Roman Crazy
Page 42

“With lime. Has it already been injected?”
“No, we haven’t even begun the restoration yet.”
My mind was racing. “Is it water damage? Humidity change?”
“Leaking roof,” she answered.
“And the colors—flaking or just dull?”
“Both. Have you worked on frescoes before?”
“Art history major, minor in conservatorship. I did my senior year in Barcelona, working in the catacombs, restoring the murals in the central court.” I raised an eyebrow. “Eighteenth century.”
* * *
I LITERALLY DANCED DOWN the hall in the direction of Marcello’s office. Daisy had some loose ends to tie up with Maria, so I took my bad-ass self on a mission to find Mr. Architect and tell him my good news as “Walking on Sunshine” played in my head.
A job, an actual job, helping to restore a mural in Italy! This would easily last longer than a day. I just happened to be in Daisy’s office at the exact moment that there was a mural crisis, a crisis that would require the specific methodology that I had happened to study in college, using a protocol that I was uniquely qualified to perform. Though I was a bit rusty, formulas and techniques were already flooding my brain, my fingers already itching for the tools I’d need, my hands already remembering what it would feel like to hold them once more.
Hey, Universe? Mad props!
I danced the last few steps to Marcello’s office sporting an ear-to-ear grin, feeling the overwhelming urge to grab him and kiss him as I told him my good news. And maybe grab his tight bum a little bit.
I saw him through his glass door, seated behind a massive desk, piles of paperwork all around, and architectural models arranged on every work surface imaginable. He was on the phone, speaking quickly, eyebrows furrowed, mouth frowning when he wasn’t firing back at whoever was on the other end of the line. I knew that expression, and I knew that tone of voice: frustration bordering on anger.
But when he was fired up, he was lethally sexy. There were times in Barcelona when I’d deliberately pick a fight, just to get fucked wild.
“Angry Italian words!” That’s what I heard anyway. He slammed the phone down, muttering under his breath as he ran his hands through his hair.
“Bad timing?” I asked, peeking my head around the corner, along with one artfully curved leg.
There is nothing in the world better than being the reason that someone’s entire face changes. His eyes lightened, then brightened. His lips bowed, and then arched upward. He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes dipping down to my ankle turned out just so in my kitten heels, drifting up along my calf, my knee, the bit of thigh peeking out of my little black dress.
“Avery.” He tilted his head, curious. “What are you up to?”
“I’m visiting,” I said, walking slowly toward his desk. “I have a lunch date with Daisy.”
“Ah, a date.”
I smirked. “Yes, we’re very serious.” Emboldened by the day I was having, I perched just on the edge of his desk and crossed my legs. Marcello leaned back in his chair, tugging at his tie a bit, a slow grin beginning to creep across his face. “I’ve got news.”
“News?” he asked my knee, unable to keep his eyes from wandering.
“Mmm-hmm.” I crossed my legs again.
“Let’s hear this news.” This was directed at the freckle three fingers above my left knee.
Ask me how I know it’s three fingers.
“I got a job.”
I know it’s three fingers because when he used to tug me to the edge of the bed and lift my leg high over his shoulder, his strong fingers were wrapped around the back of my knee. And the span of skin between my kneecap and my freckle was exactly three fingers.
“You got a job, here?”
“Well, technically, I’m volunteering again. Since you know, no work visa. That villa your firm is working on in Grottaferrata. Maria needed someone to help out with a mural that needs some detail work done, and it’s exactly what I used to do in—”
“—the catacombs,” he finished.
Having someone be able to finish my sentences, especially with a word like catacombs? Priceless.
I clapped my hands, unable to contain my squeal any longer. “I got another job!”
Without a backward glance, I jumped off the desk and right onto his lap. His arms immediately came around me, cuddling me close, sharing this moment with me. It didn’t matter that he knew very little of the particulars of my life since we’d separated, he didn’t know the details of how lost I’d really been all these years. All he knew was that I was excited to work on something like this again, and he was thrilled because I was thrilled.
And he was clearly proud.
“Does this mean you will be staying longer?” he asked, running his hands up and down my back. Now that his hands were on my body, they were restless.
“Yes, I’m staying longer,” I answered, shifting on his lap when I heard the voices carrying down the hallway. Glancing back toward the glass door, I began to pull back but he held firm.
“No one will disturb us,” he assured me, tipping my chin up. “I like this . . . longer.”
“Think you can handle it?”
He didn’t answer. Because his lips were now on mine. He kissed one side of my mouth, and then the other, barely brushing my skin. I hummed into his skin, flying high from his touch now, along with my news.
He kissed me again and again, his hands sliding lower, running one down my leg where I kicked it up, pointing my toes and giggling. His lips tickled at the corner of my jaw, and just as his hand began a path back up my leg, back up to somewhere not even close to being decent in the workplace, I heard Daisy’s laugh.