“It’s not you. It’s me.” She was using that old line? Really? But it applied, didn’t it? “I don’t want to marry anybody. Ever.”
Nico’s footsteps slowed. He bent to pick up an orange from the lush green grass and tossed it back and forth from one hand to the other. “I see. The boyfriend was that awful, was he?”
Julia pulled a face. “Don’t call him my boyfriend.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He didn’t ask any more questions, just stood there quietly.
His patience was almost soothing. After months of Chiara pressuring her to move on, his quiet acceptance filled her with relief.
“He took advantage of me when I was at my most vulnerable. I can’t let that happen again. I don’t want to need anyone. It’s easier this way.” Why was she telling him this? He’d probably never needed anyone in his life. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“I do. Trust me. The thought of marriage doesn’t sit well with me either.”
“An attractive, eligible man who’s also a commitment-phobe. That’s original.” She rolled her eyes and batted the orange out of his hand. It rolled down the hill and splashed into a puddle where the lawn met cobblestone.
Julia hadn’t even realized it had begun to rain.
“You find me attractive?” He shot her a playful wink. “I knew it.”
“Of course that’s your takeaway.”
“I’m not a commitment-phobe. To be honest, I’m loyal to a fault.” He shrugged one muscular shoulder. “I realize that probably flies in the face of everything you believe to be true.”
“Pretty much, yes.” He winced. Too bad. The truth hurt sometimes, didn’t it? “Assuming you’re indeed a paragon of respectability—and I still find that highly unlikely—why the aversion to happily-ever-after?”
“Where I come from, marriage isn’t a choice. I won’t select a bride. One will be chosen for me.” He looked at her long and hard, which was the only reason Julia took him even half seriously. Because what he was saying sounded archaic. “Hence my distaste for the institution.”
She gaped at him. “Wait a minute. Are you telling me your family believes in arranged marriages?”
“That’s precisely what I’m saying, yes.”
“Wow. Just...wow. I don’t even know how to process that.” And she’d thought her family issues were as bad as they could get. This was another level of dysfunction entirely. “Where did you say you were from again?”
“I didn’t, Sherlock.” He tapped her on the tip of her nose. In the blink of an eye, he’d reverted back to his carefree self.
She wasn’t buying it this time, though. Over the course of the past hour, she’d gotten a glimpse of the real him. There was more to Nico than met the eye.
Suddenly she remembered how solemn he’d gotten at Caesar’s tomb the day before—the tragic, faraway look in his eyes, the melancholy grace of his bowed head.
Who are you?
She’d probably never know.
“It’s your life, Nico.”
“No, it’s not. It never has been, and it never will be.”
What did that even mean?
She peered up at him through the gentle gray drizzle, wanting to know more. Wanting to know everything.
Then the sky fell apart.
WITHIN SECONDS, NICCOLO WASsoaked to the bone.
He didn’t wait for Julia to drag one of her stylish trash bag ponchos out of her backpack. He grabbed her hand and ran for cover. Feet splashing through puddles, he pulled her into the portico of a church situated at the end of the garden walk.
Condensation dripped down the centuries-old stone walls, bare save for a primitive face hanging on the far wall, staring at them in the damp darkness. The church’s colorful stained glass windows had fogged over and now looked misty and otherworldly rather than jewel-toned. As if they’d left Rome behind and stepped into a strange, lurid dream.
