Kiss Me Goodnight in Rome (The Senior Semester Series Book 2) (6 page)

I lean forward, my elbows resting on my knees. Lexi rubs my back reassuringly.

Then I puke.

And for once in my life, it’s not self-induced.

Chapter Eleven

Lorenzo

The rest of the weekend drags on. On Saturday, I volunteer to work Claudia’s shifts at Angelina’s so she can go out with her best friend Marissa. I catch her completely off-guard, and she eyes me suspiciously. I huff and grumble for appearances sake, making her swear that she’ll owe me, but the surprising truth is that I want to.

As much as it shocks me to admit it, I’m hoping that the brunette comes by again. And this feeling, wanting to see some girl—a girl I don’t even know—is so new and foreign to me that I don’t know what to do with it. When Angelina’s closes and there is no sign of the pretty brunette, I’m in a foul mood.

To kill some time and try and drink myself into a better mood, I agree to meet up with Sandro. Walking into one of our favorite bars, I automatically locate him standing next to the bar, a Peroni in hand.

He glances over at me as I walk closer to the bar. “What’s your deal? Why are you in such a shit mood?” he asks, automatically reading the grimace on my face.

I shrug. “Had to pick up Claudia’s shifts,” I lie.

“That sucks.” Sandro takes a pull of his Peroni. “What’s she doing tonight?”

I look at him, narrowing my eyes. He’s never asked about Claudia before.

“What?” He asks. “What’s she got going on that’s so important that you had to work for her?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

He grunts, taking another swig of beer. “Well, try to lighten up. You’re scaring all of the talent away.” He looks around the bar, his gaze zeroing in on a group of women.

I roll my eyes. “You do that all by yourself with your menacing face and crappy attitude,” I tell him.

He barks out a rare laugh, waving down the bartender. Minutes later a bottle of prosecco and a round of limoncello shots are delivered to the group of girls.

As if on cue, two beautiful blondes sidle up to the bar to introduce themselves.

“Hi,” the taller one says, draping an arm across the bar, her tits brushing lightly against my arm. “I’m Anna. Thank you for the prosecco and limoncello. That was really sweet.” She arches her back slightly, pushing her chest harder against my arm. I gaze down appreciatively. At least she’s got a good rack.

“I’m Gemma,” her friend adds, clasping Sandro’s hand in hers as he makes introductions.

“It was our pleasure. How are you girls doing tonight?” Sandro asks, allowing Gemma to wrap her fingers around his wrist as she pretends to admire his watch. Ah, maybe she’s actually admiring it. The gold Rolex Submariner is nothing to scoff at, and judging by this girl’s getup, I’m sure she only rocks fakes.

I’m tempted to say “it’s real,” but then Sandro shoots me a look. I reluctantly switch gears, assuming my usual role as the charmer.

“Where are you ladies from?” I ask, furrowing my brow. Even though their British accents are a dead fucking giveaway.

“The UK,” Anna replies, stepping even closer. “We’re here on holiday.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. It’s really just too easy. “How are you finding Rome?”

“Better now that I found you.” She smiles, trailing a finger along my chest, down my stomach, her hand settling on my belt.

I smirk. Why even bother with the banter? Let’s just cut to the chase. “Want to get out of here?”

She nods, letting me place my hand on the swell of her ass as I steer us toward the exit.

I can feel Sandro’s eyes on my back, laughing.

Oh well, it’s a quick fix for my shit mood anyway.

* * *

The next morning, the shrill ring of my phone wakes me early. Fuck. I roll over in bed, picking up the phone and blinking at the screen. Matteo. From the vineyards. That’s strange. Why the hell is he calling so early? And on a Sunday?

I sit up in bed and cough, trying to clear the sleep from my throat. “Pronto,” I answer right before voicemail picks up.

“Lorenzo. It’s Matteo.”

“How are you?”

“Good, thanks. How are you? How are Elenora and Claudia?” He asks about my mama and sister politely.

“Everyone’s doing well, thanks. All okay by you?” I rub my hand over my face, a slight sting pricking my neck. Craning my head, I glance in the mirror. A hickey. That fucking bitch gave me a hickey. What am I, twelve? I roll my eyes. “Matteo?” I prompt after a long stretch of silence.

“Ah, we need to talk Lorenzo. Something’s not adding up,” he answers.

Again? First Giuseppe, now Matteo. What the fuck is going on? “What do you mean?”

“The budget. Everything seems out of whack. The numbers aren’t adding up,” he clarifies.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You think someone’s skimming off the top or it’s too big of a discrepancy?”

Matteo sighs. “I’m not sure. But it is a pretty big difference.”

“Get Giuseppe to look into it and get back to me.”

“Okay,” he agrees.

“Thanks for letting me know, Matteo. Just see what you can uncover. I’ll head over to you guys sometime next week if necessary.”

“Thanks, Enzo.”

“Give me a call back when you know something.”

“Will do.” He clicks off.

I toss the phone down and lie back in bed. What a shit way to start a Sunday.

A fucking hickey.

Chapter Twelve

Mia

Even though I hardly moved for the remainder of the weekend, I’m still mildly hungover for my first day of Italian Literature. All of my other courses began last week, but Italian Literature was postponed as our professor was still on holiday. Luckily, today will be a syllabus day, so I’ll still have a light workload this week. Sitting in class, waiting for the professor to arrive, I send a quick text to the girls.

Me: Tequila is no joke.

For good measure, I include the emoji of the little monkey covering his eyes. And the pukey face.

Moments later, Lila texts back the smiley face that’s laughing so hard it’s crying. In fact, she sends three of them. Emma responds with five thumbs-up emojis. I’m sure they’re proud.

I smile, tucking my phone back into my backpack. I’m excited about this class. It’s in Italian, but unlike the previous language courses I’ve taken, this one is on an actual subject, not just grammar and conversation. This semester, we will be reading and discussing the great literary works of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio. In Italian. Although I’ve already read Dante’s
Il Inferno
in English, I haven’t read it in Italian. And I haven’t studied Petrarch or Boccaccio at all. I’m delighted at the opportunity, especially after I read several Petrarch quotes in my mom’s old journals. Her favorite one was part of a sonnet from Petrarch’s
Canzoniere
. It was written on the inside cover of several leather-clad notebooks.

She wrote it down when she was still in college, doodling hearts and flowers around the quote. During her senior year of college, she fell in love with my dad. They married immediately following graduation, and within a year I was born, effectively halting her wanderlust and dreams of a life abroad. But to read her journals, her words, the quotes she connected with, it’s like exploring a piece of her soul, allowing her spirit to live on.

I sigh, unpacking my notebook and a pen for the first class. I naturally took a seat in the front row. Leaning back in my chair, I try to scan the unfamiliar faces around me without actually having to turn around and draw attention to myself. A guy with sandy brown hair and an open smile takes the desk next to me.

“Hey,” he says, nodding in my direction.

“Hi.”

“This is my first class like this. Literature in Italian instead of English. Don’t know how it’s going to go reading the classics but I figure, when in Rome …” He grins, resting his elbows on the desk and leaning forward. “I’m Peter Buchanan. Call me Pete.”

“Nice to meet you. Mia.” I offer an awkward wave.

“Have you studied Italian long?”

“Just the past two years in college. Not in high school or anything. You?”

“Both. High school and college. I always wanted to study abroad, and I love Italian food so …” He shrugs.

“Makes sense.” I smile politely.

“Are your family roots Italian?”

I nod. “Yep. From Bari. You?”

“Calabria. On my Mom’s side. My dad’s side is Scottish.”

“That’s cool. Have you been to Scotland?”

“Not yet. It’s definitely part of my plan while I’m in Europe this semester. Where are you from in the US?”

“New York. The city. You?”

He whistles. “That’s sweet. I want to move to the city after graduation. I’m from Connecticut.”

“So practically neighbors.” I smile.

“Yup.” He nods, smiling back.

Our professor enters a moment later, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Her hair is dark, neatly pulled back in a severe bun. Professoressa Giuliana, her face impassive, her eyes sharp. She looks around the room, making eye contact with each student individually. Then she smiles and her face warms, breaking the seriousness of her arrival.

“Buon giorno.”

“Buon giorno,” the class echoes.

Professoressa introduces herself, hands out the course syllabus, and discusses the course objectives and assignments for the semester. I scan the requirements quickly. Two papers, four essays, two reflections, one partner project, one final exam. Hundreds of pages of reading. I hear the groans of a few students sitting around me as they take in the heavy workload, but I smile. This class is going to be really interesting.

At the end of class, Professoressa dismisses us with a clap of her hands. “Don’t forget to introduce yourselves and make some friends. You will all be working closely together this semester, and you don’t want to wait too long to decide on the topic for your partner project,” she reminds us as students shuffle out the door.

“Hey, want to partner up?” Pete asks me, shoving his notebook into his navy backpack.

“Uh, sure.” I answer. Already? Maybe Pete is as serious about this class as I am. “That’d be cool.”

“Great. Let me give you my number.” He reaches over and scribbles his number into the corner of my notebook page. “Maybe we can get together after class next week?”

“Yeah. Great.”

“Okay. See ya.” He smiles good-naturedly and lopes out of the classroom.

I sit stunned for a moment. No one has ever asked me to partner on a project so quickly before. I’m usually the last one left, asked by the group who needs one more person in order to fulfill the requirement. I was always so busy, so consumed with dance, that a lot of my classmates pegged me as unreliable. The ones who actually worked with me on projects labeled me as a control freak; they were too scared to partner up a second time in case I tried to dictate the entire project. Which, in hindsight, was fairly accurate.

I shake my head. This is a fresh start. A new beginning. I’m already making friends, going out to clubs, drinking. I laugh to myself. Maybe the hangover made me more approachable to Pete? And Dad always said drinking would get me into trouble! I’m going to work on this project with Pete and learn, have interesting conversations and enjoy it. I’m not going to obsess, or stress, or take it too seriously. Right?

After all, like Pete said, when in Rome and all that.

* * *

After class I stop by the restaurant that is quickly becoming my go-to spot. I’ve never had time to have a real study place before, unless you count the hallway of the dance studio, and I love that I have a “spot” like a real local. There is a slight breeze and it feels good to sit outside. The sun warms my face. It’s not quite autumn but the humidity of summer is subsiding with the start of September. I sit at the same café table, pull out my copy of Dante’s
Il Inferno
with my notebook and syllabus, and flip through the menu already placed there.

I smile when I see the same waiter ... Lorenzo? The hot one. Even in an apron he emits masculinity and machismo. He’s so unlike the male dancers I befriended or shared a stolen kiss with back home. He’s so different from the guys in my classes. There isn’t anything artsy about him. He lacks the creative flair that clings to the guys I know from the drama and dance departments. He doesn’t float when he walks, he swaggers, his body exuding a different type of confidence. He walks with purpose, direction. When he sees me sitting at the table, he smiles slowly, a small grin spreading across his lips, his dimple deepening, as he casually winks. It’s seductive yet familiar, and I can’t figure out how he manages to be simultaneously intimate and aloof.

“Ciao, bellezza. Come stai oggi?” His Italian rolls off his tongue smoothly as he asks how I am today.

I feel my cheeks redden at his compliment, although I’m sure he says it to hundreds of girls who pass through the restaurant each week.

“Ciao. I’m well thanks. And you?” I ask, my Italian faltering.

“Very well. Excellent really. It’s a beautiful day, no?” He looks around, closing his eyes briefly as he raises his face to the sun. He inhales deeply and for a moment, his face relaxes, the tension in his neck shifts, and he looks beautiful, peaceful.

“Yeah,” I agree, blushing again.

He opens his eyes and turns toward me. “What can I get for you today?”

“The artichoke and roasted pepper salad please. And a water.” I close the menu shut.

“Anything else?”

“No grazie.”

“Are you reading
Il Inferno
?” he asks suddenly, nodding toward my book.