I like these people. If I didn’t, I’d have headed back to my hotel not long after dinner. But as it is, it’s after nine and I’m still here, still enjoying the conversation, not at all in a hurry to get back. I’m sure Reggie is crashed out on my bed, and other than him, the only thing waiting for me back there is my barely begun manuscript. And pressure.
“You know what? I’d love to come. As long as I’m not stepping on any toes, I’d love to come.”
Serena’s smile is wide, and it occurs to me that she might be lonely in this foreign country alone. She has a house; I wonder if she has friends here. Or if they’re all from other places. “Fabulous!” She reaches over and grasps my forearm, and I can tell from her expression—wide smile and blue eyes crinkled at the corners—that she’s happy I’m joining them.
And in that moment, I’m happy, too.
Chapter Three
Rome is reminding me a little bit of Manhattan.
I think that as I lie in bed in my hotel suite the next morning. I’m not sure if the sun is up yet. The street I’m on has some tall buildings that block a lot of it until it gets high, but I can see the beginnings of light through the sheers on the tall window across from my bed.
It’s not quite as busy and not quite as loud as Manhattan, but it’s still both busy and loud. Not this early, of course, though I can still hear muffled movement and hushed voices outside. A glance at my watch tells me it’s just before seven. That means the bakeries are opening. It’s been so hot that I’ve kept my windows tightly closed and the air conditioning on, but I know if I were to open one, the scents of freshly baked bread and pastries will already be wafting in the air.
Reggie is curled up next to my hip and snoring like a chain saw. He was on his back not long ago, all four paws in the air, his body vulnerable to any outside attack. I love that he’s so comfortable with me. I don’t love that I’m going to be leaving him here again today, but I can’t exactly take him on a food tour with me. I decide I’ll take him for a lengthy walk this morning, in the hopes he naps while I’m gone.
In no hurry to get up, I reach for my phone and see that Scott texted me while I was asleep. He and I both tend to forget the time difference, so he was sending me messages at two in the morning. The first one is very simple.
Update?
I sigh. I can’t help it. He’s doing his job. I amnotdoing mine.
His second message is easier to swallow.
Sorry about that. Got a call. Hit send before I meant to.Then a smiley emoji and a shrug. The next message reads,Hey there. How’s Rome? I am texting to see how the work is going and to ask if you have any updates. Also, I miss your face.
I lay there and chuckle, wondering how many times he went over that text to make sure he got it just right, just business-y enough, but also friendly, while making sure to ask his question. I type.
Can’t talk. Full of pasta and wine.And I find the emoji with the puffed out cheeks and send it. Then I send a second text.I miss you, too. Let me get up and moving and I’ll be back.
I feel immediately guilty for putting him off, but I don’t have much to report back, and I’m not sure I want him to know that just yet. Of course, there’s also the fact that I can’t keep it a secret forever.
I push my way out of bed and head out into the small kitchen in my suite. There’s a coffeepot, and I set it to brewing before I hit the shower. When I come out of the bathroom, Reggie has moved to my side of the bed, his head on my pillow like he’s a little furry human. It’s freaking adorable, and I grab my phone and snap a couple shots. I also notice another text from Scott.
Stop stalling. I need an update.
I groan and let my head roll around on my shoulders. I can’t be mad at Scott—again, he’s doing his job—but I am mad at him. Because I’m mad at myself and I’m trying to point that anger elsewhere.
I toss the phone onto the bed and towel off my hair while I head out of the bedroom to grab my coffee. Without thinking, I open my laptop and have a seat at the desk to read what I’ve written so far.
It’s fine.
It’s not great. It doesn’t suck. It’s fine.
More groaning as I flop backward in my chair and blow out a long, slow breath. I’m not okay with “fine.” I don’t do “fine.” I’m a perfectionist, and the fact that I can’t seem to find my groove lately is seriously messing with my head.
I read it again, slam the laptop shut, and shake my head, then go back for my phone.
Doing some tweaking, but so far, so good. Not ready to show you yet, but soon. Promise.And then I overdo it on the emoji, sending a smiley, a wink, a typewriter, a pen, and a book.
I run my eyes over the message four, five, six times before I send it. Scott won’t like it, but it should appease him.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper into my empty suite, feeling a roiling in my stomach that comes with stress.
I’ve never been in this position before, and I don’t want to analyze why I’m there now. Instead, I turn on some music and, combined with the blow-dryer, drown out the thoughts in my head with noise. This is all stuff I will deal with later. Like tonight. Or tomorrow. Or next week.
Today, I have a food tour to go on.
