes the keys and tucks them into my back pocket.
“Yours, dolcezza,” Marco says.
“No. I said you could hold on to them.”
“Only because it was awkward taking your keys back from the guy you’ve been sleeping with for two years.”
“I—”
Another kiss, cutting me off. “I’m teasing, Genevieve. For the past month, I’ve been telling myself you didn’t really want me hanging out in your apartment, but today, my Colosseum tour was canceled, and I decided to test my theory.”
I hold out the keys. “Keep them. I forgot, so I was surprised. That’s all.”
Which is true, but he is right. Taking the keys back after he house-sat would have been awkward, so I’d mumbled something about him using my apartment during breaks.
I also don’t fail to notice he said we’d been “sleeping together” for two years. Not seeing each other. Not dating. Sleeping together. That isn’t Marco being a jerk. He’s phrasing it that way for my benefit, because every time he calls me his girlfriend, I tense as if he’s shoving a diamond ring onto my finger.
In my mind, Marco is my lover, which sounds very sexy and European, when really, it’s just me drawing a line. A meaningless line when we’ve been together exclusively for twenty-eight months.
I have relationship issues, and Marco respects that. But if I’ve fallen in love with this new life, a lot of it is due to the guy standing in front of me. I won’t say I’m in love with him—I’m not quite ready for that—but if I deny this is serious, a little voice calls me a liar.
So I give him back the keys, and put my arms around his neck and whisper in his ear, telling him how sexy he looked in that chair. That makes him chuckle and accept the change of subject . . . and accept the keys.
“Sit,” he says. “I have prosecco chilling, and I grabbed an antipasto tray.”
“I’ll get it,” I say. “We won’t deprive the neighbors of the lovely scenery.” I waggle my brows suggestively.
His headshake teases me for my very American sensibilities. No one will be shocked to look out their window and see a guy in his boxers. They’ll either enjoy the sight or ignore it.
Marco is very familiar with those American sensibilities, having lived in the US for a decade, going to college and then staying until . . . Well, I’m not sure what. Something brought him home, and I get the feeling it wasn’t homesickness, but if I’m not going to discuss my past, I can’t press him on his.
Having lived in the US, though, means that while he might tease me for my American ways, he never judges me for them. Nor does he need American idioms and pop culture explained. He’s also been invaluable for improving my Italian and my accent, and when it’s just us, we surf between languages, often switching midsentence.
I insist on bringing the snack and nudge him back into the lounge chair.
“Oh,” he calls as I walk away. “There was a package at the door. I brought it in, but they have the wrong person.”
I pause, having forgotten all about the parcel.
“It’s for a Lucy Callahan,” he says. “Someone must have looked up Callahan online and got your address. Not sure how you confuse Lucy and Genevieve.”
“Weird,” I say, crawling through the door-window before he catches my expression.
“I can drop it off at the mail depot tomorrow,” he says.
“No, I’ll handle it. Thanks, though.”
I continue downstairs, where the parcel waits, my old name in those huge black letters. So I’ve solved the mystery of how it got into the apartment. The mystery of what’s inside remains, but it pales next to the question of who sent it. The few people who know I’m here would never make the mistake of using that name.
Someone has tracked me down.
I approach the box and look for the sender. There’s only an account number. When I gingerly turn the package over, I see the transit stamp. Originating in New York.
Has an enterprising journalist found me? That’s always possible, but a journalist would send a letter, not a boxed gift as a bribe. They trade in the currency of promises and threats. Threats to expose me if I don’t cooperate and promises to tell “my side of the story.” I learned my lesson the hard way.
Thinking of New York and publishing, my mind moves to books. Did some enterprising junior editor dig up my story and see a tell-all book in it? Send me a box of their other books to entice me?
No, thank you, junior editor. My story is my own, and my past can stay buried.
I lift the box and shake it, listening for the heavy thunk of books. Instead, I hear the whisper of something light and soft shifting from one end to the other.
I set the parcel down. Stare narrow eyed, as if I can switch on X-ray vision.
Or I could, you know, just open the box.
I run a nail over the packing tape, creasing it. Then I tuck the box under the small kitchen table and head to the fridge for our midafternoon snack.
It’s 2 a.m., and I’m lying awake, thinking about that damned parcel. I can’t open it until Marco leaves. It’s a lovely excuse. And total bullshit. Marco’s so deeply asleep that if the apartment burst into flames, I’d need to fireman-carry him down five flights of stairs.
As a tour guide, he’s the one who handles all the physically challenging excursions—from rowing the Tiber to climbing Mount Vesuvius. He also moonlights as a bike courier, which is still rare in Rome, city of scooters and mopeds and tiny trucks. When he sleeps, he’s dead to the world.
As if to test my theory, I brush a curl from his face. His breathing doesn’t even hitch. I smile and settle in, watching him sleep. His face would be model handsome if not for a broken nose that didn’t quite set and an upper-lip scar from cleft lip surgery. Yet the flaws only improve the package, making him a real person with a face that tells a story. A face that also complements his personality—easygoing and authentic, relaxed and charming. Tour guides make minimum wage, but Marco’s tips triple that with twenty-euro bills from the middle-aged men who enjoy his camaraderie, elderly women who appreciate his old-world manners and college girls who fold their phone numbers inside those bills.