“What?” I say, surprised.
“Yes.” She’s grinning. “You’ve met Marco?”
“At the front desk?” I think of the well-groomed gentleman who always says hello to me. “I see him every day.”
Marina points a finger at her own chest. “My brother.” And the second she says it, I can see the resemblance. It’s all in the eyes, the shape and tilt and placement.
“I had no idea,” Serena says, obviously just as surprised as I am.
Marina nods. “It’s been in my family for four generations. My mother’s grandfather opened it in…” She shakes her head. “I don’t even remember what year. It’s been passed down and the family always works it.”
“Do you work there, too?” I ask, clearly unable to filter my questions before asking them.
She shakes her head. “Much to my parents’ dismay, no. I do not.”
Well, that’s a bummer.I picture myself coming out of the elevator in the morning to see that face of hers smiling at me. What a way to start a day.
“But now,” she says to Serena, “I know exactly where you live.”
“Uh-oh,” Robert says with a sly grin.
“And I know where you are, too,” she says, turning to me. Her dark eyes capture mine, and I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. Which I absolutely do not. “How long are you in Rome?”
“I don’t know yet,” I say truthfully.
“Huh.” She nods and our gazes hold for what feels like a really long time. God, she’s beautiful. Then she claps her hands once and says, “Okay. How was the supplì? Ready for our next stop?”
The strangest thing starts to happen as the food tour goes on…
Creativity strikes.
It’s happened to me like this before, but not for a long, long time. Back when I was very young and writing for the fun and pleasure of it, I’d write when an idea or a spark of creativity hit. Then it became my career, which meant I lost the luxury of waiting for an idea to pop up in my head. I had to start forcing them, coming up with them on my own, even if I wasn’t “feeling it,” as my friend Jessie would say. She’s also a writer and one of the few people in my life I can talk to about such things because she gets it. While I write romance, Jessie writes horror, so it’s not unlike her to text me in the wee hours and ask me if something scares me. It usually does.
I try not to focus on why creativity has chosen this moment to strike, but rather just roll with it. We’re finishing up at the wine bar, having stuffed ourselves with the most amazing charcuterie I’ve ever had in my life, when I pull a small notebook out of my bag and begin jotting the things that have appeared in my mind. They are tweaks to the current plot I’m working on, and also some changes to my main characters, ways to enhance the chemistry, and I scribble down everything in my head so I don’t forget it all.
“New story?” Sophie asks as her parents and grandparents chat with Serena and Marina is filling glasses.
“Current story,” I tell her, finishing my notes. “That’s why I’m here. In Italy. I’m trying to finish a book.” I frown and correct myself. “Well, I’m trying to write a book. Can’t really finish something I haven’t quite written yet.”
Sophie sighs like her fourteen years of life have given her endless experience, and she gets it. “Blocked, huh?” and she grimaces with sympathy. I really like this kid.
“Like I’m behind a brick wall,” I say.
“Ugh. I hate when that happens.” Sophie shakes her head with a sigh, and I catch myself before I say anything that makes her feel ridiculed. Because while part of me is thinkingHow could she possibly understand, I see by the expression on her face and the empathy in her eyes that, surprisingly, maybe she does. Maybe she understands completely, one writer to another.
Then I shoot a glance at Marina. “But…maybe not for long.”
Marina catches my eye then and smiles at me, and I’m a little shocked at the quick zap of a thrill I feel low in my body. “Taking notes for the awesome Yelp review you’re going to leave?” And when she winks at me, that zap becomes a pulse. A throbbing. Jesus Christ.
“Lily’s a writer,” Sophie supplies with a proud grin, and my fondness for her surges.
“Oh, wow,” Marina says. “Really? What kind of a writer?”
“Novels, mostly,” I say. As she looks at me, I feel like I’m bathing in the light her gaze seems to shed.
I’ve gotta write that down.
“Wow,” she says again, and her smile grows as she hands me my refilled wine glass. “I’ve never met a writer before.”
