Page 65 of 32 Days in May

“Ah, of course,” Marco says gravely, pressing his lips to my forehead. “You’re going to fall head over heels in love with me, by accident.”

“Right.” I laugh, all the anxiety falling away from my voice. Am I being ridiculous?

“Do you think that’s possible?” he asks earnestly. “To fall in love with someone against your will?”

I grimace. “I don’t know, I spent a lot of years really horny for Conan O’Brien.”

He pulls back, admiring me for a moment. “Conan? Really?”

“One hundred percent. He’s so funny. And charming. And I guess I love a redhead.”

Marco smirks. “You know, I could probably get you his number.”

“Oh, honey.” I wrap my arms around his waist. “Don’t make me beg.”

Marco pushes open the door to our home for the next four days, and I let out an audible gasp, pressing both my hands to my chest. Without an ounce of irony, I announce: “I want to live here forever.”

Marco’s grinning, the proudest I’ve ever seen the man. “I did a good job, huh?”

“This is the nicest place I’ve ever been.”

Gray terrazzo floors, stone archways through which each room flows into the next, leading to a balcony that overlooks the piazza below, angles of sunlight falling across the bed from behind doors that nearly reach the ceiling.

The bathroom is bigger than the whole suite with a deep, white stone soaking tub that curves lusciously like a gravy boat. I kick off my shoes and climb in, Marco watching me bemused from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest, sunglasses pushed up on his head, as I point my toes at the ceiling.

“Holy crap. We could both fit in here!”

“You think?”

“Yes, absolutely. Get in.”

Marco carefully removes his sneakers before climbing into the tub. Our legs interlock and we stare at each other, almost doubled over with the type of silent laughter you assume becomes impossible with age.

“We . . . look . . . like . . . babies . . .” I manage through enormous gulps of air and wheezing laughter.

“Babies?” Marco repeats, beside himself.

When I finally get ahold of myself, I crawl across the space to him, his arms wrapping around me, and my head settles onto his chest. I can hear his heart beating, his breath moving in and out of his lungs as his thumb traces the curve of my shoulder. A window is open and sunshine and church bells and distant voices pour in. My eyes flutter shut and an extreme sense of peace blankets me.

“I love this,” I say, the words falling from my mouth before I can catch them. It’s how I feel, down to my core. And it just comes from me, before my ego can step in the way. I do. I love this.

Embarrassment pinpricks in me immediately. I shouldn’t have said that. “Being here,” I add without lifting my head or opening my eyes.

A soft noise of agreement moves in Marco’s chest. “Me too,” he whispers. “I love being here with you.”

I insist on seeing as much of Rome as possible, even though the city seems to still—haphazardly—observe the holy day. Through the bathroom’s slated balcony doors, I hear the hushed excited chatter of two little girls, followed by the slapping of their sandaled feet on the Sampietrini. I can sort of understand what they’re saying—something about a little gray cat. It takes everything in me to not throw back the shower curtain, pull on a sundress, and run downstairs after them. Their voices carry on the sweet late-morning air, curling and twisting with the steam from my shower while I towel off my hair, shaking myself dry like a puppy. Instead I wrap myself in a towel and follow the smell of moka pot coffee into the kitchen.

“It feels like a waste to not spend every single moment—thank you,” I say to Marco, pausing to take a boiling-hot espresso cup from him before taking a series of sips. When I look up, he’s smirking—leaning back against the little kitchen stove, sunshine painting his face in a honey light. “What?”

“Nothing.” Marco shrugs, arms crossed over his stomach. With a look of great satisfaction, he sips his own coffee. “I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you this excited before.”

“I-I . . .” I stutter. “What about the whale?”

“Eh.” He tilts his head from side to side. “The whale made you smile—but the whale was also your idea.”

I grin, batting my eyes. “It was. I’m a genius.”

With a soft chuckle, he sets down his demitasse cup and shifts toward me, nearly closing the space in a single step. Before I can finish any of my thoughts—about whales, about Rome, about how incredibly smart and perfect I am—Marco’s in front of me looking so unbelievably handsome, my breath actually stalls. Then, he’s taking my face in his hands; a frustrated growl half forms on his lips before he tilts my face to his and kisses me—slow and hungry. I curl my fingers around his wrists, falling into him—soft and malleable against his chest.